Chapter 3 - Dangerous Waltz and Deadly Whispers
The VIP banquet table was arranged like a chessboard. Vincent sat at the head of the Romano Syndicate faction, but every pair of eyes in the room was fixed entirely on Penelope.
Throughout the four-course meal, she orchestrated the room like a grandmaster. When Don Moretti attempted to bait Vincent into a disastrous territory dispute over the rail lines in Ohio, Penelope casually dropped a single comment regarding Moretti’s secret off-shore bank accounts in the Cayman Islands—details that even the Federal Reserve didn't possess. Moretti choked on his red wine and dropped the subject instantly.
When the orchestra transitioned into a dark, pulsing waltz, Vincent stood and extended his hand. "Dance with me."
Penelope raised an eyebrow, taking his hand. "Are you sure, Mr. Romano? I might step on your bespoke Italian shoes."
"You haven't made a single clumsy mistake since you walked through those double doors," Vincent said tightly, pulling her onto the polished dance floor.
He caught her waist and drew her flush against him. She was light, supple, and moved with the athletic fluidity of a trained dancer—or a trained assassin. As they spun beneath the glittering chandeliers, Vincent dipped his head down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"The glasses. The mustard cardigans. The dropping of the pens. Why?" Vincent demanded, his grip on her hip tightening possessively. "Who are you really, Penelope?"
"Penelope Wright is my legal name," she replied smoothly, meeting his intense gaze without a flicker of fear. "And the disguise was necessary. A brilliant, stunning woman in your office attracts attention, questions, and background checks. A mousey, stammering secretary in oversized knitwear is invisible. Nobody looks at the furniture, Vincent. And invisible people hear everything."
"You speak aristocratic Russian. You know the classified manifests of the Russian Bratva. You know Moretti’s hidden shell corporations. You aren't just an accountant."
Penelope laughed softly, a sound that made Vincent’s blood run hot. "I spent two years cleaning your dirty logistics, fixing your smuggling routes, and making sure your Syndicate didn't run headfirst into federal indictments. You should be thanking me, not interrogating me."
"You knew I was bringing you here tonight as a joke," Vincent stated, his voice dropping into a dark register of realization. "Gregory told me to use you to humiliate the Commission."
"Of course I knew," she murmured, her eyes flashing with dangerous amusement. "I heard Gregory pitch the idea through the acoustic vents in your office. You thought you were bringing a sheep to the slaughter to mock your enemies. You didn't realize you were bringing a dragon."
Before Vincent could respond, Penelope’s posture subtly stiffened. Her eyes darted toward the second-floor mezzanine balcony overlooking the ballroom.
"Vincent," she whispered, her voice dropping all playfulness. "Don't look up. Three men in catering uniforms on the east balcony. Two more near the service exits."
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"Khnets?" Vincent asked, his instincts instantly locking onto high alert.
"No," Penelope said coldly. "The catering uniforms are wearing tactical earpieces with blue frequency lights. That's not the Bratva. That’s a hit squad. And they aren't here to talk."
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