The Moretti family, realizing their partnership with Thomas had been compromised by an unknown financial strategist, tried to launch a hostile takeover of our shipping lanes in Brooklyn. They thought Larkin was distracted by family betrayal. They thought the syndicate was vulnerable.

They didn't know I was managing the war chest.

Sitting in the glass-walled conference room on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, I slid three thick manila folders across the polished obsidian table toward the three remaining regional capos of the syndicate—men who had spent thirty years running guns and shaking down waterfront warehouses.

“What is this?” Tony Moretti Jr., a brute with a broken nose and a silk tie stained with espresso, grunted as he flipped open the first file.

“That,” I said, leaning back in my ergonomic leather chair with my legs crossed, “is the exact valuation of every front business, commercial property, and offshore bank account your family owns in North America.”

Tony scoffed. “You think a bunch of spreadsheets are going to scare us, lady? We control the docks.”

“You used to control the docks,” I corrected, smiling sweetly. “As of forty-five minutes ago, Larkin’s primary holding corporation purchased the mortgage debt on every single warehouse your family operates from here to Queens. If you move a single crate of contraband past midnight tonight, our legal team forecloses on your properties, federal marshals seize your inventory, and you’ll be sleeping in a federal penitentiary before breakfast.”

Tony went rigid. He looked up from the folder, staring at me as if I were a ghost. “You… you bought our entire debt portfolio?”

“With a 14% discount, courtesy of our liquid capital reserves,” I said smoothly. “You have twenty-four hours to sign unconditional surrender terms, or I liquidate your family into bankruptcy. The choice is yours.”

The three mob bosses looked at each other in absolute terror. Without firing a single bullet or spilling a drop of blood, the invisible secretary had brought a multi-state crime family to its knees using nothing more than compound interest and corporate law.

As they scrambled out of the conference room like panicked schoolboys, the heavy glass door clicked shut behind them.

Larkin stepped out from the private office adjoining the boardroom, holding two crystal glasses filled with aged bourbon. A slow, undeniable smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side, Penelope,” he said, handing me a glass.

“You already were on my bad side for three years,” I reminded him, taking a sip of the burning amber liquid. “You just didn't know it.”