Chapter 9 - The Morning After
By four in the morning, the Continental Hotel was cordoned off by unmarked black SUVs. The city police never even showed up; the cleanup was handled with ruthless, private efficiency.
Don Rossi sat at the center table of the ruined ballroom, sipping black espresso while his men lined up seven traitors along the wall. Thomas was on his knees at Rossi’s feet, his face bloody, sobbing, babbling excuses that fell on deaf ears.
The titanium drive had told the whole story. I had handed it directly to Rossi, along with the printouts proving Thomas had orchestrated the hit to eliminate both Larkin and Rossi in one stroke.
Thomas had been dragged away into the dark. What happened to him next was something nobody spoke aloud.
Now, the sun was just beginning to rise over the Manhattan skyline, casting a golden-amber glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Larkin’s private penthouse on the sixty-eighth floor.
I sat on the white leather sofa, holding an ice pack against a bruised shoulder. My feet were bandaged where stray glass had cut through the silk stockings. The five-thousand-dollar black dress lay draped over an armchair—torn, bloodied, and ruined.
The bathroom door opened, and Larkin walked out wearing a charcoal-gray robe, a fresh towel slung over his shoulder. The grim, ruthless mobster from the ballroom was gone, replaced by a man stripped bare of his defenses.
He walked over, carrying a first-aid kit and a fresh tumbler of bourbon. He set the glass on the table and knelt on the carpet directly in front of me.
"Give me your foot," he said quietly.
"I can do it myself, Mr. Steves," I said, my voice hoarse from the smoke and adrenaline.
"Larkin," he corrected, his voice gentle but firm. "My name is Larkin, Clara. And stop pretending you don't feel what just happened between us tonight."
He gently lifted my right foot, resting it on his knee, and began unwrapping the temporary bandage with meticulous care. His touch was incredibly soft, contrasting sharply with the violence his hands were capable of.
"You took out a professional mercenary with a shoe," he murmured, a faint smile touching his lips as he dabbed antiseptic on a minor cut. "Do you have any idea how insane that is?"
"He was trying to kill you," I said simply.
Larkin paused. He looked up, his dark eyes searching mine with an intensity that made the air between us grow thin.
"Why do you care?" he asked softly. "I brought you into a snake pit tonight. I doubted your loyalty. I almost got you killed."
"Because you're the only man in this city who actually keeps his word," I answered, the truth slipping out before I could stop it. "You might be a criminal, Larkin, but you aren't a coward. And I don't work for cowards."
Larkin reached up, his fingers sliding into the nape of my neck, tangling in my sharp espresso hair. He pulled me gently forward until our foreheads rested against each other.
"You don't work for me anymore, Clara," he whispered against my lips, his breath sweet and warm. "From this morning on, you’re my full partner. Fifty-fifty. Steves Global belongs to both of us."
"And what if I want more than fifty percent?" I teased, my voice barely a breath.
His lips brushed mine—soft at first, testing, before deepening into a fierce, consuming kiss that tasted of bourbon, smoke, and undeniable victory. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were blazing.
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"You can have the whole damn city," he whispered. "As long as you stay by my side."
***
