Chapter 8 - The Safehouse Protocol
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We moved like ghosts through the subterranean maintenance tunnels of the city, emerging two miles away in the basement of a nondescript luxury high-rise. Larkin’s safehouse was on the fortieth floor, a minimalist fortress of steel, bulletproof glass, and cold leather furniture.
As the heavy reinforced door locked behind us, the adrenaline finally began to recede, leaving a sharp, agonizing ache in my bare feet. I limped toward the sofa, collapsing onto the leather cushions with a heavy sigh.
Larkin shrugged off his ruined tuxedo jacket, tossing it over a chair. He walked to a sleek wet bar, poured two glasses of scotch, and walked over to me. He handed me a glass, then crouched down in front of me.
“Drink,” he commanded softly.
I took a sip, the amber liquid burning beautifully down my throat.
Without asking permission, Larkin reached out and gently lifted my left foot, resting it on his knee. His large, warm hands brushed the dirt and grit from my sole.
“You're bleeding,” he noted, his voice devoid of its usual harsh edge. He stood up, disappeared into the bathroom, and returned with a first aid kit.
He knelt back down, cleaning the small cuts on my feet with antiseptic. The sheer surrealness of the moment—the most feared crime boss in Manhattan tending to my wounds—made my breath catch.
“Why didn't you leave me in the alley?” I asked quietly. “I’m a liability now. A wild card.”
Larkin looked up, his dark eyes intense and entirely unreadable. “You are the most valuable asset in my organization, Penelope. You have spent three years inside my walls, listening, observing, and balancing my books with absolute perfection. And now I know you can also put a bullet through a man’s eye at fifty paces.”
He finished bandaging my heel and gently set my foot down.
“Who do you think organized the hit tonight?” I asked, leaning back against the sofa.
Larkin stood up, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the sleeping city. “It was highly coordinated. They knew our route. They knew exactly when we were leaving the gala.”
“It was an inside job,” I said, stating the obvious.
Larkin turned his head, his jaw clenching. “Yes.”
“I can tell you who it was,” I said smoothly, taking another sip of my scotch.
May you like
Larkin stopped pacing. He stared at me, the predatory stillness returning to his frame. “Excuse me?”
“I am your accountant, Larkin,” I said, a faint, dangerous smile touching my lips. “I see every dollar that moves through your syndicate. And I know exactly who has been bleeding your accounts dry to fund a private mercenary team.”
