Chapter 20 - The Empty Throne
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The aftermath of the warehouse raid sent shockwaves through the entire American underworld.
Marcus Thorne was handed over to the commission, cementing Larkin’s absolute dominance over the East Coast and eliminating the Chicago threat entirely. The five families didn't just respect Larkin anymore; they feared him. But more importantly, they feared the woman standing beside him.
I stood in the center of the restored penthouse, wearing a sharp, tailored black suit. My gray slacks and sensible blouses had been burned.
Larkin walked out of his study, pouring two glasses of celebratory scotch. He handed me one, his fingers lingering on mine. The dark bruises from the ambush were fading, but the fierce, possessive look in his eyes remained permanent.
“The accounts are balanced, the borders are secure, and the commission is terrified,” Larkin said softly, raising his glass. “To the invisible secretary.”
“To the new regime,” I corrected, clinking my glass against his.
We drank in comfortable, dangerous silence, looking out over the glittering skyline of Manhattan. It was ours. Every skyscraper, every shadow, every street.
Larkin set his glass down and stepped behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder.
“You never told me the rest of your story, Penelope,” Larkin murmured, his voice a low, vibrating hum against my neck. “You told me your father was a cleaner. You told me you ran. But you never told me your real name.”
I leaned back against his solid chest, a faint, mysterious smile touching my lips.
Before I could answer, the encrypted red phone on his desk—the line strictly reserved for international emergencies—began to ring. Its shrill tone cut through the quiet intimacy of the penthouse.
Larkin stiffened, his instincts flaring. He walked over to the desk and put the call on speaker.
“Steves,” Larkin answered coldly.
“Larkin Steves,” a heavily accented, terrifyingly calm voice echoed through the speaker. “Word has reached Europe of your recent victory. You have consolidated power beautifully.”
“Who is this?” Larkin demanded.
“A friend of the girl standing next to you,” the voice replied smoothly. “Tell the daughter of the Italian Syndicate that her vacation in America is over. Her true family requires her return to Rome. Immediately.”
Larkin’s blood ran cold. He turned his head slowly, looking at me with shock, betrayal, and a desperate question in his eyes.
I didn't flinch. I simply set my scotch glass down, picked up the receiver, and ended the call.
May you like
I looked at Larkin, the man I loved, the king of New York, and smiled.
“It seems,” I whispered, stepping into the darkness of the room, “we have a new problem.”
