Page 232 of Arrow

His eyes found mine, and in that moment, I saw not the monster who had terrorized me my entire life, but a broken man who had destroyed everything he loved in pursuit of power.

“I’ve spent my entire life trying to make you into what I needed you to be,” he whispered, blood bubbling at his lips. “And in the end, you were always too much like me.”

His body slumped forward, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. I watched the life drain from my father’s eyes, watched as the man who had shaped my entire existence became just a body on the floor.

Strong arms wrapped around me from behind, pulling me against a bloodied chest. Arrow’s voice was rough against my ear. “Harlowe. Breathe for me, baby. Just breathe.”

I turned in his arms, taking in his battered face, his broken fingers, the blood that covered both of us. “What have I done?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

“What you had to,” he replied, his good hand cradling my face.

Silence fell over the foyer. The remaining men stared at me in shock—Giovanni Virelli’s daughter, covered in her father’s blood, standing over his corpse with murder in her eyes.

“Harlowe.” Arrow’s voice, rough and pained, cut through the ringing in my ears. “Harlowe, look at me,” he said, his voice gentler now. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you," he murmured into my hair, his arms wrapping around me. “You’re safe. You did what you had to do. You’re safe now.”

I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered. “I killed him. I killed my father.”

“I know.” Arrow’s hand cupped the back of my head, holding me close. “I know, baby. And he fucking deserved it. You did so good.”

“Arrow, your hands⁠—”

“It doesn’t matter.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes fierce despite the pain etched into every line of his face. “Nothing matters except getting you out of here. We need to⁠—”

Movement behind me. Arrow’s eyes went wide, his expression shifting from concern to pure terror in an instant.

“Fuck!” he shouted, but instead of pushing me away, he spun me around, his arms wrapping completely around me from behind.

I didn’t understand. Didn’t see the threat. Didn’t realize one of my father’s men had raised his gun, finger on the trigger, aimed directly at my back.

The first shot was deafening in the enclosed space.

Arrow’s body jerked against mine, his arms tightening convulsively. I felt the impact—felt the bullet punch through him, felt the spray of something warm and wet across my face.

“No,” I whispered, trying to turn, but Arrow held me locked against him.

The second shot. Another jerk. Another spray of blood, this time across my cheek.

“Arrow—”

The third shot hit lower, and I felt him grunt, his knees starting to buckle. But still he held me, his body a shield, taking every bullet meant for me.

“Stay still,” he gasped against my ear, his voice wet and strained. “Don’t move. Don’t⁠—”

The fourth shot made him cry out, a sound of pure agony that tore through my chest like the bullets tearing through his.

“ARROW!” I screamed, my hands coming up to grip his arms, feeling the blood—so much blood—soaking through his skin, dripping down onto me.

The front door exploded inward with a crash of splintering wood.

Frank came through first, moving with the precision of a trained killer, his weapon already raised. Behind him, Orion and at least a dozen more men in tactical gear flooded into the foyer.

The gunman behind us didn’t have time to turn.

Frank’s shot was clean—a single bullet through the center of his forehead. The man dropped like a puppet with cut strings, his gun clattering to the floor.

The remaining men tried to scatter, to raise their weapons, but they were outmatched and outgunned. The Romanov soldiers moved with brutal efficiency, each shot finding its mark. Bodies hit the floor in rapid succession—headshots, center mass, no hesitation, no mercy.

In less than ten seconds, every one of my father’s men was dead.