Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
ISLA
I grab a champagne flute from the tray of a passing waitress and drag in a deep inhale before downing half the contents in a large gulp.
It’s been a week.
A temperamental one, full of difficult decisions and dissolved contracts that, judging by the voodoo pins in my aura, have not been appreciated by those in the firing line.
I’ve earned the wrath of powerful men and shouldered sexist insults more times than I care to remember, but dismantling my father’s gentleman’s agreements and under-the-table loyalties to rebuild CrossPoint on a stronger foundation is necessary.
I face the ballroom and smooth a crease in my forest-green dress, a tailored sheath that balances beauty with professionalism, declaring to everyone in attendance that I’m no longer going to shy away from my femininity.
The place is alight with golden ambiance, the fifty-five or so modest gathering all here to celebrate my father’s sixtieth birthday, despite how the man of the moment should still be at home in bed.
He stands tall tonight, though, dressed in one of his sharpest gray suits, the kind of tailored ensemble he insists on ordering from Milan each season.
His smile is polished. His posture proud.
I see past the performance, though, right down to the shallow breaths he takes when no one’s watching, to the faint darkness bordering his eyes even his tan can’t mask.
There’s a tightness in him. One he hides well… just not well enough for me to ignore.
I need him to announce his retirement. Not only for the sake of his health, but to cement my position in stone so nobody can threaten to dismantle the hard work I’ve done.
It’s no secret I’ve pushed the limits of the interim part of my CEO title.
Disgruntled staff and clients will come after me. But I’ve studied under the best. My father didn’t just lead—he reviewed everything. No project has made it through CrossPoint without his eyes on it first. That crazy work ethic is what made him legendary, and someone I’ve always admired.
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.
Anger scorches my insides, a wildfire that consumes every rational thought until it feels like I could breathe fire.
I stalk forward, weaving through the partygoers, not stopping until I reach him. “What the hell are you doing here?” I demand under my breath.
He casually slides his hands into his pockets and raises his chin in that slow, privileged, old-money way powerful men do. “I was invited.”
“You were invited before our businesses cut ties. It would’ve been polite not to attend given the circumstances.”
“It would’ve been more polite not to threaten to kneecap my company,” he counters. “But here we are.”
I scoff, disliking so many things about his statement. For starters, it wasn’t a threat. It was a fully-actioned strategy. Completely concluded. Done. “You’re going to ruin my father’s birth—”
He steps closer, cutting me off with his proximity. “You’re going to ruin the Cavallo Group.” He holds my gaze, his face so close to mine I can smell the rich scent of whiskey.
I freeze.
The tickle of his breath ghosting across my skin drags memories to the surface. Dangerous, stolen moments I’d thought I’d buried. But the glacial chill in his gaze slices through the past, yanking me back to the present as the hum of chatter grows around us.
He’s still so incredibly gorgeous. Maybe even more now with the war-ready posture and subtle layers of animosity. You’d think after two years I’d be immune to his unwarranted hostility.
Apparently old fantasies die hard.
“Drink, sir?” A waiter stops beside us, making me blink out of my addled thoughts.
Raffael keeps his hard gaze on me as he says, “No. I’m already too busy drinking in someone’s tenacity.”
I roll my eyes, pausing until the waiter leaves before I seethe, “You’re not welcome here.”
“The gold-embossed, hand-delivered invitation I received says otherwise.”
“I’m serious, Raffael. You need to leave. Move on. There are other consultancies more aligned with your values. Those that will overlook the risks I’m not willing to ignore. Go spend your money with them.”
“I don’t plan on spending my money with anyone but CrossPoint.” His tone holds a lethal edge.
“Well, then you’d better get used to disappoint—”
“I’ll discuss it with your father.” He talks over me. “I’m sure he’ll see sense.”
What a dick move. Not only because one, it’s my father’s birthday, but two, he refuses to accept my authority, interim or not. I bet if I were a man he wouldn’t push back so hard.
“Don’t tempt me to call security.” I hold my chin high. “You don’t want to make a scene.”
One side of his lips shifts upward in the most conniving, beautifully etched smirk. “You won’t call anyone. Because then Daddy will find out what you’ve been doing. And I’m almost certain you haven’t told him yet.”
I fight not to stiffen.
Because he’s right. I haven’t told my father.
That unfortunate task is scheduled for our catch-up meeting first thing Monday morning.
“See?” he taunts. “The ball’s not entirely in your court.”
“I’m not required to give him a blow-by-blow of my daily decisions. But I’ve contracted three new firms this week. All clean. All impressive. The loss of the Cavallo Group, while disappointing, will have no effect on our bottom line.”
