Chapter 3 - The Uninvited Guest
The man leading the intruding crew walked into the ballroom with the heavy, arrogant stride of someone who owned the police.
It was Dominic Vance—Marcus Vance's estranged younger brother and the leader of a rogue faction that had been raiding syndicate warehouses along the Hudson River for six months. He had two deep scars running across his neck, and his right hand rested heavily on the grip of a suppressed firearm tucked into his belt.
The music stopped. The high-society chatter died in an instant. Security guards belonging to the Continental Hotel slowly reached for their holsters, but Dominic’s men moved into positions that cut off every main exit.
"Larkin!" Dominic roared, his voice echoing off the vaulted gold ceiling. "I heard you were throwing a party for the elite! I thought I’d come collect what you owe me!"
Larkin stepped forward, taking a slow, relaxed sip from his glass before setting it down on a marble bistro table. He looked completely untroubled, as if a dangerous cartel leader had just interrupted a mundane business meeting.
"Dominic," Larkin said calmly. "You're wearing leather to a black-tie event. It's tacky."
Dominic’s jaw tightened. "I don't care about your fancy suits, Steves! You killed my distribution contract in Queens! You gave it to this old bastard!" He pointed a thick, calloused finger directly at Viktor Vane.
Viktor stood up, his face red with rage. "You little rat! You were stealing fifteen percent off the top!"
"Shut up, old man!" Dominic snapped, drawing his pistol and pointing it straight at Viktor's chest.
Gasps echoed through the room. Several high-society women backed away, terrified.
I stood beside Larkin, calculating the angles. Dominic was thirty feet away. He had eight armed men scattered near the doors. But I noticed something Dominic didn't—Larkin’s personal security team wasn't in the room. They were positioned on the upper balcony, rifles trained silently on Dominic’s forehead.
Larkin wasn't afraid because he already controlled the room. But he needed Dominic to talk long enough for his men to lock down the outer exits.
"Dominic," I spoke up, my voice ringing out clear, crisp, and completely devoid of fear.
Dominic’s eyes snapped to me. He blinked, clearly confused by the stunning woman standing right beside the syndicate boss.
"Who the hell are you?" Dominic growled. "Steves' new whore?"
Larkin’s eyes flared with a sudden, dark fury that made the air around him feel ice-cold. He made a slight movement forward, but I placed a soft hand on his wrist, holding him back.
"I am the person who audited your offshore account in the Cayman Islands three nights ago, Mr. Vance," I said calmly, taking two steps forward.
Dominic narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"Account number 884-Bravo," I continued, stepping into the spotlight as if I were delivering a corporate presentation. "You’ve been stealing from your own crew to fund a private exit strategy in Costa Rica. You have two million dollars sitting in a shell company named Blue Ocean Holding."
Behind Dominic, his four lieutenants suddenly looked at each other, their eyes filled with instant suspicion.
"What is she talking about, Dominic?" one of his men muttered, lowering his weapon slightly. "You said we didn't have money to pay the crew last week!"
"She’s lying!" Dominic barked, his face turning pale. "I don't even know who she is!"
"Your accountant’s name is Marcus Thorne," I added with a icy, razor-sharp smile. "He keeps terrible password security. Would you like me to read out the transfer logs from Tuesday afternoon?"
The tension among Dominic’s men exploded. Trust among criminals is fragile, and I had just dropped a bomb right onto the foundation of his leadership.
"You bitch!" Dominic screamed, swinging his gun away from Viktor and pointing it straight at my forehead.
Before he could pull the trigger, Larkin moved.
In a fraction of a second, Larkin grabbed my waist, yanked me behind his body, and drew a sleek silver firearm from beneath his tuxedo.
Thwack. Thwack.
Two suppressed shots echoed through the hall.
Dominic’s gun flew out of his hand, blood spraying onto the polished marble as he screamed in pain. At the same exact moment, red laser dots appeared on the chests of all eight of his lieutenants from the balconies above.
"Drop your weapons," Larkin commanded, his voice cold as winter ice. "Or you die where you stand."
The eight men immediately threw their guns onto the floor, raising their hands in total surrender.
Larkin didn't look at them. He turned around, his hands resting gently on my shoulders, his dark eyes searching my face for any sign of injury.
"Are you hurt?" he asked softly, his voice stripped of all corporate coldness.
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"My dress is clean," I whispered back, my heart pounding in my chest—not from fear, but from the electric warmth of his hands on my skin.
Larkin looked down at me, his thumb brushing lightly against my jaw. "You are an unbelievable woman, Penelope Woods."
