I answer and the grumble of the speedboat’s engine echoes through the speaker, the unknown caller greeting with a faintly familiar, “Morning, Cavallo.”
It’s the samefiglio di puttanawho’s been calling for days, claiming he’s one of the enforcers of my father’s will.
“What do you want?” I snarl.
“I already told you—it’s our duty to uphold the terms of the agreement. And given the disruptive behavior of one of the involved parties, it’s necessary for us to investigate.”
My father wasn’t the type to employ men toinvestigate. He employed men toact.
“I have the situation under control,” I bite out.
“Would you prefer if we wait until you and Ms. Cross part company? Because you can’t watch her forever.”
Vehemence claws inside my skull, the type that can only be inspired by a father who never should’ve had children.
“We just want a chat,” the guy says.
I mute the call as the bosun returns, his face grim.
“The crew at the passerelle recognize them, sir.” He fidgets with his radio. “They said it’s Bishop Cappelletti and Matthew Langston.”
Fuck.
Not just employees of my father, but his right-hand men. The ones who, even in retirement, are still notoriously known in criminal circles as the Butcher Boys of Baltimore.
The crew would have doted on them during my old man’s era.
“This isn’t the time to forget who you work for.” I turn to the bosun, crowding his space. “Your allegiance is to me. Are we clear?”
He fumbles, his gaze darting toward the approaching boat. “Yes, of course, sir.”
“Make the crew aware,” I seethe. “My father is dead. You answer to me now.”
As the bosun relays my message into his radio, I unmute the call. “You can board under my rules.”
“Whatever you say, Cavallo.”
I disconnect and pocket the cell. “They get frisked at the gangway. If a single weapon comes on board, you’ll be held responsible.”
The bosun gives a tight nod and moves to obey.
From my position on the upper deck, I hear the yacht’s engines cut out. We glide to a halt. The speedboat closes the distance. Below me, the crew assemble in the shadowy open doorway of the tender garage and secure lines. Then the two figures from the speedboat transfer from their boat into the belly of mine.
I recognize them from my father’s funeral. Bishop—the hulking brute with dark blond hair and a beard that barely hides the scar crossing his cheek. And Langston—dark hair, dark eyes, the epitome of our Italian heritage.
They submit to a pat-down as my crew confiscate multiple guns and blades before they’re ushered out of view.
I drag in a deep breath, locking my fury behind a wall of icy control, then take a seat at the head of the outdoor dining table, my posture a carefully constructed facade of calm.
The two men climb the stairs to the aft deck, strolling forward as if they own the place. My crew trails them timidly while Elena scoots from the salon to station herself outside the doors.
I don’t stand. Don’t offer a hand to shake. Not even a bare-minimum expression of civility.
“Cavallo.” Bishop scrutinizes the deck with a raised brow and helps himself to a seat halfway down the table. “You haven’t changed a thing. This place is exactly how your father left it.”
It’s a deliberate provocation. A reminder that my father’s ghost still owns this vessel and, by extension, me.
I ignore him and eyeball my crew. “You’re dismissed.”