Chapter 5 - The Velvet Trap
Larkin stared at her for three long seconds, then let out a low, dry laugh—a sound so rare and unexpected that two passing waitstaff turned in shock.
"Penelope," Larkin murmured, his thumb lightly touching the rim of his own glass. "I knew your first name the day you walked into my office three years ago."
Penelope felt her heart give a sudden, unbidden thud against her ribs.
"Did you?" she asked, keeping her voice light and skeptical.
"Penelope Claire Woods. Born in Boston, top of your class at Columbia, two years at a forensic audit firm before you wiped your public records and took a thirty-thousand-dollar salary at my firm," Larkin said smoothly, listing her private history as if reading a grocery list.
Penelope’s hands went completely still on her champagne glass.
Her disguise hadn't just cracked tonight—Larkin had known her background from the very beginning.
"You knew?" she whispered, her brow furrowing slightly.
"I knew you were overqualified, overeducated, and hiding from something," Larkin said, stepping so close she could feel the heat of his chest through his jacket. "I kept you at that corner desk because a woman who hides her brilliance behind gray slacks is either a federal agent or the most dangerous asset in the city. I was waiting to see which one you were."
"And what have you decided tonight?" Penelope asked, raising her chin, refusing to show the sudden flare of panic in her chest.
Larkin reached out. His long, calloused fingers reached up and gently touched the razor-sharp edge of her dark espresso bob, brushing a stray hair back behind her ear. His touch was warm, heavy, and sent a shiver straight down her spine.
"Tonight," Larkin murmured, his gray eyes locking onto her dark red lips, "I decided you are the only woman in this room who is worthy of standing next to me."
Before Penelope could formulate a response, the heavy crystal lights in the ballroom flickered twice.
A tall, silver-haired man in a white tuxedo stepped out of the VIP corridor, flanked by four armed bodyguards wearing gold lapel pins.
It was Don Victor Moretti—the seventy-year-old head of the Moretti crime family, the man who controlled fifty percent of the city’s concrete union and maritime freight lines.
Moretti scanned the crowd, his sharp eyes settling onto Larkin Steves.
"Larkin," Moretti’s raspy voice boomed across the alcove. "The sit-down for the Brooklyn pier contracts is starting in the library. Bring your ledger clerk."
Larkin didn't turn his head away from Penelope.
"My cousin Thomas is unavailable, Victor," Larkin called back smoothly.
Moretti’s brows pulled together in anger. "I don't care about your cousin! The contract requires immediate verification of the offshore guarantees! Who is going to check the numbers?!"
Larkin offered his arm to Penelope, his eyes burning with a dark, commanding invitation.
"My senior partner will handle the numbers," Larkin said clearly.
Penelope looked at his offered arm.
She knew what stepping into that private library meant. If she walked through those doors with Larkin Steves, her life as an invisible clerk was officially dead. She would be stepping directly into the line of fire—into the heart of the city's most dangerous criminal underworld.
She looked at Larkin’s broad hand.
She looked into his slate-gray eyes, seeing not a boss, but a man who recognized her power and offered her a place beside him.
May you like
Penelope reached out her hand, her manicured fingers sliding into the crook of his heavy arm.
"Lead the way, Mr. Steves," Penelope said softly.
