I plan to maintain the same hands-on approach… minus the bro-code attitude.
A familiar presence approaches from my periphery, my best friend’s signature scent of cinnamon and vanilla bringing the slightest smile to my lips as she stops beside me.
“You made it,” I murmur under the growing hum of small talk.
“Unfortunately,” Quinn Marlow—one of CrossPoint’s senior analysts and the best brain in the business—snips, her tone as sharp as the insights she’s famous for. “I couldn’t miss the old guy’s birthday… though I did fantasize about being hit by a bus on the way here. Or at the least, being impaled by a poorly placed stiletto.”
I chuckle and finish the last of my champagne. “I, on the other hand, was aiming bigger. A meteor. Or a localized plague. Something biblical.” I indicate my champagne flute with a raise of the glass. “Alcohol helps.”
“Well, it sure as hell won’t hinder.” She scans the room, a brisk flick of her jet-black ponytail punctuating her disdain as her gaze locks on a waitress with another alcohol-packed tray. “I’ll be back.”
I smother a smirk as she walks away, only to be approached by another familiar face.
“I hear you’re causing a stir.” Walter Prescott—a relic from my father’s era, old money, outdated views, and a handshake that smells like scotch.
“Walter.” I tilt my head in greeting. “New suit? It makes you look ten years younger.”
He barks a laugh and closes in, wrapping a forceful arm around my shoulders to drag me into his side. “Are you flirting with me, girl? You know I used to date your mother when she was your age. Before your father stole her from me, that is… God rest her soul.” He makes the sign of the cross like a practicing Catholic when I’m sure he only acknowledges religion when he wants to be absolved of sin. “You’re the spitting image of her back then.”
“So you keep telling me.” I inch out of his hold.
“What’s this I hear about you shaking things up while your father has some time off,” Walter says with raised brows full of judgment or maybe condescension. “You’ve already got people talking.”
They’re not talking because of the shaking. It’s the simple fact men get praised for ambition and women get ostracized. “I’ve made some minor strategic tweaks.”
“Minor?” He snorts. “Rumor has it you’re ignoring calls from the Cavallo Group. Back in my day, they weren’t a company that took to being dismissed.”
I shrug and hand my empty flute to a passing waiter. “Times have changed, and so have some of the businesses we deal with.My dad never liked to make waves, but I don’t have a problem with it if it means CrossPoint will benefit.”
“Well, in that case, be careful, little one. Make sure you know the devil you’re dealing with before you throw stones.”
Little one?
I grit my teeth, in dire need of another drink.
“Speak of the devils,” Walter murmurs.
I tense and follow his line of sight, past Quinn waylaying a waitress, bypassing CrossPoint staff and long-lost relatives, to the men walking in through the open ballroom doors.
My stomach sinks.
Not one, but two of the Cavallo brothers are here.
Raffael and Michelo.
Black suits crisp. Collars sharp. Their movements too smooth, too confident. Especially in an environment where they’re not welcome.
“I should find your father and wish him a happy birthday.” Walter pats me on the shoulder. “Good luck, girlie.”
Fucking girlie?
God, I hate men.
I ignore the patriarchy-loving, country-club-coddled, Grim Reaper bait’s departure, my attention pinned on Raffael as his dark stare finds mine.
His brow raises with a taunt of subtle defiance before he glances away in dismissal, saying something to his brother. The two part ways, Michelo moving to the left and disappearing into the crowd, while Raffael meanders to the right.
He snags an appetizer from a passing tray without breaking stride. Takes a bite. Makes himself at home.