Chapter 9 - The Ghost in the Ledgers
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Larkin crossed the room in three massive strides, stopping directly in front of me. The air in the safehouse suddenly felt incredibly thin.
“Explain,” he demanded, his voice a low, lethal hum.
I set my scotch glass down on the glass coffee table, leaning forward, the exhaustion vanishing as the tactical mind he had just discovered took over.
“For the past eight months, there have been microscopic discrepancies in the offshore shipping accounts,” I said, slipping back into the professional tone I used during our morning briefings. “Standard slippage, usually. A few thousand here, a few thousand there, written off as bureaucratic bribes in the Port of Newark.”
“I authorized those bribes,” Larkin said, his eyes narrowing.
“You authorized payments to a shell company called Apex Logistics,” I corrected him. “But Apex Logistics doesn't exist, Larkin. I traced the routing numbers three months ago. The money is being funneled through a blind trust in the Caymans, then bounced back into a domestic account used to hire private security contractors. Mercenaries.”
Larkin stared at me, absolute silence reigning in the room. He was processing the information with the terrifying speed that made him the boss.
“How much?” he asked quietly.
“Over four million dollars,” I replied.
Larkin’s jaw ticked. The betrayal was massive, a hemorrhage of funds that could only be orchestrated by someone with top-tier access to his personal ledgers.
“If you knew this three months ago, why didn't you report it?” Larkin asked, his tone darkening with suspicion.
“Because three months ago, I was your invisible secretary,” I reminded him, standing up despite the pain in my feet, meeting his gaze evenly. “If a mousy clerk walks into the boss’s office and accuses his own blood relative of embezzling millions to stage a coup, she doesn't get a promotion. She gets a bullet in the back of the head.”
Larkin froze. The silence stretched until it felt like the glass windows might shatter from the pressure.
“Thomas,” Larkin whispered, the name sounding like a curse.
“He hates you, Larkin,” I said softly. “He thinks he deserves the syndicate because he’s louder, more violent. He orchestrated the hit tonight to wipe you out, assuming he could take over the throne tomorrow.”
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Larkin closed his eyes, a muscle feathering along his jawline. When he opened them, the cold, calculating king was back, but there was a new, terrifying fire burning in his gaze.
“We aren't hiding in this safehouse tomorrow, Penelope,” Larkin said, reaching out to trace the line of my jaw with a calloused thumb. “We are going to war. And you are going to help me destroy him.”
