Chapter 1 #2
His chuckle is low, barely audible, yet so goddamn devastating. He pushes to his feet, plucks both tumblers from the table, and strides to the drink cart.
I sit in awkwardness, feet perched like blasphemy in his holy boardroom until he returns with more alcohol.
“Are you satisfied I’ve played enough of this one-sided game?” I wiggle my toes, pretending I don’t feel entirely naked and exposed.
“Not even close.” He reclaims his seat, places down the drinks, then leans forward, snagging my ankles. In a single tug he reels me forward, chair wheels gliding, before he places my heels in his lap.
My stomach plummets. “Raffa—”
“Relax.” His voice drops an octave, his thumb tracing the arch of my foot.
Pleasure blindsides me, rocketing up my calves, lighting a fuse someplace insanely dangerous. “What are you—”
“Quiet.” The word is soft, but obedience feels compulsory.
“It’s been a twelve-hour day,” I argue. “My feet are filthy.”
His thumb digs harder along my arch, kneading, stroking, dragging the most unladylike moan from my throat. “Some men like a little filth.”
“Some men should realize this is extremely unprofessional. What happens if one of your team see me?”
I attempt to retract my feet, but he clamps a heavy palm around my ankles while reaching under the table. A click of a button sounds, then the internal glass wall and door of the boardroom frosts into a white screen of privacy.
I blink, dumbfounded.
“Impressed?” he drawls.
I soothe my drying mouth with a hard swallow. “Given the price tag on that privacy glass I’m assuming you’re prone to giving impromptu massages.”
“Your assumption is incorrect. But it’s worth its weight in gold given the way you’re moaning. My staff will think I’ve bent CrossPoint’s golden girl over my desk. My reputation thanks you for the favor.”
I gape and retract my legs with a violent tug.
“It was a joke, Isla.” He snickers, raising his hands in surrender. “My employees knock off early on Fridays. The only people who might still be here are my brothers.”
“Hilarious.” I shove my feet back into the absolutely stunning yet excruciatingly painful stilettos. “Who knew you had a sense of humor.”
His laughter peters into a silent grin.
Gorgeous.
Immaculate.
Downright infuriating.
I throw back the entirety of my drink. Two gulps and a whole heap of burn.
“Another?” he asks.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I choke out.
“No, just attempting to see more of what’s behind the curtain.”
The vague response gives me pause. Raffael isn’t usually cryptic. He’s direct. A transparent shark.
“Why?” I ask.
“We’ve known each other for years, yet I’m only familiar with your career-driven side.”
“I only have one side, Raffael. The side gunning for a CEO title. And you’re proof it requires obsession, not hobbies.”
“You’re aiming for CEO?” He swirls his Dalmore, eyes narrowing.
“Of course.” Did he not know my entire working life has been for the sole purpose to one day take over the family business? Or worse, does he doubt my capabilities? “You don’t think I’m good enough to run CrossPoint?”
“You’re good enough to run the world. I just didn’t think you’d settle.”
“I wouldn’t call it settling.”
“I would, given your talent. Why sit at the head of one boardroom when you could dictate what happens in many of them?”
I frown. “Meaning?”
“CrossPoint is a supporting act—always playing second stage no matter how loud the applause. You could run it, sure, but you’d be boxed in and selling yourself short.”
“A supporting act?” I bristle. “We’ve built a reputation even billionaires trust. Our analysis makes or breaks all those outlandish deals of yours.”
“Exactly. I’m making billion-dollar deals while you’re filing reports that help me sleep at night. That’s not power, Isla. That’s paperwork. Don’t you want to be the one calling the shots?”
My cheeks heat. From embarrassment? Shame?
Not once have I considered my family’s company less than. We’re sought after. In high demand. Our record is squeaky goddamn clean—that’s why investors demand our seal of approval.
“Are you trying to insult me?” I lower my gaze to my tumbler, my fingertips skating the rim.
“No.” His voice carries no hint of apology. “I’m trying to offer you a job.”
My gaze snaps to his.
“Work for me,” he says with a lazy swirl of his glass.
“I want you to head our strategic investments division. You’d be building and tearing down empires, not merely analyzing spreadsheets in boardrooms. You’d have global reach.
Entire industries at your feet. You won’t gain a CEO title, but you’d be the woman who shapes markets.
The one who dictates moves no one else dares to attempt. ”
I stare at him, every professional defense I’ve sharpened over the years momentarily stripped bare.
I’ve been destined to run CrossPoint since conception. That’s all there’s ever been. All I thought there’d ever be. And up until this moment, I’d been perfectly content with that.
Now my insides are scrambling to climb up my throat.
“So that’s what all this has been about?” An awkward laugh bubbles from me as I awkwardly gesture toward the whiskey, my feet, his lap. “A long lead into a job offer?”
“You’re the best of the best, Isla, and you’re barely getting started. I can’t be the first to try and steal you away from your father.”
He is though. The first and only.
This industry is still so sickeningly male driven.
When I started at CrossPoint, all I asked was to be introduced as Isla—no legacy, no silver spoon, no shadow of my father’s name. I wanted to build a reputation on my own merit.
But for years, my reports were met with condescending smirks at boardroom tables. The male attention quickly skimmed past me to the nearest man for confirmation of my findings like I was the intern delivering coffee rather than the one offering to reshape their bottom line.
That’s why becoming CEO means everything to me. I want a title to stake through the hearts of their misogyny. A crown they can’t ignore.
Which is why working for Raffael isn’t enough.
“It’s a very generous offer.” I divert my gaze to the city skyline over his shoulder. “But I have to decline.”
He remains silent.
I can’t sell out my family’s legacy. Not for money. Not even for a mega fortune. And especially not to the only man who ties me in knots.
