MAFIA BOSS BROUGHT HIS NERDY SECRETARY TO AN ELITE SUMMIT AS A HUMILIATING JOKE—UNTIL SHE WALKED IN LOOKING LIKE A RULING EMPRESS AND EXPOSED HIS ENTIRE EMPIRE'S DARKEST SECRET

Vincent’s armored Maybach tore through the rain-drenched streets of Chicago, cutting through red lights with ruthless momentum. Inside the reinforced leather cabin, the silence between the two passengers was heavy with unspoken danger and suffocating tension.

Vincent drove with one hand on the wheel, his knuckles white, while his other hand rested near the heavy firearm on his lap. Beside him, Penelope calmly used a wet wipe from the glove box to clean the streak of gun soot from her cheekbone.

"My private penthouse at the Montgomery Tower," Vincent growled, not taking his eyes off the rear-view mirror. "It’s off-grid. No cameras, no syndicate guards, no Gregory."

"Good," she replied casually, crossing her long legs. The slit in her dress fell open, revealing the matte-black holster strapped against her pale, toned thigh. "Because if your men are compromised, walking into your usual safehouses would be suicide."

Twenty minutes later, the private elevator opened directly into Vincent’s multi-million-dollar penthouse. The city skyline was a dark canvas of storm clouds outside the floor-to-ceiling glass.

The moment the elevator doors slid shut, Vincent turned on her.

In a single, explosive movement, he closed the distance, pinned Penelope against the reinforced elevator wall, and trapped her between his broad shoulders. His eyes were ablaze with a mix of fury, suspicion, and undeniable, raw desire.

"No more games, Miss Wright," Vincent snarled, his face inches from hers. "You handled military-grade automatic weapons like an operative. You took down a two-hundred-pound mercenary in three seconds. You wore a ten-million-dollar emerald necklace to a gala you were invited to on twenty-four hours' notice. Who are you working for? Are you CIA? Interpol? Or did another syndicate plant you in my office two years ago to dismantle me from the inside?"

Penelope didn't flinch. She didn't drop her gaze. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her lush red lips almost grazing his jawline.

"If I wanted to dismantle you, Vincent," she whispered, her warm breath sending a shiver through his veins, "I would have let that mercenary blow your head off with that twelve-gauge five minutes ago."

"Answer the question," he warned, his voice a dangerous rumble.

"Back up and give me a glass of your twenty-year-old scotch, and I’ll tell you everything," she replied, her eyes flashing with defiance. "Or you can keep holding me against this wall and see how fast I can dislocate your shoulder."

Vincent stared into her amber eyes for three agonizing seconds. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped back, never taking his eyes off her. "Start talking."

Penelope straightened her dress, walked over to the black granite bar, and poured herself two fingers of scotch. She took a slow, appreciative sip, turned around, and leaned back against the counter.

"My real name is Elena Volkova," she said quietly.

Vincent’s blood froze in his veins.

"Volkova?" Vincent breathed, the name echoing like thunder in his mind. "The Volkov Bratva? The sovereign rulers of the Eastern European syndicate who were massacred six years ago?"

"My father was Viktor Volkov," Elena said, her voice turning razor-sharp and cold as ice. "And six years ago, he was betrayed, murdered, and his entire empire was carved up like cheap meat. The men who orchestrated the coup thought they wiped out every last one of us."