Heir of Ruin (The Cavallo Brothers #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

ISLA

Power has a sound. This afternoon it’s the strategic click, click, click of Raffael Cavallo’s pen which continues to crank the tension in my team higher.

He sits at the head of his polished boardroom table, his suit charcoal, tie nonexistent, brow arched in a look that hovers somewhere between disinterest and warning as he focuses on my newest analyst recruit, Dane.

Click, click, click.

It’s ridiculous how Raffael’s presence commands the room, transforming my analysts into pieces of furniture with speaking privileges.

His demeanor is controlled. Contained. The type of enviable clout that doesn’t need to raise its voice to own the space.

Click, click, click.

“That’s everything we have on Petersen & Sons.” Dane’s voice wavers as he finishes his presentation, then clears his throat for what I’m guessing is the thirty-seventh time. “Clean numbers. Healthy margins. No litigation risks.”

Kayla angles closer to the head chair, her blonde waves sliding off her shoulder like she’s practiced the move. “Honestly, Mr. Cavallo, it’s the cleanest company we’ve reviewed all year.”

Easy, Kayla. Raffael can detect flirtation better than a polygraph trained to pick up sexual tension and won’t appreciate the lack of professionalism.

His pen stills. He lifts his gaze from the bound report before him. Midnight eyes. Zero shine.

The temperature drops a degree. Maybe two.

“Clean?” he repeats, voice velvet over steel. “You’re certain?”

Dane nods like a bobblehead. “Yes, sir.”

Those sharp eyes finally shift to mine, ensnaring me in intimidating goodness. “You agree, Ms. Cross?”

I fight not to roll my eyes at the formal address. “Petersen’s books are solid. Profits are climbing. Debts are minimal. If the Cavallo Group wants a stake in New York’s premium logistics game, this is the golden ticket.”

Raffael inclines his head in approval, or at least the absence of displeasure. The pen clicks once. Final. A full-stop of punctuation. “Then we’re done here.”

Translation: Everyone out.

Chairs scrape. Papers shuffle. Kayla exhales a sugary, “Have a wonderful weekend, Mr. Cavallo,” which is rewarded with zero eye contact and not one ounce of acknowledgement while Dane practically scrambles to the glass door.

I hold in a chuckle, slide my folder into my black leather satchel, and start to rise.

“Not you, Ms. Cross. We have other matters to discuss.”

I hesitate, my stupid pulse skipping a beat while I scrutinize Raffael, attempting to gauge what he might want from me so late on a Friday afternoon.

“Of course.” I turn to my team. “Have the car brought around. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Sure thing.” Dane’s already halfway out the door.

“We’ll be a while,” Raffael states, his enthralling dictatorship slithering down my neck to awaken goose bumps.

My sense of idiocy only increases when Kayla wiggles her brows at me.

“In that case, I’ll see you both Monday morning.” I infuse authority into my tone, reminding her this is business, not the makings of whatever fictional hookup she’s mentally formulating. “Enjoy your weekend.”

Dane murmurs a goodbye. Kayla purrs hers.

Then the door whispers shut behind them.

I turn back to Raffael as he tosses his pen onto the table and eases into his chair, the switch from corporate bulldog to relaxed rogue enviably instantaneous.

“The pen was a nice touch.” I reclaim my seat. “Classic psychological warfare. Very on brand.”

His gaze loses its hardened edge. “What did you expect? Your junior analyst wasted forty-five minutes of my life rambling through filler slides. I needed something to keep me awake.”

“So you weren’t tapping out an SOS signal?”

“If I was, you’re a terrible friend for ignoring it.”

Friend. The description makes my pulse flutter.

I sit with the feeling, letting the stutter echo through me. We’ve shared a lot of titles over the years—client, confidant, occasional partner in crime—but friend doesn’t get mentioned all that often.

I guess it’s hard to hear him classify us on an even level when he’s so… much.

Everything about him is commanding and bold. Sickeningly handsome and perfectly balanced. While occasionally I still have to hide behind fake bravado and forced smiles.

Sure, we’re cut from similar cloth. Both born with silver spoons—him being the crown prince of the Cavallo Group, a private-equity empire polished to a mirror shine, while I’m the heir to CrossPoint Analytics, a boutique consultancy built on ruthless precision and spotless reporting, established by my grandfather and handed down to my dad.

Two nepo babies with boardroom pedigrees and matching poker faces, raised to respect profit margins and dynastic obligations long before bedtime stories.

“Maybe next time try firing a flare gun,” I drawl. “It’d be more efficient.”

A slow curve lifts one corner of his mouth in pure weaponized beauty. “A flare would set off sprinklers. I figured the queen of damage control could understand Morse code.”

