Chapter 3 - Blood and Ledger
"Larkin," Viktor Vane rasped. His voice sounded like dry gravel dragged across corrugated tin. His pale, watery eyes darted immediately from Larkin to me, lingering on the gunmetal chains hanging across my shoulder blades. "You didn't mention you'd be bringing an empress to our little gathering."
"Viktor," Larkin greeted him smoothly, his arm shifting so that my shoulder pressed firmly against his side. The protective posture was instinctive, almost territorial. "This is Penelope Woods."
Vane raised an eyebrow, taking my free hand and brushing his dry, parchment-like lips against my black silk glove. "A new associate, Mr. Steves? Or perhaps a very expensive distraction?"
"Neither," I answered before Larkin could speak. I withdrew my hand smoothly, tucking my champagne flute against my collarbone. "I oversee Mr. Steves’s discretionary portfolio. Which means, Mr. Vane, I am the person who decides whether your overdue invoices get paid on time, or whether they get flagged for secondary audit."
Vane’s smile froze. The pleasant, grandfatherly facade slipped, revealing the razor-sharp syndicate boss beneath. "Is that so? And what does your keen eye tell you about our current arrangement?"
"It tells me that Nautilus Limited has an outstanding loan payment due to the Bank of Valetta on Monday morning," I said, my voice dropping to a conversational purr that didn't carry past our small circle. "And unless Mr. Steves authorizes an immediate line of credit from our North River fund tonight, the Maltese authorities will seize three of your container vessels before dawn."
Vane went deathly pale. His grip on the wolf's-head cane tightened until his knuckles turned translucent white. He glanced sharply at Larkin, seeking some sign of collusion or betrayal, but Larkin merely stood beside me, stone-faced, letting the silence hang like a executioner's noose.
"You play a dangerous hand, young lady," Vane whispered, his jaw trembling with suppressed fury.
"I don't play hands, Mr. Vane," I said, holding his glare with cold amusement. "I audit them. Now, if you'll excuse us, the music is far too lovely to waste on uncollateralized debt."
I took a sip of champagne and turned slightly, guiding Larkin away with a subtle shift of my weight.
We moved toward the grand balcony overlooking the dark waters of the Hudson River. As soon as the heavy velvet curtains fell shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the ballroom, the freezing December wind hit my bare shoulders like a splash of ice water.
Larkin pulled me against him instantly, his heavy woolen tuxedo jacket coming off his shoulders and settling over mine before I could protest. It smelled intensely of him—cedar, tobacco, and raw adrenaline.
"Who are you?" he demanded, stepping into my personal space until my back was pressed against the stone balustrade.
The city lights gleamed in the distance behind my head, but Larkin wasn't looking at the skyline. His gray eyes were locked onto mine with an intensity that made the breath catch in my throat.
"I am Penelope Woods," I whispered, pulling the lapels of his oversized jacket closer around my chest. "Your assistant. The woman you pay ninety-five thousand dollars a year to fetch your espresso, shred your misprinted shipping manifests, and sit in silence while your cousin calls her a mouse."
"No," Larkin said harshly, stepping even closer. His hand came up, hovering beside my neck before his knuckles lightly grazed the sharp cut of my jawline. His touch was burning hot against the icy wind. "A mouse doesn't dismantle an international smuggling baron in forty seconds using five sentences. Where did you learn Maltese banking structures?"
"Columbia University," I said plainly. "Summa cum laude. Followed by three years in forensic accounting for the Treasury Department."
Larkin froze. His thumb paused right at the corner of my lips, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You worked for the federal government."
"Past tense," I replied without flinching. "Until my father’s medical bills hit seven figures, the insurance company denied coverage, and my brother got caught running numbers for a crew in Queens. I needed cash, Mr. Steves. Fast, untraceable, life-altering cash. When your job listing popped up through a blind recruitment firm, I took it. I scrubbed my resume, altered my appearance, bought three identical gray pant suits from a thrift store, and decided that staying alive meant being completely forgettable."
Larkin stared at me, processing the puzzle pieces that had just rewritten three years of his reality.
"You played me," he murmured. A dark, terrifying fascination curled the corners of his mouth. "For three years, I had a federal-grade forensic bloodhound sitting six feet outside my glass door, and you let me treat you like a secretary."
"You wanted a secretary," I said, tilting my face toward his hand, feeling the electric shock of his skin against mine. "You wanted someone who wouldn't ask why the lye orders were doubling in October. You wanted quiet. So I gave you quiet."
"And tonight?" he asked, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register that made my pulse race erratically. "Why burn your cover tonight?"
"Because your cousin thought it would be funny to watch me drown in front of your friends," I said, my voice hardening to diamond. "And I don't drown, Larkin. I never have."
He stared at me for a long, silent moment. The wind whipped a strand of dark espresso hair across my forehead. Larkin reached out, his long fingers gently tucking it behind my ear, his knuckles lingering against my temple.
"Thomas is an idiot," Larkin whispered. "He always has been."
"He's your family."
"He's a liability," Larkin countered flatly. "And after tonight, he won't be allowed near my office floor ever again."
Before I could answer, the glass balcony doors behind us rattled open.
May you like
Thomas stumbled out onto the terrace, a fresh drink in his hand, his eyes wild and unhinged. Two men flanked him—not Larkin’s loyal enforcers, but members of the Marcone family, a rival Brooklyn syndicate that Larkin had been trying to edge out of the docks for eighteen months.
"Having a little private conference, cousin?" Thomas sneered, swaying on his feet. "You might want to step back inside. Mr. Marcone wants to have a word about the warehouse in Red Hook. And he says your little accountant here won't be needing her job by tomorrow morning."
