I took the grand staircase slowly, each steel-tipped heel striking the marble with rhythmic precision. Heads turned as I passed. Men whose names appeared only in encrypted offshore ledger columns tracked my movement, their instincts screaming that someone who looked like that shouldn't belong in a room like this unless she carried a weapon or a secret.

I carried both.

Halfway up the stairs, a heavy hand gripped my bare shoulder.

“Well, well, well,” a familiar, oily voice drawled. Thomas Steves stepped out from the shadow of an arched pillar, his slicked-back blond hair catching the dim wall sconces, a toxic smirk plastered across his face. “Look who crawled out of the shredder. Did you rob a high-end boutique on your way here, Woods? Or did you finally find a sugar daddy willing to finance your delusions of grandeur?”

I didn't flinch. I turned my head slowly, looking down at his hand resting on my bare skin with an expression so cold it made him visibly hesitate.

“Take your hand off me, Thomas,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying enough ice to freeze boiling water.

Thomas laughed nervously, though his fingers tightened instinctively. “Relax, sweetheart. We’re just having fun. Larkin thought it’d be hilarious to bring you down here to see how the other half lives, but I have to admit—you clean up better than a dead drop in Brooklyn. Come on. Let me introduce you to some Italian investors who appreciate a secretary with an expensive wardrobe.”

He tried to steer me toward the back lounge, his grip tightening into a bruising hold.

That was his mistake.

In my three years at Larkin’s side, I hadn't just balanced spreadsheets; I had memorized the personal files, vulnerabilities, and leverage points of every single man in this syndicate—including Thomas’s illegal side-hustles skimming from the family’s shipping docks.

With a sharp, fluid twist of my shoulder, I slipped out of his grip, spun around, and pressed my palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. I leaned in close, letting the scent of dark vanilla and danger wash over him.

“Listen to me very carefully, Thomas,” I whispered, my eyes narrowing into slits. “If you ever touch me again, I won't just tell Larkin about the four hundred thousand dollars you skimmed from the New Jersey port terminals last quarter. I’ll hand the physical receipts directly to the federal prosecutor waiting in my car downstairs. Am I clear?”

Thomas’s face drained of every drop of color. His breath hitched, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror as he realized the mousy girl from the forty-second floor wasn't a joke—she was an executioner.

He swallowed hard, took a stumbling step backward, and disappeared into the crowd without uttering another word.