My boss invited me to the most dangerous gala in New York because he wanted me to embarrass myself.

The click of my steel-tipped stilettos on the black marble floor sounded like slow gunshots in the sudden hush.

Every head in the grand ballroom turned. The Continental Hotel’s grand hall was a sanctuary for the underworld’s apex predators—syndicate bosses from Brooklyn, corrupt politicians from Albany, and international arms brokers who usually hid behind offshore shell companies. Tonight, they were all staring at a woman they didn't recognize.

Larkin Steves closed the distance between us with smooth, predatory grace. His custom midnight-blue tuxedo fitted his broad shoulders perfectly, but his dark blue eyes were locked onto mine with an intensity that could burn through steel.

He stopped two feet away. The faint, expensive scent of sandalwood and cold iron drifted from him.

"Penelope?" His voice was a low, dangerous rasp.

I lifted my chin, holding his gaze without a flicker of fear. "Good evening, Mr. Steves. You requested formal attire."

For three full seconds, the most ruthless syndicate chief in Manhattan said nothing. His eyes swept down the line of the black silk gown, taking in the gunmetal chains across my bare back, the sharp espresso bob framing my jawline, and the dark, lethal shade of lipstick resting on my lips.

Behind him, Thomas stumbled forward, his glass of scotch tipping slightly over his fingers. "What the hell?" Thomas gasped, his jaw dropping so wide it was almost comical. "Is that... Penelope? The mouse from the forty-second floor?"

I turned my head slowly toward Thomas. The cold, piercing look I gave him made him swallow his words mid-sentence.

"You look... different, Ms. Woods," Larkin said smoothly, though I caught the subtle tightening of his jaw.

"You invited me to a lion's den, sir," I replied, my tone quiet enough for only him to hear. "I thought it best not to dress like steak."

A rare, dangerous glint of genuine amusement flashed in Larkin's dark eyes. He slowly offered me his arm. The gesture wasn't a joke anymore. It was an acknowledgment.

"Then let's feed the lions," he murmured.

I placed my hand on his arm, feeling the iron muscle beneath his tailored sleeve. As we walked deeper into the ballroom, the whispers began.

"Who is she?"

"Is that Steves' new enforcer?"

"Look at her posture—she looks like an assassin."

Thomas caught up with us, his face flushed red with alcohol and bruised pride. "Larkin, this is absurd! She's a temp clerk! She files my expense reports!"

Larkin didn't even look at his cousin. "Thomas, go check on the shipments in the harbor lobby. You're drunk, and you're embarrassing the family."

"I set this joke up!" Thomas hissed, his eyes glaring at me with venom. "She was supposed to show up in a sweater vest!"

"Leave," Larkin commanded. The tone was so flat and absolute that Thomas flinched, backed away, and melted into the crowd, muttering curses under his breath.

Larkin led me toward the elevated VIP dais where three old men sat sipping aged cognac. I recognized them instantly—not from news photos, but from the secret ledgers I had spent three years organizing.

There was Viktor Vane, the brutal kingpin of the East Coast docks; Arthur Pendelton, the corrupt senator who laundered money through real estate; and Marcus Vance, the owner of three dozen illegal casinos.

"Gentlemen," Larkin announced, stepping onto the platform. "Allow me to introduce my chief financial analyst, Penelope Woods."

Viktor Vane narrowed his cold grey eyes, assessing me like a piece of merchandise. "An analyst? She looks more like an executioner, Steves."

"She executes numbers, Viktor," I said smoothly, taking a flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. "And unlike men with guns, when I erase something, it stays gone forever."

The table went dead silent. Senator Pendelton let out a hearty laugh, raising his glass to me. "I like her! Sharp tongue."

"She’s quiet at the office," Larkin remarked, his arm remaining firm beneath my hand. "But she rarely misses a detail."

"Is that so?" Viktor Vane sneered, leaning forward. "Then maybe she can explain why the quarterly dividends from the South Street terminal were down seven percent this month, Steves."

I didn't pause. I didn't glance at Larkin. I didn't even drop my smile.

"The dividends dropped seven percent, Mr. Vane," I said evenly, taking a small sip of champagne, "because four of your container ships sat at dock six for thirty-six hours longer than scheduled due to unbribed customs inspectors. If you paid your dock managers on time instead of skimming from their pensions, your turnover would improve by twelve percent."

Viktor’s smile instantly vanished. Senator Pendelton choked on his cognac.

Beside me, I felt Larkin’s arm go rigid with supreme satisfaction. He looked down at me, his eyes gleaming with something that felt dangerously like admiration.

"She’s good, Larkin," Pendelton coughed, wiping his mouth. "Very good."

Before Viktor could answer, the heavy double doors at the side of the ballroom slammed open. A dozen men in leather jackets entered, their hands tucked suspiciously into their coat pockets.

The room went instantly tense. The air thickened with unspoken violence.

Larkin didn't flinch. He casually stepped half an inch in front of me, his hand slipping inside his tuxedo jacket.

"We have a problem," Larkin whispered to me, his breath warm against my ear. "Stay behind me."