Chapter 3 - Numbers Don't Bleed, But Men Do
Penelope felt the stares burning into her skin, but she didn’t flinch. Every number she had ever balanced, every covert invoice she had ever cross-referenced, became armor. She knew the dark secrets of almost every man in this ballroom because she had spent thirty-six months hiding their money.
"You are lost, little swan?"
A heavy Russian accent rumbled at her left. Victor Volkov, the terrifying head of the North Port Bratva, stepped into her path. He was six-foot-four, built like a brick fortress, with silver-streaked hair and tattoos climbing above his starched collar. Two massive bodyguards stood just behind him.
"I am not a swan, Mr. Volkov," Penelope said smoothly, taking a measured sip of her champagne. "And I assure you, I am precisely where I intend to be."
Victor’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, followed by a low, rumbling laugh. "You know my name. Yet I do not know yours. Who do you belong to?"
"I don't belong to anyone," Penelope replied coolly. "Though I do manage the shell corporation through which your illicit shipping fleet out of Murmansk cleans its maritime insurance. You might want to tell your CFO that his fuel depreciation schedule is off by 3.8%. You’re losing ninety thousand dollars a quarter on phantom dock fees."
Victor’s smile vanished. His bodyguards stiffened, reaching instinctively beneath their jackets. The Russian titan leaned down, his eyes gleaming with deadly fascination. "Who the hell are you?"
"She is my executive associate," a deep, chilling voice cut through the air.
Larkin appeared at Penelope's side, his presence instantly radiating an aura of dangerous authority. His hand moved naturally, possessively, to the small of her back—where her bare skin met the chilled air. Penelope felt an electric jolt shoot up her spine at the contact, but she did not flinch.
"Larkin," Victor rumbled, looking between them. "You keep your finest weapons hidden behind desks?"
"She isn't a weapon, Victor. She's the mind that keeps the lights on," Larkin said, his voice quiet, low, and sharp enough to draw blood. "Now, if you'll excuse us."
Larkin guided Penelope away with a firm pressure against her spine. As soon as they were out of earshot of the Russian contingent, Larkin steered her into the alcove beneath the west terrace, away from the prying eyes of the ballroom.
He turned her around, trapping her against the marble wall, his tall frame blocking out the room. His ice-blue eyes were burning.
"What is this, Penelope?" he murmured, his voice thick with unmasked tension.
"It is a formal function, Mr. Steves," she replied, her voice smooth and unbothered. "You told me it was mandatory for senior staff. You told me to wear something nice."
May you like
Larkin stared at her mouth, his breath catching. "I didn't tell you to look like a declaration of war."
"You and Thomas expected a punchline," she said quietly, her eyes locking onto his without a trace of fear. "I don't play the fool for anyone. Not even for you."
