Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
ISLA
The Bentley eases to a smooth stop, delivering me to what feels like my execution site.
I snap my compact mirror shut, cap my mascara with a sharp twist, and toss them both into the purse I abandon on the back seat.
When control slips through my fingers, I fall back on lashes and lipstick. A pathetic kind of armor—but tonight, I doubt even war paint could save me.
I glance out the window, expecting an exclusive restaurant or one of my father’s usual haunts.
Instead, I’m met with the glittering lights of North Cove Marina, where the city skyline reflects off the dark, glossy water and dances across the hulls of luxury boats docked in meticulous rows.
Fletcher clears his throat from the driver’s seat. “Apologies for the delay. Your father expected you earlier than this, but the congestion around Battery Park was heavier than anticipated.”
That explains the tightness in his tone… just not the destination.
“Don’t worry. Tardiness is the least of my concerns.” I unclip my belt as a woman in a crisp navy uniform approaches from the sidewalk. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”
Fletcher meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “I’ll be on standby, regardless of the hour.”
The woman opens my door, offering a practiced smile. “Ms. Cross, your father is waiting for you.”
I hold tight to my phone and step out, the salty breeze kissing my skin as I attempt to make sense of the location.
My father’s not exactly a stranger to extravagant purchases—especially during moments of emotional unrest.
When a major client lost an acquisition he’d spent months preparing for—burning through spreadsheets and obsessing over forecasts—my father imported a six-figure Persian rug from Istanbul to “remind him what ambition should feel like underfoot.” When I got accepted into Yale he purchased a grand piano no one in the family could play and installed it in the atrium “for the acoustics of success.”
And after my mother died, he bought a minimalist loft in SoHo. All glass, steel, and silence. A place he could go to be with his thoughts.
He lasted two weeks before stating his grief clashed with the decor.
So, sure, a lavish maritime purchase isn’t all that unexpected post life-threatening heart attack. Although I do wonder if my accompanying business decisions may have pushed my father too far.
The woman—Elena, according to the pin on her lapel—leads me along the pier, the water lapping gently as the yachts grow increasingly obscene in size and design the farther we walk.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“The Requiem, ma’am.”
I smother an eye roll. The name tells me absolutely nothing as we approach the end of the dock. “And what is that, exactly?”
She continues a few steps ahead, then stops and gestures to a narrow gangway connecting the pier to the largest vessel in the marina.
Multi-level decks tower above me, their edges traced with ambient lighting.
Chrome railings gleam. Dark-tinted windows stretch long across each level, concealing everything within.
Then there’s the hull, black and sleek with Requiem etched in gold script along the side.
I have to concentrate to keep from gaping. “My father bought this boat?”
“It’s a super yacht, ma’am. But, no, Requiem isn’t for sale.
” Elena takes another step toward the floating palace and indicates the wicker basket beside the gangway.
“If you wouldn’t mind removing your heels before boarding.
” She toes off her black ballet flats and places them inside the basket next to my father’s leather loafers.
The engine growls beneath us, a deep, low grumble that vibrates faintly into the pier beneath my feet, while deckhands stand stationed like statues on every level, each of them watching me expectantly as if I’m holding the starter gun to an important race.
“Right…” I frown, not at Elena’s request, but at the surreal detour this night has taken, and toe off my Louboutins before placing them in the basket.
“This way.” She crosses the gangway without a backward glance.
I follow, the night breeze tugging at my blouse and threading cool fingers through my loose hair.
Elena leads me across the main deck, the teak smooth beneath my bare feet, the scent of varnish and sea salt heavy in the air.
We pass a perfectly staged outdoor sitting area with white sectional sofas, matching throws folded with military precision, and a glass fire strip embedded in a smooth stone table, the small dancing flames ornamental rather than functional.
It’s all exceptionally beautiful. Expensive. Utterly indulgent.
Then we reach the automatic glass doors. They glide open without a sound, revealing the interior. Pale oak floors. Cream leather seating. A marble counter that stretches the length of the room, lined with stools and backed by glass shelves glittering with top-shelf liquor.
Everything is white and cream. Furniture. Decorations. Artwork. The only contrast comes from Elena’s navy uniform, mirrored on another woman stationed behind the bar, her dark hair twisted into a perfect coil. Prim smile. Polite demeanor.
“Would you like a drink before I deliver you to the study?” Elena offers.
I hesitate.
Something isn’t right.
My dad would’ve told me we were going on a boat trip. Right?
He would’ve been here to greet me… even when livid with parental disapproval.
I need to stay sharp, present, alert.
Then again, a drink might soften the edge of this unsettling paranoia.
“A glass of white wine would be nice, thanks.”
The bartender nods. “Would the 2020 Puligny-Montrachet be suitable?”
I open my mouth to respond when a subtle shift rolls through the soles of my feet. A gentle pull. Just enough to make my balance recalibrate.
I glance toward the closest window, my heart thudding an extra beat as the marina lights begin to shift.
We’re leaving the dock. Without warning or consultation.
What the hell is my father up to?
Then it clicks. This is one of his soft parenting plays. I walked out on him this morning, so now he’s cutting off my means of escape. Stripping away my ability to leave before our upcoming confrontation is complete.
Annoyance flares, chased by a reluctant flicker of admiration. It’s manipulative. Calculated. Smart. “The Puligny will be fine.”
The bartender pours with practiced ease and hands me the glass. I curl my fingers around the chilled stem, the cold grounding me.
