Page 39 of Arrow

“Do you think I’m making a mistake?” I asked quietly.

“Which part?”

“All of it. Fighting him. Going to La Lune Noire. The collar.”

He was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the road.

“I think you’re doing what you need to survive. But survival and living aren’t the same thing, Principessa.”

“I just need to make it through today,” I said, more to myself than to Frank.

“And tomorrow? And the day after that? And every day for the rest of your life as Mrs. Romanov?”

I ignored him.

The final walkthrough was baroque even by mob wedding standards. Dante’s Hall was an orgy of marble and brass, ceilings dripping with gold leaf and the ghosts of long-gone barons. Effigies of old New York watched from the walls, their eyes as dead as the fortunes that built them. The entire upper floor was walled off for the event.

Frank drove me uptown, an unchanged sentry in his black suit, but this time, when he opened my door, Arrow was already waiting at the curb.

He wore a midnight blue suit, and a black shirt unbuttoned to the base of his throat, the tapestry of tattoos covering the tops of his hands and throat. Arrow didn’t say anything at first, as he took me in, assessing the backless white dress and the visible marks I’d deliberately left on display. His gaze lingered on my neck where the obsidian collar rested.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear.

I didn’t apologize. “Traffic.”

“Hm.” His mouth twitched. “Liar,” Arrow said, taking my arm as if the gesture were casual rather than possessive.

I stiffened but didn’t pull away. “Spying on me again?”

“We’ve been through this, Harlowe.” His thumb traced a circle against my inner elbow, gentle enough to make my skin prickle.

Mrs. Montalto bustled toward us, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield. Her pearls clacked against each other as she moved. Her nervous energy radiated from her in waves, eyes widening when she saw the bruises decorating my neck and the faint marks on my wrists.

“Miss Virelli!” Her voice pitched higher. “And Mr. Romanov. Wonderful. We’re just about ready to begin the walk-through.”

Arrow’s hand slid to the small of my back, palm against bare skin. “Lead the way, Mrs. Montalto.”

She guided us through the grand entrance, chattering about floral arrangements and seating charts. I barely heard her. I was too aware of Arrow’s touch, the heat of his hand branding me through the thin fabric of my dress.

The main hall was cavernous, with soaring ceilings and marble floors that echoed with our footsteps. Workers scurried around, hanging drapery and setting up tables, a battalion of florists and lighting guys all scurrying around Arrow. He didn’t notice them. He just lit a cigarette and watched me, like I was the only part of the world not already on fire.

“The head table will be here,” she said, gesturing to a raised platform. “With immediate family on either side.”

Arrow exhaled smoke, his eyes never leaving mine. “My father will be seated at the far end. I want the Virelli delegation as far from him as possible.”

Mrs. Montalto made a note, her pen scratching furiously. “Of course, Mr. Romanov.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Afraid they’ll kill each other before dessert?”

“I’m preventing a scene,” he replied. “Your father has a tendency to provoke my father when he drinks.”

“And your father has a tendency to execute people who provoke him,” I shot back.

A ghost of a smile touched Arrow’s lips. “Precisely.”

Mrs. Montalto cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Perhaps we should discuss the, ah, dance floor arrangements?”

We followed her to the center of the hall, where workers were installing an elaborate parquet floor. The entire time, Arrow kept his hand on my lower back, his thumb occasionally brushing against the edge of my spine, sending unwelcome shivers across my skin.