My boss invited me to the most dangerous gala in New York because he wanted me to embarrass myself.

Raymond’s hand dropped to his side, the thumb drive slipping from his numb fingers and clattering against the hardwood floor.

"You set me up," Raymond choked out, his voice cracking. "From the very beginning. You let me plan this whole takeover—"

"You set yourself up when you decided to steal from a man who signs your paychecks," I said coldly. "Now put your hands on your head and kneel."

Raymond didn't kneel. Instead, a flash of desperate madness contorted his features. He reached inside his breast pocket, pulling a compact silver derringer he had kept concealed.

BANG.

The gunshot was deafening in the confined space of the executive suite.

I didn't even have time to blink before Larkin slammed into me, knocking me sideways onto the thick carpet as his own body absorbed the impact. A grunt tore from his throat, followed by the heavy, metallic sound of his suppressed pistol firing twice.

Raymond’s eyes went wide. A dark red flower blossomed in the center of his forehead. He collapsed backward into the vault, dead before he hit the ground.

"Larkin!" I scrambled up onto my knees, my hands flying across his chest.

Warm, sticky blood was already seeping through the left side of his white tuxedo shirt, just below his ribs. The bullet had caught him clean, tearing through the fine fabric and biting into the meat of his torso.

"I'm fine," Larkin gasped, his teeth gritted in agony as he pressed his hand against the wound. "Through and through. Didn't hit the lung."

"Shut up and let me look," I snapped, the trembling in my voice betraying my terror.

I tore a wide strip of fabric from the hem of my silk gown, balling it up and pressing it violently against the entry wound. Larkin hissed in pain, his head falling back against my shoulder, his heavy breaths burning against my bare neck.

"You took a bullet for me," I whispered, tears of rage and shock burning behind my eyelids. "You arrogant, reckless idiot. Why would you do that?"

Larkin’s hand came up, weak but determined, his bloody fingers tangling in the back of my espresso bob. He pulled my face down until our foreheads rested against each other, his gray eyes burning through the haze of pain.

"Because if you die, Penelope," he whispered, a ragged smile touching his pale lips, "there's no one left to keep me honest."

"You're not honest, Larkin," I choked out, a bitter half-laugh escaping my lips. "You're a criminal."

"Then let me be your criminal," he murmured.

His lips found mine in the dark.

The kiss was desperate, wild, and tasted of salt, iron, and fire. All the professional distance, the three years of quiet deferrals, the fake smiles, and the hidden glances exploded into an inferno that consumed the cold reality around us. He pulled me closer, his uninjured arm locking around my waist with possessive fury, drinking me in as if I were the only air left in a burning room.

When he finally pulled back, both of us were gasping for breath.

In the distance, the faint, wailing howl of federal sirens began echoing off the concrete canyons of Wall Street.

"The feds," Larkin murmured, trying to push himself up against the desk. "They're early."

"They're not early," I said, glancing at the laptop screen still running on my desk. "I didn't call the FBI, Larkin."

Larkin stopped, staring at me with bewildered shock. "What?"

"I spoofed the federal alert protocol to make Raymond panic and drop his guard," I confessed, wrapping his arm over my shoulders and helping him to his feet. "Those sirens aren't federal agents. That’s the private emergency medical transport I summoned from our private airfield in Teterboro. They have a surgical suite on board."

Larkin stared at me for three long seconds before letting out a wheezing, incredulous laugh that made him clutch his bleeding side.

"You played us all," he breathed, leaning heavily on me as we made our way toward the private executive elevator that bypassed the main lobby entirely. "Every single one of us."

"I told you," I said, pressing the elevator call button with a bloody finger. "I don't play hands, Mr. Steves. I audit them."

As the elevator doors slid open, revealing the polished mirrored interior, I looked at our reflection.

The tired woman in the gray polyester slacks was buried forever beneath the rubble of the forty-second floor. Standing in her place was a woman covered in blood and silk, supporting the wounded king of New York’s underworld, holding the keys to his entire empire in the palm of her hand.