“Il vecchio è morto,” Michelo cuts him off. “Giustiziato. Nella sua stessa casa.”
Raffael pushes from the table to stand rigid.
The room falls deathly quiet. All those giddy, lust-drunk feelings evaporate under a thick cloak of palpable tension.
“What’s wrong?” I run a self-conscious hand over the front of my blazer.
“Leave,” Raffael mutters under his breath.
It’s my turn to do the glancing, my gaze darting between him and his brother as I attempt to determine if Raffael is addressing me or Michelo.
“Is everything okay?” I whisper.
“Leave.” He meets my stare, his expression chilling. “Now.”
Chapter
Two
ISLA
Two years later
I stareat my reflection in the mirrored elevator wall, my dark-blonde hair swept into a low chignon, my makeup understated but sharp. I adjust the collar of my blazer, pretending not to notice the shadows under my eyes or the quiet exhaustion that dulls the stormy gray.
The elevator glides to a stop, and I drag in a strengthening breath as it opens.
Showtime.
The Cavallo Group’s front-of-house is exactly as it’s always been—moody and immaculate, layered in gleaming bronze accents and dark glass that reflects ambition more than light.
The familiar receptionist sits behind her desk, her expression brightening at the sight of me.
I offer a warm smile and continue across the marble floor, my heels tapping a harsh rhythm that echoes in my chest.
The walk to the boardroom should feel routine by now. I’ve completed it more than a hundred times over the years, anda dozen more since the Raffael ice age set in. But every pass through the glass doors still lands like a gut punch, more so today than ever, given it will be my last.
Raffael is exactly where I expect him to be. Chair centered at the head of the boardroom table. Suit flawless. Expression carved from permafrost.
He doesn’t stand or speak. There’s merely a faint dip of his chin, a bare minimum courtesy to acknowledge my arrival.
Fine. Looks like we’re both on script.
I set the Halverson & Grey file in the center of the table and remind myself why this boardroom no longer holds heat—twelve unanswered calls and six ignored emails in the week after that intimate encounter, eight months of Cavallo meetings fronted by Michelo while Raffael remained “indisposed,” followed by four more months where he showed his face at meetings but remained silent, surgical, then gone the moment my analysts finished delivering their reports.
And every encounter since has been strictly timed and professionally glacial to avoid any unnecessary communication between us. For reasons still goddamn unknown.
“Afternoon.” I take a seat, my tone crisp, neutral. “As requested, CrossPoint has completed commercial diligence on Halverson & Grey Capital.”
Raffael’s eyes, sharp and dark, flick to the report, then back to me, as if waiting for a verdict he already expects to despise. “Where’s the team of minions that are usually glued to your side?”
“They’re busy with other things.” I ignore the way my pulse thuds. “For the record, we won’t be recommending the acquisition.”
The silence that follows is lead heavy. Somewhere deep in the building, the cooling system gives off a subtle hum.
Raffael’s jaw flexes. “Reason?”
I slide the bound dossier across the table. “Three civil suits, all resolved with sealed settlements. There’s a liability in that building, and given the tight-lipped employee interviews, I’d take a guess that it’s sitting behind the COO’s desk with grabby hands and a Viagra prescription.”