Chapter 11 - The Traitor Cornered
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I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to. I recited dates, offshore routing numbers, and dummy corporation filings with terrifying, flawless precision. I laid bare the entire architecture of Thomas’s embezzlement, proving exactly how he had siphoned four million dollars from the collective syndicate funds to hire the mercenary team.
The silence around the table grew heavier, darker, and infinitely more dangerous with every word I spoke.
Viktor Volkov’s thick hands curled into massive fists on the mahogany table. The other bosses exchanged looks of pure, unadulterated murder. Stealing from Larkin was a family matter. Stealing from the commission was a death sentence.
Thomas was sweating through his expensive silk shirt.
“It’s a lie!” Thomas shouted, pointing a trembling finger at me. “She’s lying! She forged the books to frame me! Larkin is putting her up to this to consolidate power!”
Larkin didn't even blink. He slowly turned his head to look at me, a dark, incredibly proud smirk playing on his lips.
“Is she lying, Thomas?” Larkin asked softly.
“I have the wire transfer receipts linked directly to your personal Cayman account, Thomas,” I added smoothly, sliding a heavily redacted bank document across the polished wood. “The final transfer was executed forty-eight hours ago. Exactly enough to pay for a hit squad in the financial district.”
Thomas looked at the paper. He looked at the furious faces of the five bosses surrounding him. He realized, with absolute certainty, that he was out of plays.
Desperation makes men foolish.
With a feral, panicked roar, Thomas lunged across the table. He bypassed Larkin entirely, aiming straight for me. He pulled a hidden switchblade from his sleeve, the silver blade flashing under the chandelier light, intent on silencing the only witness who could read the books.
The bodyguards lunged forward, but they were too far away.
I didn't flinch. I didn't scream.
I simply stepped sideways, allowing his momentum to carry him past me, and drove my elbow violently downward into the base of his neck. Thomas crashed hard into the mahogany table, the switchblade clattering to the floor.
Before he could recover, Larkin was out of his chair.
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Larkin grabbed Thomas by the back of the neck, slamming his face brutally into the polished wood, pinning him completely.
“You tried to kill me, Thomas,” Larkin whispered, his voice a freezing, lethal hiss in the dead silence of the room. “That was a mistake. But trying to touch her? That was a tragedy.”
