Chapter 2 - Blood on the Dance Floor: Larkin Steves Finally Realizes Who Has Been Guarding His Empire
"What the hell are you doing, Penelope?" Larkin’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the space between us. He stopped bare inches from me, his towering frame casting a shadow over the silk of my gown. The scent of expensive sandalwood, crisp winter air, and gun oil washed over me.
"Attending the gala, Mr. Steves," I replied smoothly, my voice lacking the polite, submissive tremor I had faked for three years. "You told me to clear my schedule. You told me to wear formal attire. Am I out of compliance with the dress code?"
His jaw ticked violently. Up close, his eyes were stormy. "You look like an executioner."
"Good. Because you brought me into a slaughterhouse."
Before Larkin could respond, Thomas slithered up beside him, his face pale and eyes wide with frantic, predatory confusion. "Penelope? Is that... is that the girl from the cubicle? Larkin, what kind of sick game is this? Where are the ugly sweaters?"
I turned my head slowly, letting my gaze drift over Thomas from head to toe with utter disdain. "Disappointed, Thomas? Were you hoping I’d wear off-brand beige so you and the Morretti captains could laugh into your caviar?"
Thomas flushed crimson, his hand twitching toward his jacket pocket. "Watch your mouth, secretary. You’re talking to a Steves."
"And you’re talking to the woman who balances the offshore holding accounts you’ve been skimming from for the last fourteen months," I whispered, stepping half an inch closer. "Seven hundred and forty thousand dollars diverted to an unregistered account in the Cayman Islands under the name 'Castor Holdings.' Did you really think I didn’t notice?"
Thomas choked on his breath. Larkin’s gaze snapped from me to his cousin, cold fury igniting behind his pale irises.
"Is that true, Thomas?" Larkin asked, his voice deathly calm.
"She’s lying! She’s a glorified clerk!" Thomas hissed.
"The orchestra is playing a waltz," I interrupted, looking directly at Larkin. "Are you going to stand here interrogating your thieving cousin, Mr. Steves, or are you going to dance with your date?"
Without a word, Larkin seized my waist. His large, calloused hand pressed firmly against the bare skin of my lower back where the chains met the silk. An electric jolt surged down my spine, but I didn't flinch. He pulled me seamlessly onto the center of the dance floor, moving with terrifying grace.
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As we swept past the staring elite of New York’s underworld, Larkin leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. "You’ve been hiding behind that desk for three years. Who the hell are you, Penelope?"
"I’m the only reason your empire hasn’t burned to the ground yet," I whispered back, meeting his piercing eyes. "And tonight, Larkin, you’re going to learn that I’m worth far more than your sixty-thousand-dollar salary."
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