“Is that so?” His gaze drifts past me, his eyes gleaming in subtle triumph.
I turn, following his attention, finding his brother face-to-face with my father.
Shit.
Raffael lured me in to distract me so Michelo could snitch.
Normally I wouldn’t take the bait. Normally I would hold my ground, allow the chips to fall and handle the aftermath. But when I told my father months ago that I thought we should sever ties with the Cavallo Group, he didn’t agree like I’d expected.
He didn’t necessarily object, either.
It was the first time I’d ever heard him say, “I’ll think about it,” instead of giving a definitive answer.
Raffael leans in, his graveled voice in my ear. “You wanted control, Ms. Cross. Now you get to see what happens when someone takes it back.”
He straightens, leaving me rattled, and with that slow, privileged turn of his head, he strides toward my father with the confidence of a man who’s already seized victory.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I hurry after him, refusing to let him claim the upper hand.
I move fast, weaving through the crowd, my heels tapping a frantic beat against the polished floor. I catch up just as he reaches my father and slip in beside them, determined to regain control.
“Dad—” I start, voice taut, but my father’s eyes are already lit with the glow of opportunity.
“Raffael, my boy.” He pulls my nemesis in for a hearty handshake. “Michelo just finished telling me about all the new projects you’re rolling out together. This is exactly the kind of energy CrossPoint needs right now.”
My breath snags in my throat.
I should be relieved Michelo didn’t say anything. Instead, fury builds in my gut at how he hyped my father for a future we won’t be a part of.
I glare at Raffael.
He meets my gaze with the satanic confidence that once melted me. Now it’s a match flicked toward a heart soaked in gasoline.
I try again, forcing my voice to stay level. “Dad—”
“The Cavallo Group has always had an incredible eye for opportunity,” my father talks over me, his tone full of pride.
“In some ways, it’s a shame Isla is no longer in the trenches providing your analysis.
I’m sure she’d enjoy being a part of what’s to come.
” He chuckles. “Then again, maybe I should put a pin in my retirement plan.”
Hell. No.
I choke down my impatience. “Dad—”
“It just so happens,” Raffael interrupts, “she came by the office a few days ago to deliver CrossPoint’s findings on Halverson & Grey all on her own.”
“She did?” My father’s gaze darts to me.
Heat creeps up my neck. “There were other matters to discuss. And in this instance, delivering the information solo was more efficient than pulling the team from their work.”
Dad’s expression softens into a patronizing smile that makes my skin crawl. “Don’t worry. You’ll learn to delegate soon enough.”
I open my mouth, about to snap a sharp retort, when a bellowed, “Happy birthday” cuts through the conversation.
My father’s tired grin widens as he turns to greet the newcomer, leaving me alone and cornered by the Cavallo brothers.
Michelo’s friendly facade vanishes, replaced by a scowl. “I’ll meet you at the car,” he mutters to Raffael, then disappears into the crowd.
A charged silence lingers in his wake.
Raffael’s stare locks on me like a vise. He lets the moment stretch, every second a deliberate power play. He’s always been a master at finding cracks in armor. I can almost feel him searching for the perfect place to sink his knife.
“Well, sweetheart, it’s been a pleasure.” His attention lingers on my dress, the cruelty weaving a phantom touch over my hips, all the way to my toes. “Although, you should consider wearing a different color. That shade of green isn’t flattering.”
Mother-fucking asshole.
“What’s wrong?” He inches closer, his voice a lethal purr.
“You look tense. May I suggest you take a beat to get over whatever’s got your jaw locked so tight?
Breathe. Meditate.” He tilts his head, feigning contemplation as his gaze narrows.
“Someone recently suggested sound therapy might be worth a try.”
My pulse pounds, my fury bubbling to the surface.
“Because if you push me again—” His eyes darken. “—subtle or otherwise—just remember, I won’t hesitate to attack.”
My nostrils flare, the volatility in my veins so rich and cloying I can’t chance opening my mouth and letting the venom spill out.
“By Monday morning, I expect your team not only to be answering the Cavallo Group’s calls, but to be scrambling to make amends. And you’ll have revised your stance on Halverson & Grey, with a plan on how to make your concerns irrelevant.”
I see red.
I feel it. Breathe it.
“Don’t disappoint me, Ms. Cross.” He steps back, his faint smirk tattooing itself into my frontal lobe. “Otherwise I’ll ensure that CEO position you’ve coveted all your life slips through your fumbling fingers.”