Chapter 5 - THE LION’S TABLE
Larkin didn't flinch. His expression settled into a terrifying, glacial stillness that made Penelope realize why this man had successfully held the syndicate together at thirty-two.
"They intend to take you from this building," Larkin said, not looking at her, his eyes tracking the movements of Marcone’s men through the pane. "If they get you into a car, they get the ring. And Thomas gets to crack the server with your clearance credentials."
"They won't get me into a car," Penelope said evenly.
Larkin looked down at her, a genuine, albeit lethal, smile touching his lips for the first time. "No. They won't. Because you are the guest of the Steves Don. And no one touches what sits at my table."
He offered his arm. "Shall we go back to dinner, Miss Woods?"
Penelope looked at his tailored sleeve, then met his oceanic eyes. A thrill of adrenaline, dark and electric, hummed through her veins. For three years, she had watched this man command armies with a single nod. Now, she was walking beside him into the line of fire.
She slipped her bare, pale arm through his. "Lead the way, Mr. Steves."
When the balcony doors opened, the room felt different. The air was charged with predatory anticipation. Word had spread through the gala; whispers had bounced from the champagne stations to the VIP banquettes. Everyone knew Larkin Steves’s secretary was Arthur Vance’s daughter, and everyone knew Larkin had taken Vance’s silver compass from Thomas’s hand.
Larkin didn't steer her toward the shadows. He walked her directly down the center aisle, past the staring syndicates, straight toward the main banquet table where Victor Petrov and Salvatore Marcone were already seated.
Thomas stood nearby, looking pale, his eyes darting toward the exits.
"Gentlemen," Larkin said smoothly as they reached the head of the table. A waiter hurried over, pulling out the heavy gilded chair at Larkin's right. Penelope sat down, her black gown pooling around her like shadow, the obsidian clutch resting beside her silver dessert fork.
Larkin took his seat at the head, leaning back with effortless authority. "I understand there was some curiosity regarding my guest."
Salvatore Marcone, an older man with slicked white hair and heavy gold rings, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the linen cloth. "Larkin. We are all practical men here. Arthur Vance left an open debt. Forty million dollars that belonged to the syndicate pool. If this girl carries his name, she carries his debt."
"Miss Woods carries nothing," Larkin said, his voice dropping into a register that cut through the background music. "Arthur Vance's accounts were settled fifteen years ago when his estate was absorbed by my father."
"That's a lie!" Thomas blurted out, stepping forward, his face mottled with red wine and panic. "The money was never absorbed! It’s locked in private vaults! She has the ring around her neck right now! Show them the chain, Penelope!"
Penelope didn't move. She delicately lifted her water goblet, took a small sip, and set it down without a single click against the glass.
"Mr. Dixon," she said coolly, "your lack of financial literacy has always been your most endearing weakness. In my three years of managing your department's invoices, you have failed to balance a petty cash drawer, let alone an encrypted trust."
A muffled snicker broke out from Petrov’s entourage. Thomas looked ready to explode.
"You arrogant little—" Thomas lunged forward, reaching for Penelope's shoulder.
Before Thomas’s fingers could touch her silk gown, Larkin’s hand shot across the table. He caught Thomas by the wrist, twisting it downward with brutal, terrifying efficiency. Thomas gasped in agony, his knees buckling until he was pinned against the edge of the mahogany table, his face inches from Larkin's cold stare.
"You forget yourself, cousin," Larkin whispered, his grip tightening until bone groaned. "You touch her, and you leave this room in pieces."
The ballroom went completely silent. Marcone’s men reached inside their tuxedos. Larkin’s personal security stepped forward from the perimeter, hands hovering over concealed holsters.
In the dead quiet, a small voice broke the tension.
"Excuse me, Mr. Steves?"
Everyone turned. Standing near the edge of the VIP enclosure was a little boy, no older than seven, dressed in an oversized black suit with a crooked bowtie. He held a small, crumpled leather sketchbook in his tiny hands.
It was Leo, Salvatore Marcone’s youngest grandson, who had been brought to the gala by his mother before the formal toasts.
"Leo," Marcone barked sharply, his tone dropping from gangster to stern grandfather. "Go back to your mother."
The boy didn't move toward his grandfather. He was looking directly at Penelope, his brown eyes wide with innocent curiosity.
"The lady has the bird," Leo said, his voice ringing clearly across the tense room. He pointed a small finger at Penelope's obsidian clutch.
Penelope blinked, releasing Larkin’s arm. Her gaze softened instantly, the cold ice in her face melting into something profoundly gentle. She looked at the child, then down at the clutch.
"What bird, sweetheart?" Penelope asked softly, completely ignoring the armed men standing around the table.
Leo took three hesitant steps forward, ignoring his grandfather's warning grunt. He held up his leather sketchbook. Opened on the page was a child’s drawing in colored crayon—a drawing of a jagged black stone with a tiny silver bird carved into its center.
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"My daddy had that stone," Leo said simply, his voice trembling slightly. "Before he went away to the hospital and didn't come back. He said the bird was for safety."
Salvatore Marcone froze. The old Don stared at his grandson's drawing, then slowly shifted his gaze to Penelope's obsidian clutch. The blood drained from Marcone's leathery face.
