Chapter 3 - A Sip of Arsenic
I placed my gloved hand inside the crook of Larkin’s arm. The fabric of his tuxedo was heavy, tailored wool, but underneath it, his muscle was wound like an iron spring. He didn't squeeze my arm, but his posture shifted instantly—protective, possessive, and dangerously alert.
"You just threatened the third-ranking partner of Steves Global in front of twenty capos," Larkin murmured close to my ear as we walked toward the champagne tower. His breath was warm against my neck, sending an unexpected shiver racing through my spine.
"He touched me," I said, looking straight ahead. "You pay me to protect your assets. That includes your reputation. Letting your cousin treat your primary aide like a dime-a-dozen escort makes you look weak, Mr. Steves."
"Does it?" Larkin glanced down at me, his eyes gleaming under the crystal chandeliers. "And what does it say about me that I didn't know what was living underneath those gray cardigans for three years?"
"It says you were too busy looking at profit margins to look at the people generating them."
A sudden sound cut through our banter—a dry, rhythmic clapping.
From the raised VIP lounge at the back of the ballroom, an older man in an immaculate white double-breasted suit was watching us. He had silver hair swept back like a lion's mane and eyes that had seen empires fall. Beside him sat two bodyguards whose jackets bulged conspicuously under the armpits.
Don Salvatore Rossi. The undisputed patriarch of the Five Families of New York.
"Larkin," the Don's voice carried an old-world rasp that silenced the surrounding tables instantly. "Bring your guest over here."
Larkin’s arm tightened beneath mine. For all his arrogance, Larkin respected Salvatore Rossi. Everyone in this room did, or they ended up in the marshlands of Jersey.
"Keep your head down," Larkin whispered, his tone abruptly serious, dropping the flirty banter. "Rossi doesn't play games. One wrong word and this dress won't save you."
"I didn't buy this dress to be saved," I replied, meeting his gaze with absolute resolve. "I bought it to conquer."
We ascended the three short steps into the elevated lounge. The air here smelled different—richer, colder, tinged with expensive tobacco and imported vintage port.
Don Rossi looked me up and down. His gaze was clinical, devoid of the cheap lust Thomas had displayed. He was appraising steel, not flesh.
"I know every face in this city that matters," Rossi said, tapping a signet ring against the mahogany arm of his chair. "I know the daughters of the politicians, the wives of the bankers, and the mistresses of the district attorneys. I do not know you."
"Clara Vance, Don Rossi," I said, offering a slight, respectful nod of my head, neither submissive nor defiant. "Mr. Steves's private accountant and chief administrative liaison."
"An accountant," Rossi mused. He took a sip of his wine. "Thomas looked like he saw a ghost just now. What did you say to him, girl?"
"I reminded him of the value of accurate bookkeeping," I answered without hesitation. "In my line of work, a misplaced zero can be just as fatal as a stray hollow-point. Sometimes more so."
Rossi stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds. The entire lounge held its breath. Larkin stood motionless beside me, his hand slipping instinctively toward his inner coat pocket.
May you like
Then, Rossi threw back his head and laughed.
***
