Chapter 4 - The Delgado Proposition
Vincent Delgado was not a man who smiled. In the criminal underworld of New York, his name was invoked like a natural disaster—unpredictable, destructive, and impossible to survive once it hit.
He walked down the central aisle of the ballroom, the crowd parting before him like dark water before the bow of a ship. His bodyguards scanned the room with practiced military precision, their hands hovering near their shoulder holsters.
I didn't move. I stood by the arched window, the city lights sparkling behind me like a glittering backdrop, my glass of sparkling water held steady in my hand.
Delgado stopped three feet away from me. Up close, his face was lined with old scars, his silver hair combed straight back, his eyes carrying the heavy, weary cruelty of a man who had spent decades climbing over corpses to reach the top.
"Larkin," Delgado called out, not even looking at my boss as Larkin approached from across the room. "Where did you find her? I’ve spent twenty years in this city, and I know every ghost, every lawyer, and every fixer. But I don't know this face."
Larkin stepped up beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. There was a subtle, protective tension in his posture now—not because he cared about me as a person, but because Delgado was encroaching on his territory, and Larkin Steves did not share his assets.
"Penelope Woods," Larkin said smoothly, his voice carrying an edge of warning. "My chief financial officer's assistant. She handles internal logistics."
"Logistics," Delgado repeated, letting out a dry, humorless bark of laughter that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete. "Logistics don't look like that, Larkin. Logistics don't stand in a room full of wolves looking like they're ready to skin the pack."
Delgado turned his full, crushing attention back to me.
"Ms. Woods," Delgado said, his voice dropping into a gravelly purr. "My men tell me you just had a very interesting conversation with young Marcus Vance. Something about customs brokers at Pier 42 and intercepted shipments."
The entire ballroom was holding its breath. Viktor Vance, standing fifty feet away with his associates, was glaring at us with murder in his eyes. Thomas Steves was watching from the bar with a stupid, hopeful grin, praying that Delgado was about to put me in my place.
I met Delgado’s terrifying gaze without a single tremor in my hands.
"Marcus has a leak in his supply chain, Mr. Delgado," I said, my voice cutting through the silent ballroom like a scalpel. "He’s too arrogant to see it, and his father is too proud to admit it. If I were running the North American routes, I wouldn't route titanium alloy through Pier 42. Too many federal eyes. I’d use the private freight terminals in Elizabeth, New Jersey. Better clearance, zero oversight, and the port authority is already on retainer."
Silence descended upon the room—a silence so absolute you could hear the hum of the air conditioning vents overhead.
Vincent Delgado stared at me.
For five seconds—seconds that felt like hours—he didn't move a muscle. Then, slowly, a thin, crooked smile crept across his scarred face.
"A girl who knows the Elizabeth port authority," Delgado murmured, his eyes glittering with dangerous appreciation. "Larkin, you’re paying her too little. Whatever salary you’re giving her, I’ll triple it. Come work for me, Ms. Woods. You can run my entire logistics network by Monday morning."
Before Larkin could even draw breath to answer, I tilted my head and smiled back at Delgado.
"I’m flattered, Mr. Delgado," I said smoothly. "Truly. But I have a strict rule against working for men who don't balance their ledger books before midnight. Your last three shipments from Cartagena showed a twelve percent margin discrepancy. If your accountants can't catch a basic variance like that, I’d hate to see how you handle a federal tax audit."
Gasps erupted around the room. Several veteran mob bosses actually stepped back in sheer shock. Nobody—nobody—spoke to Vincent Delgado like that and lived to tell the tale.
Delgado’s smile vanished. His bodyguards instantly tensed, their hands dropping to their holsters. The air turned so thick with impending violence that you could cut it with a knife.
For a heartbeat, I thought I had pushed too far. I thought I had miscalculated my armor.
Then, slowly, Delgado threw his head back and let out a booming, genuine laugh that echoed off the marble ceiling.
"Magnificent!" Delgado roared, slamming a heavy hand against his thigh. "By God, Larkin, where did you find this little viper?! She’s got ice water in her veins!"
Larkin exhaled a breath he had clearly been holding, though his amber eyes remained locked on me with a burning, complex intensity.
"She stays with me, Vincent," Larkin said, his voice hard as iron, stepping slightly in front of me as a protective barrier. "She’s my employee."
"For now," Delgado chuckled, shooting me one last appreciative look before turning away. "Keep her close, Larkin. But watch your fingers. She might just bite your hand off while you’re sleeping."
With that, Delgado turned and walked away toward the VIP lounge, his bodyguards trailing behind him like dark shadows.
The tension in the ballroom slowly dissipated, replaced by a chaotic wave of whispers and murmurs. Everyone was looking at me now—not as Larkin’s awkward, timid secretary, but as the most dangerous unknown variable in Manhattan’s criminal underworld.
Thomas Steves was staring at me from across the room, his face pale with absolute horror. He finally realized that the joke was over, and the target had just armed herself with a nuclear weapon.
Larkin turned to me, his face inches from mine, the amber light of the chandelier reflecting in his dark eyes.
"You have a lot of explaining to do, Penelope," Larkin whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "Starting with how the hell you know about Delgado’s Cartagena shipments."
May you like
I looked up into his eyes, letting the red lipstick curve into a slow, electric smile.
"Mr. Steves," I whispered back, my hand resting lightly against the lapel of his tailored tuxedo, right over his racing heart. "You only paid me to manage your spreadsheets. You never asked what I read in my spare time."
