Chapter 3 - The Brass Doors
Larkin Steves rarely experienced surprise.
He had built an empire on anticipation, calculating every variable before his enemies even knew they were playing a game.
But as he stared at the woman standing under the hotel awning, his legendary composure shattered.
The mousy secretary who served his coffee every morning at eight-fifteen was completely gone.
In her place stood a striking, lethal vision in black silk and gunmetal chains.
Her dark hair framed a face he suddenly realized was devastatingly beautiful.
"Miss Woods?" Larkin asked, his voice losing its usual sharp edge.
"Good evening, Mr. Steves," Penelope replied smoothly, not a trace of a stutter in her tone.
She did not shrink away from his intense gaze.
Instead, she met his eyes with a terrifying calm that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
The bodyguard quickly stepped aside, pale and sweating.
Larkin wordlessly offered her his arm, his mind racing to comprehend the illusion she had pulled off for three entire years.
She placed her hand on his sleeve, her touch shockingly warm against the cool fabric of his tuxedo.
As they walked through the brass doors, the ambient noise of the grand ballroom instantly died.
Hundreds of the most dangerous criminals on the Eastern Seaboard turned to stare at the Don of the Steves Syndicate.
More specifically, they stared at the woman on his arm.
Larkin felt a bizarre surge of possessive pride replacing his initial shock.
Thomas Dixon stood near the ice sculpture, his champagne glass freezing halfway to his mouth.
His cruel joke had entirely backfired.
Thomas's face flushed with anger as he marched aggressively across the polished marble floor toward them.
"What is this?" Thomas hissed, grabbing Penelope's arm tightly enough to bruise.
"Let go of me, Thomas," Penelope said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"You think you can play dress-up and belong here?" Thomas sneered, leaning in close.
"You're just a glorified calculator who knows too much about the offshore accounts in the Caymans."
Penelope's blood ran cold.
The Cayman accounts were a strictly guarded secret, supposedly known only to Larkin and herself.
"How do you know about the Cayman accounts, Thomas?" Larkin asked, his voice dropping to a lethal, quiet register.
Thomas's eyes widened in sudden, horrific realization of his slip-up.
Before Thomas could answer, a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.
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"Because he has been selling those account numbers to me," boomed a thick Russian accent.
Victor, the brutal leader of the local Bratva, smiled terribly as he pulled a silver pistol from his tuxedo jacket.