“Alas, it seems my crown has slipped. But Kayla would’ve endorsed the flare option. She’d slay the evil Dane for you, given the incentive of the drool-worthy Raffael Cavallo in a wet shirt.”

He raises a perfectly arched brow. “Drool-worthy?”

“Her words,” I clarify with a roll of my eyes. “Not mine.”

“Obviously.” He smirks, pushing to his feet. “Have a drink with me.”

It’s not a question. Raffael’s invitations rarely are. They’re commands disguised in that perfectly honed Italian charisma, leaving just enough air for me to pretend I have a choice.

He strides to the bar cart against the wall, the glistening Manhattan skyline twinkling behind him. “Do you want the Macallan or the Dalmore Constellation?”

“Surprise me.”

He chooses the Dalmore, the dark-mahogany liquid in a crystal decanter adorned with the brand’s signature stag head. The kind of bottle that costs as much as a sports car.

He pours two fingers into twin tumblers, then returns to the table.

He offers me a glass. Our hands touch. Warm skin. Cool crystal. And a live wire of unexpected connection courses along my arm.

My eyes snap to his.

He makes no show of feeling the spark.

He’s still Raffael. Unrattled. Unreadable.

“You’ll deliver my reports solo from now on.” He retreats to reclaim the seat next to mine at the head of the table while electricity tingles through my wrist. “Another Dane slideshow and I’ll resort to violence.”

“You know I can’t do that.” I sip the whiskey, forcing my focus on the burn that contains hints of dark chocolate and spice as it travels down my throat. “Presenting as a team is part of their training.”

“Then train them on someone else’s dime. My business outweighs your mentorship program.”

“That’s beside the point. Going solo is against protocol—especially with intimidating clients.” I swirl my glass, catching boardroom lights in amber liquid. “I might feel pressed to soften my findings.”

There’s a pause.

A beat.

He eyes me over the rim of his tumbler. “You’re intimidated by me, Isla?”

My stomach somersaults, not only at the sound of my given name, but the raw polarization of his focus. It somersaults enough for me to question whether lowering my inhibitions with alcohol is a smart move.

“You know I’m not.” I take another drink, this one bigger, more of a comforting gulp. “But most are.”

His gaze lingers, curious and discerning, as if reading the footnotes of my thoughts. Eventually, he nods. “Hungry?”

“I’m fine. Thanks.” I rotate my ankles, trying to coax blood back into toes imprisoned by new stilettos. “I should head home before these shoes cut off circulation.”

“If they’re uncomfortable take them off.” He lifts the glass for another casual sip. “But you’re not leaving yet. We haven’t caught up in months.”

God, why does his tyranny have to sound so good?

I glower back, wordlessly conveying I will not be removing my heels in his million-dollar boardroom under any circumstances.

He smirks, the attention taunting.

I attempt to stare him down, the visual standoff only endeavoring to get me all caught up in those hypnotizing eyes.

“I said take them off, Isla.”

The command skitters down my spine, tickling every nerve. “I’m not—”

“Off.” He speaks over me, smooth in his dictatorship. “Now.”

This isn’t business. I don’t need to oblige my client. But curiosity, tenacity, and the electric voltage of a sheer thrill has me toeing off my heels.

I refuse to submit on his terms though, so I add a little sass to the situation, rolling my chair backward and propping my feet on his pristine table, right in front of him. “Better?”

His chin lifts a fraction, his attention leisurely trekking from my French-manicured toenails, up the line of my calves. For a moment, he pauses at the hem of my pencil skirt, then his focus climbs to my eyes where it remains, indecipherable and intense.

Shit. I went too far.

“Sorry…” I slide my feet back toward the edge and side-eye the wall of glass giving view to the internal hall of the Cavallo Group office. “That was—”

“Don’t you dare move.”

Nervousness settles in my limbs, the discomfort of my out-of-character behavior coming back to bite me on the ass. “It’s unprofess—”

“Consider it a challenge.” He downs the last of his drink. “Impress me. Show me how the Isla Cross, goddess of propriety, can handle the briefest etiquette meltdown.”

Goddess?

Dear fucking Lord.

Heat creeps up my neck.

But it’s not just the issue of etiquette. It’s the exposure. The way every inch of my legs burn under his scrutiny.

“Finish your drink.” He jerks his chin toward the tumbler cradled in my hands. “I know you need the liquid courage.”

There’s something about the way he takes liberties, too. He’s abrasive, confounding, almost insulting, yet I’m putty in his hands when any other man would’ve had me penning a harassment lawsuit.

“I can handle your challenge just fine.” But I run with his instruction, tossing back the Dalmore, savoring the smoked aftertaste, then set the empty glass down with a heavy clunk.