MY BILLIONAIRE MAFIA BOSS INVITED HIS 'PLAIN' SECRETARY TO A DANGEROUS GALA TO HUMILIATE ME, BUT WHEN I WALKED IN WEARING A $5,000 SILK DRESS, THE ENTIRE UNDERWORLD FELL TO THEIR KNEES / Chapter 4 / 15

Chapter 4 - A Deadly Proposition in the Penthouse: When Your Ruthless Boss Stops Being Your Boss

The conservatory of the Continental Hotel was framed in wrought iron and frosted glass, filled with exotic orchids and the thick smell of expensive Cuban tobacco. Dimitri Sokolov sat at a low marble table flanked by two massive enforcers whose jackets bulged with concealed submachine guns.

When Larkin walked in with me on his arm, Sokolov’s scarred face split into a mocking grin. "Larkin. I see you brought a showpiece tonight. Usually, you only keep spreadsheets in your bed."

"This is Penelope Woods," Larkin said, sitting down and pulling out the chair beside him for me. "She is the spreadsheets."

Sokolov chuckled dismissively, waving a smoke-stained hand. "I don't do business with women who dress like high-end call girls. Tell her to wait in the hallway while we discuss the Red Hook shipping lanes."

I didn't wait for Larkin to speak. I reached into the micro-clutch at my waist, pulled out a gold-plated flash drive, and dropped it into Sokolov’s crystal tumbler of scotch. The amber liquid splashed across his velvet lapel.

The two enforcers instantly drew their weapons, the sharp clicks of their slides racking echoing off the glass walls. Larkin didn't even flinch; his hand simply slipped under his jacket, fingers resting against the grip of his customized Kimber .45.

"On that drive, Dimitri," I said, leaning forward on the table, "is the complete unencrypted shipping manifest of the cargo freighter Volga-9. You reported six containers of industrial machine parts. In reality, you brought in eight crates of surface-to-air ordnance consigned to the Petrov cartel in South America."

Sokolov’s face drained of color.

"If that file is sent to the Department of Homeland Security," I continued, tapping my blood-red nails on the marble, "your entire port operation will be seized by dawn. If it’s sent to the Petrov cartel, they’ll realize you charged them a forty-percent markup on defective firing pins. You have two minutes to sign over the forty-percent transit tax to the Steves Syndicate, or I hit 'send' from my phone."

Larkin sat back, a terrifying, beautiful smirk playing on his lips as he watched his secretary reduce one of New York’s most notorious Russian warlords to a sweating mess.