Chapter 7 - The Safehouse
I dragged Larkin into the shadows of a deserted parking garage, my muscles screaming in protest.
I propped him against the concrete pillar and ripped the hem of my four-thousand-dollar dress to tie a tourniquet around his bleeding shoulder.
I stole a battered sedan hot-wired from the second level, hauling Larkin into the passenger seat before speeding out into the night.
I didn't drive him to the hospital, and I didn't drive him to his penthouse.
I drove him to a derelict warehouse deep in the Bronx.
It was a property I had purchased two years ago under a shell corporation, funded entirely by the spare change I skimmed from Thomas’s wasteful spending.
I dragged Larkin inside and laid him on the sterile metal table I had prepped for emergencies just like this.
I stripped off his ruined tuxedo jacket and went to work with a surgical kit.
I wasn't a doctor, but when you manage the books for a crime syndicate, you learn exactly what a bullet extraction costs and how it is performed.
Larkin remained unconscious as I pulled the twisted lead from his shoulder and stitched the wound closed.
Hours passed.
I sat in a cheap folding chair beside him, my bare feet freezing on the concrete floor, my makeup smeared like war paint.
Larkin finally groaned, his dark eyes fluttering open.
He blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, his gaze eventually landing on me.
"You saved my life," Larkin whispered, his voice raspy and weak.
"I protected my investment," I corrected, handing him a glass of water.
Larkin pushed the glass away, reaching out to grab my hand.
His thumb traced the dried blood on my knuckles, his touch electric and deeply intimate.
"You bought this place with my money," Larkin noted, looking around the highly secure, fully stocked safehouse.
"You have been preparing for a war for years."
"I am a secretary, Larkin. I plan ahead."
The air between us grew impossibly heavy, the professional boundaries burning away in the aftermath of survival.
Larkin pulled my hand closer, his eyes dropping to my lips.
"You are the most dangerous thing in my entire organization, Penelope Woods."
Before I could bridge the gap between us, the small television in the corner of the room blared with a breaking news alert.
We both turned to look at the screen.
The news anchor’s face was grim as a photograph of Larkin flashed across the broadcast.
"A massive massacre at the Continental Hotel has left twelve people dead," the anchor announced.
"NYPD and federal authorities have named syndicate boss Larkin Steves as the prime suspect, and a city-wide manhunt is underway."
The screen shifted, showing a live press conference.
Standing at the podium, wearing a perfectly clean suit and a tragic expression, was Thomas.
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"My cousin has lost his mind," Thomas told the cameras.
"I am offering a ten-million-dollar reward for his capture, dead or alive."
