Page 231 of Arrow

I tore free and slammed my palm against the knife’s hilt, driving it not into Arrow but into my father’s thigh.

He howled in pain and surprise, stumbling backward. Blood bloomed across his perfect suit as he clutched at the knife embedded in his leg.

“Bitch!” he snarled, his composure finally shattering completely. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

The room erupted into chaos. Arrow, seizing the opportunity, threw his weight against one of the men holding him, sending them both crashing to the floor. The other captors hesitated, unsure whether to help their wounded leader or continue restraining Arrow.

I grabbed a heavy vase from a nearby table and swung it at the head of the man closest to me. It shattered against his temple, sending him crumpling to the floor. The other man released Arrow to come after me, but I was already moving, adrenaline making me faster than I’d ever been.

“Harlowe!” Arrow called out as he struggled against his restraints. “The kitchen! In the drawer by the sink!”

I didn’t question him. I ran, my bare feet sliding on the marble floor as I dodged the men trying to intercept me. My father was shouting orders behind me, his voice growing more frantic as his men moved to stop me.

I burst into the kitchen, my eyes scanning frantically for the drawer Arrow had mentioned. There were so many—which one?

“Left of the sink!” Arrow’s voice carried from the foyer, followed by the sound of a struggle.

I yanked open the drawer, and my fingers closed around cold metal. A gun—a sleek, black pistol that felt heavy and deadly in my hand. I checked it quickly, finding it loaded, the safety already off.

When I returned to the foyer, the scene had shifted dramatically. Arrow had somehow managed to free one hand from the zip ties, blood streaming from his wrist where he’d torn through his restraints. He was on his feet now, fighting with the ferocity of a cornered animal despite his injuries.

“Arrow!” I called out, raising the gun. “Get down!”

He dropped immediately, trusting me without question. I fired twice in quick succession, hitting one of the men advancing on him. The man stumbled back, clutching his shoulder.

“Harlowe, behind you!” Arrow shouted.

I spun around to find another of my father’s men lunging at me. I fired again, my shot going wide as he knocked me off balance. We crashed to the floor together, the gun skittering across the marble.

My father was still on his feet, despite the knife in his thigh. He limped toward me, his face contorted with rage and pain.

“I should have killed you at birth,” he spat, blood frothing at the corner of his mouth. “Like the worthless disappointment you are.”

I scrambled backward, my hands searching frantically for the gun. My fingers closed around cold metal—not the gun, but the knife my father had dropped during our struggle.

“Stay back,” I warned, brandishing the blade. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He laughed, the sound ragged and broken. “You already have, daughter. You’ve destroyed everything I built.”

“You destroyed it yourself,” I countered, my voice steadier than I felt. “With your cruelty, your obsession, your need to control everything and everyone.”

From across the room, I heard the sickening crack of bone as Arrow broke free completely. He rose like a phoenix from the ashes of his restraints, blood streaming from his wrists, his broken fingers hanging at unnatural angles. But his eyes—his eyes burned with pure determination.

“Giovanni,” Arrow growled, his voice carrying across the chaos. “It’s over.”

My father glanced between us, seeing his plan unraveling. He was wounded. His men were falling. The evidence he’d planted would be discovered before it could be used against me.

But I saw something in his eyes that terrified me more than his rage ever had—acceptance. He knew he’d lost, and he had one final play.

“Then we die together,” he said simply, reaching inside his jacket.

I saw the glint of metal, the barrel of a small pistol aimed directly at Arrow’s heart. Without thinking, I lunged forward, the knife in my hand driving deep into my father’s chest.

He looked down, surprise flashing across his face as blood bloomed across his white shirt. The gun fell from his fingers, clattering to the marble floor.

“Figlia,”⁠* he whispered, the word sounding almost like an endearment. “My daughter.”

I released the knife, stumbling backward as he sank to his knees. “I’m not your daughter anymore,” I said, my voice breaking. “I haven’t been for a long time.”