I’d never accomplish a damn thing.
Raffael pushes to his feet and prowls the short space between us. “You want those letters.” He stops beside me and leans against the table.
“I want a lot of things.” I smooth a hand down my skirt, fighting the restless energy that comes with his proximity. “And I won’t stop until I get them.”
“Even if it means waiting decades for your father to retire?”
“Even then.” I nod.
It’s my birthright. My inheritance.
CrossPoint might not be a profit powerhouse like the Cavallo Group. But it’s mine. Built by my grandfather and meant to be passed down, not sold out.
“I’m a patient person.” I roll my chair back an inch, bracing to stand.
“Since when?” He offers me a hand with an infuriating smug look.
“Since forever.” I scowl, feigning annoyance when it’s attraction that’s frying my brain cells.
I hate that he can do this to me—make my heart stutter, my thoughts fragment. But my impulsivity is a traitor. My hand slides into his. And the heat of his touch sizzles through my composure.
“I suggest not turning this into a belittling contest.” I lick my painfully dry lips. “You may not act like it, but you have flaws too, Mr. Cavallo.”
“Me? Flawed?” His cocky chuckle infuses heat straight into my veins as he pulls me to my feet, bringing us toe to toe.
“Don’t get me started.” God, please don’t.
I can’t think of a single flaw when those sinful eyes gleam with mischief.
“I, um…” I clear my throat, needing to fill the cloying silence.
My hand slips from his, severing the electric current.
“I should go.” I retreat, but the new stilettos betray me. My balance wavers a fraction.
It’s small.
Barely a stumble.
But Raffael catches it—catches me—not allowing the bare second it would’ve taken to right myself before his hands are firm on my hips.
“You okay?” He frowns, any sign of his playfulness now hidden behind concern.
“I’m fine.” My tone is paper thin.
Obviously, I’m nowhere near fine. He’s too close. Too compelling. Too… everything.
His frown deepens, and those gorgeous lips part just enough to make me imagine what they’d feel like on mine.
I drop my gaze before I’m tempted to do something stupid, and focus on the space between us. The alarming proximity. The bare inches separating our bodies.
“You sure you’re okay?” His voice is softer now, his fingers hooking under my chin, tilting my face until I’m staring at him again.
The world narrows to the crackling tension between us, the air too thick to inhale a full breath.
His eyes glance between mine, that furrowed brow relaxing into something dangerously composed.
I place my hands on his chest, adding pressure. “This has been great but…” It’s time to leave. To place distance. To reclaim professionalism.
I swallow over my painfully dry throat, clueless at how to navigate whatever the hell this is.
He feels it too, right? The disorientation? The upheaval?
It’s as if this moment has been a lifetime in the making and resistance is futile.
“But?” he asks, too damn unperturbed. In fact, he seems downright cool, calm, and collected as his thumb lightly strokes my jawline, the dominant touch shaking my foundations.
“Raffael…” It’s meant to be a warning. A plea. I don’t understand what he’s doing. Where this is going. Yet all I can focus on is how my body screams for more. “You’re my client.”
He inclines his head. “One that isn’t contractually obligated to keep his hands to himself.”
Is that really what he wants? “It may not be a contractual requirement but it’s definitely a moral one.”
“I work in private equity, Isla. Morals aren’t a prerequisite.”
No, but he’s always had them. Always acted professionally. Acquired failing businesses with decorum. I swear that’s why my father has placed the Cavallo Group on a pedestal, always pushing our employees to provide them with a service superior to our other clients.
“You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about this.” His thumb continues to stroke my sensitive skin. “About us.”
I stare, utterly thrown. “You have?”
“Of course.”
My body responds as though it’s straddling both an adrenaline surge and an anaphylactic response.
I shake my head and repeat, “You’re my client.”
“And if I want us to be more than that?” He slides his hand to my neck, his fingertips awakening goose bumps along my hairline.
I swallow a curse. A whimper. A moan. “I’m not looking for a one-night stand.”
“Good.” Those earthy eyes attempt to lull me away from thoughts of complications, toward dreamy X-rated territory. “One night would never be enough.”
“Raffael...” I rasp.
Bitch, please. You want to control boardrooms and can’t even rein in your hormones.
Why is it so hard to step away?
“Isla,” he mimics my tone, the slight glimmer of his smirk returning. “I like seeing you like this. All unsettled and caught off guard.”
I suck in a breath of a laugh. “Of course you do. You’re a sadist.”
The stunning weight of his lethal confidence increases as the sweet spice of his cologne sinks into my lungs—all cinnamon, dark cedar, and a curl of smoky amber.
“Am I?” He leans in, his nose brushing mine, his whiskey-scented breath whispering over my tingling lips. “Then tell me to stop.”
I brace to do exactly that, but the word doesn’t come. Instead, my eyes flutter closed, and I fall victim to his trance as my hips lean into him.
A low, approving rumble echoes from his chest. The hand teasing my hair grips tighter.
Air congeals in my lungs and his mouth sweeps over mine. Soft. Teasing. Enough to melt skin and bone.
It’s a perfect kiss. Pure indulgence and masterful control.
I lean in for more, his tongue coaxing my lips apart, my palms finding the front of his shirt, my fingers clenching the fine fabric. I can barely breathe through the want. Through the rush of blood and sparks of flame.
But before I can pull him closer a hard knock rattles the boardroom door, the interruption shocking sense back into me.
“Give us a minute.” Raffael raises his voice to the unseen gate-crasher.
The door opens regardless, his younger brother, Michelo, storming in—face hard, dark eyes harder. He takes in our compromised position, glancing from Raffael to me, then back again as I retreat a step.
“Brother—” Raffael growls.
“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.”