Chapter 13 - The Penthouse
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Three days after Thomas’s execution, the syndicate was running smoother than it had in a decade. The fear of Larkin’s retribution, coupled with the terrifying precision of my audits, kept every capo and soldier perfectly in line.
But the dynamic between Larkin and me had irrevocably shifted.
I was no longer sitting at a desk outside his office. I was sitting at the massive mahogany table inside it. And I was no longer living in my cramped, dangerous apartment in Queens.
“You are not going back there, Penelope,” Larkin had stated flatly when I requested my belongings. “You are the underboss now. You are a target. You are moving into the penthouse.”
I had argued, but Larkin’s stubbornness was a force of nature.
Now, I stood in the massive, glass-walled living room of his luxury penthouse overlooking Central Park. It was beautifully sterile, filled with modern art and cold leather. It felt like him.
The private elevator chimed. Larkin walked in, shucking his tailored suit jacket and loosening his silk tie. He looked exhausted, rubbing the back of his neck, but his eyes locked onto me the second the doors opened.
“Did the Russians accept the new terms at the docks?” I asked, pouring him a glass of scotch from the crystal decanter on the bar.
“They complained, blustered, and ultimately signed the paperwork,” Larkin said, walking toward me. He took the glass from my hand, his fingers deliberately brushing against mine. The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
He didn't step back. He stood inches away from me, the scent of rain and expensive cologne wrapping around my senses.
“You are wearing gray again,” Larkin noted, his voice dropping into a low, husky register. His eyes swept over my comfortable, oversized gray sweater and leggings.
“I like gray,” I whispered, my heart beginning to race. “It’s comfortable.”
“You used it to hide from me,” Larkin murmured, reaching out with his free hand to gently trace the line of my jaw. “You don't need to hide anymore, Penelope. I see exactly who you are.”
He set the scotch glass down on the counter. The slow, deliberate movement was agonizing. He stepped into my space, trapping me gently against the marble bar.
May you like
“I’ve spent three years watching you bring me coffee,” Larkin whispered, his gaze dropping to my lips. “And all I can think about right now is how much time I wasted.”
He didn't wait for my answer. He leaned down, and the world outside the penthouse completely vanished.
