Chapter 5 - The Price of PowerBy Tuesday evening, the news of what happened on the forty-second floor had rippled through the New York underworld like wildfire.
In a world ruled by guns, blood, and brute force, the most terrifying weapon wasn't a submachine gun or a syndicate enforcer. It was the woman who controlled the numbers.
Larkin called me into his office at six PM. The sun was setting over the Hudson River, painting the sky in violent shades of purple and orange.
"We have a meeting tonight," Larkin said, standing by the window holding a glass of bourbon.
I looked up from my laptop. "Where?"
"The penthouse at the Pierre Hotel. A summit with the heads of the five families. They want to discuss the restructuring of the docks, and specifically... they requested that the accountant be present."
I raised an eyebrow. "They want me at the high table?"
"They want to make sure you aren't going to sink their ships or reroute their funds to the IRS," Larkin said dryly. He walked over, setting his glass down on my desk, and looked down at me. "Which means tonight, you aren't wearing gray slacks."
"Larkin—"
"It's not a request, Penelope," he interrupted, his voice dropping into that commanding, immutable tone that brooked no argument. "If you're going to sit at the head of the table with the most dangerous men in America, you need armor. And I happen to know a boutique on Fifth Avenue that specializes in it."
An hour later, a sleek black town car delivered a garment bag directly to my apartment.
Inside hung a dress that made the black silk gown from the gala look like church attire. It was a midnight-blue velvet sheath, sleeveless, featuring a high collar that framed my sharp bob, and a daring thigh-high slit that promised mobility and danger in equal measure. Paired with diamond-encrusted drop earrings and a heavy silver signet ring bearing the Steves family crest that Larkin had left in the garment pocket, it was a declaration of war.
When I stepped out of the elevator on the top floor of the Pierre Hotel, the atmosphere in the private penthouse was thick with cigar smoke and tension.
Ten men sat around a massive mahogany conference table. Men whose names made headlines in federal indictments.
When the double doors opened and I walked in, draped in midnight velvet with my head held high, every conversation ceased.
Larkin stood beside the central chair at the head of the table. He didn't sit down until I reached his side. He pulled out the chair for me, his hand brushing my bare shoulder, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
"Gentlemen," Larkin announced, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "Meet Penelope Woods. Chief Financial Officer of our operation. And the reason you all still have bank accounts."
An old man with silver hair at the opposite end of the table—Salvatore Moretti, patriarch of the Brooklyn families—let out a raspy, gravelly laugh.
"The girl from the books," Salvatore muttered, leaning forward, resting his gnarled hands on his cane. "Larkin tells us you saved Yuri's skin yesterday. Tell me, Ms. Woods... what stops you from taking all our money and disappearing to the Cayman Islands tomorrow?"
I met his aged, weathered gaze without flinching.
"Mr. Moretti," I said, my voice cutting through the smoke-filled room like a scalpel. "If I wanted to steal your money and disappear to the Caymans, I wouldn't have waited until tonight. I would have done it two years ago when you misspelled 'subsidiary' on your tax evasion filings."
A sharp intake of breath echoed around the table.
Salvatore stared at me for three agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, a wide, gold-toothed grin spread across his face. He threw his head back and laughed.
"I like her," Salvatore declared, slamming his hand down on the table. "She has teeth. Larke, keep her close. Men like us usually die because we trust the wrong people with guns. You're smart enough to trust the right person with a calculator."
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As the meeting progressed, discussing shipping routes, offshore shell corporations, and territorial boundaries, I didn't just take notes. I negotiated. I pointed out flaws in their logistics, suggested legal loopholes for asset protection, and commanded the room with an authority that left hardened criminals nodding in respectful agreement.
And through it all, Larkin sat beside me, his hand resting casually on the arm of my chair, his dark eyes burning with a pride and hunger that terrified me more than any mob boss in the room.
