Page 192 of Arrow

“Should we be concerned?” I asked Atlas, keeping my voice casual.

Atlas’s eyes narrowed slightly as he assessed the situation. “Hard to say. Giovanni’s been unpredictable lately. Word is he’s losing grip on some of his territories in Queens.”

“My father doesn’t lose,” I said automatically, years of conditioning making me defend the man even as I hated him.

“Everyone loses eventually,” Arrow murmured against my ear. “Even Giovanni Virelli.”

I felt a strange twist in my chest—not quite sympathy for my father, but something adjacent to it. For all his cruelty, all his callousness, he was still the man who taught me to shoot when I was twelve, who showed me how to spot a lie in a business deal, who made me memorize escape routes from every building we entered.

“He’s planning something,” I said, watching the way my father’s eyes kept flicking toward us. “I know that look.”

Luna placed a gentle hand on my arm. “Whatever it is, you’re protected. No one’s getting to you tonight.”

I wasn’t worried about myself. I was worried about the bloodbath that would ensue if my father decided to disrupt the carefully balanced ceasefire this wedding was supposed to create. The last thing I wanted was to be responsible for even more bloodshed in this city.

“I should talk to him,” I said suddenly, surprising even myself with the decision.

Arrow’s arm tightened around my waist. “That’s not a good idea.”

“I know my father. If he’s planning something, I might be able to figure out what it is.”

Atlas and Arrow exchanged a look that spoke volumes. I hated when they did that—communicating in that silent language of powerful men who’d seen too much violence together.

“Let me go with you,” Arrow said, his voice brooking no argument.

I shook my head. “He won’t talk freely with you there. You know that.”

Arrow’s jaw tightened, the muscle there jumping in that way that told me he was fighting for control. “Five minutes. Any longer, and I’m coming over.”

I nodded, extracting myself from his grip. As I moved across the room toward my father, I felt the weight of dozens of eyes tracking me—Romanovs watching with suspicion, Virellis with a mixture of pity and contempt. The daughter who’d betrayed them by accepting an enemy into her bed

My father looked up as I approached, his conversation dying immediately. His men shifted, creating space for me at the table without being told. Even now, the Virelli princess commanded a certain respect, regardless of whose name was around my neck. It was a strange feeling—being both feared and pitied in the same moment.

“Gentlemen,” I said, nodding to my father’s capos. “I need a moment with my father.”

They hesitated, looking to Giovanni for permission. At his slight nod, they dispersed, melting into the crowd with practiced efficiency. My father gestured to the empty chair across from him.

“Sit,” he said, not a request but a command.

I remained standing. “I prefer to stand.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the first tell of his annoyance. “Always defiant. Even now.”

“Especially now,” I replied, crossing my arms. “What are you planning?”

“Planning?” He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I’m planning to watch my only daughter marry into the family that killed my son. What else would I be planning?”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I know you. I’ve watched you orchestrate vendettas since I was old enough to understand what vengeance meant. You didn’t agree to this marriage out of some sudden desire for peace.”

My father’s eyes—the same shade of amber as mine—assessed me with cold calculation. “You think you know me so well.”

“I’ve spent my entire life studying you,” I replied. “Learning how to survive you.”

Something flickered across his face—not hurt, Giovanni Virelli wasn’t capable of that emotion anymore —a man whose heart had fossilized years ago, replaced by something harder and colder than stone. But I saw a flicker of something there, a ghost of an emotion I couldn’t quite name.

“This marriage is happening,” I said quietly. “Whatever you’re planning, people will die.”

“People always die, Harlowe,” he replied, taking a sip of his scotch. “The only question is which people and who decides.”