“Do you need anything else before we continue?” Elena asks, reclaiming my attention.
I take a sip of the expensive liquid, the smoothness coating my tongue. “No. I’m ready to see my father.”
Elena turns without another word, guiding me through a wide hall.
We pass a formal dining space—ten stunning white chairs surrounding a polished wooden table, the gloss gleaming under a sculpted chandelier—and then a sweeping spiral staircase I’m certain leads to an obscenely decadent stateroom.
“They’re waiting for you in the study,” Elena says.
I stop short.
They?
I tighten my grip on my phone. The other dampens around the wineglass.
Elena keeps walking, oblivious to the landmine she’s laid.
Up ahead the faint murmur of male voices carries over the subtle churn of the engine. What lies ahead isn’t a father-daughter feud. It’s something that involves an audience.
I glance back from where I came, considering my options, reconfiguring what might be happening.
“Ms. Cross?” Elena prompts, turning and finding me frozen.
Shit.
I abandon the wineglass on a nearby console and steel myself against what’s to come.
Whatever it is, I can handle it. I know CrossPoint like I know my own pulse—every pressure point, every weakness and strength.
I’ve spent my life watching my father build on from his father’s empire, studying his moves like gospel.
If he taught me anything, it’s how to stand my ground when the stakes are highest.
I close the space between me and Elena, who stands before an open doorway, then step past her, forcing my stride to stay even as I cross the threshold.
The study is all polished wood and understated opulence. White bookshelves are lined with hardcovers. A decanter tray gleams in the corner atop a bar cart. A plush cream patterned rug anchors the center of the room.
My father sits facing away from me in an expensive, upholstered chair, his shoulders rigid.
And across from him—behind a glossy oak desk, in a high-backed leather chair with brass trim that looks sickeningly like a throne—is Raffael Cavallo.
The sight of him punches through me.
What the hell is this?
Neither of them stand to greet me. I’m welcomed with silence coiled in tension as Raffael’s gaze meets mine.
I refuse to wither under the weight of it.
Whatever this is, I’m not going to flounder.
“Gentlemen.” I keep my voice calm and crisp, chin high, expression hopefully unimpressed and maybe a little condescending.
“Ms. Cross.” Raffael’s attention rakes over me, lazy in its assessment. “You look… decisive today.”
I ignore the veiled provocation and focus on my father, who hasn’t bothered to face me.
“Congratulations on your first press briefing,” Raffael continues. “It was quite the performance.”
I grit my teeth, take a breath, and meet his stare. “Thank you. Integrity doesn’t always attract a crowd. But it does filter it. I was happy to lose some dead weight to make space for more ethical clients.”
A flicker of tension twitches along his jaw. I count it as a win.
And still, my father won’t look at me.
From where I stand, he seems entranced, staring at the corner of the desk, his hands gripping the armrests like he’s hoping the upholstery will split open and swallow him whole.
“I guess it’s safe to assume this nautical flex is yours.” I make a theatrical show of taking in the yacht’s opulence. “Can I ask why I’m on it?”
Raffael’s brows raise. “Straight to the point. I respect that.”
No, he doesn’t.
He has no respect for me. He never did. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have kissed me, then thrown me out of his boardroom like garbage.
“I thought you might appreciate the luxury.” He stands and walks for the drink cart.
“I’m more concerned about the lack of escape route,” I counter.
“That’s understandable.” He grabs a bottle of Dalmore. The reminiscence hurts. “Especially given your attempts to wreak havoc.” His tone is deceptively casual as he approaches with two thick crystal tumblers and offers me a glass.
I ignore the barb and focus on the drink. “No, thanks.”
He keeps the tumbler poised midair, his commanding proximity saturating the space between us. “Trust me. You’re going to need it.”
A shiver prickles along my arms, birthing goose bumps.
I glance at my father. Still silent. Still motionless.
I steel myself and lift my chin. “Why am I here, Mr. Cavallo?”
Raffael strolls back to the desk, placing the drink he offered on the polished wood in front of the empty chair next to my father’s. “Take a seat.”
“I’m perfectly fine where I am. At least until you turn this boat around and deliver me back to the marina.” I want to cross my arms over my chest. To glare. But I know better than to fall into a performative stance that will only expose just how far he’s slipped under my skin.
He sinks into his throne, the picture of ruthless control, and takes a long sip of scotch. “I’m afraid you won’t be leaving anytime soon.”
I don’t flinch.
Don’t bite.
Don’t let the intimidation land despite how hard it tries to.
“As you might recall, I attempted to convey the inconvenience of your—” He pauses, feigning contemplation. “—policy shift last week. And apparently, your father reiterated that message this morning. Isn’t that right, Philip?”
I focus on my father. On the slight curl of his shoulders. How the corner of his eye creases as if in a wince.
“Regrettably…” Raffael swirls his drink. “Both attempts have failed to convey the seriousness of the situation you’ve put us in. So we thought a joint intervention would be more effective.”
An intervention? From a disgruntled, blacklisted client?
“Turn the boat around.” I don’t know how I keep the fury from my voice, but I do.
He takes another lazy sip. “Please understand that will not be happening.”
I exhale sharply, my pulse hammering as I scoff. “You’re taking hostages now?”
He shrugs, infuriatingly calm. “Seems so.”
My blood runs cold.
My father exhales a weary sigh.
“Dad?” The word cracks in my throat.
Still there’s nothing.
I step forward, needing a better view of his profile. “Dad.”
He hangs his head, his voice ragged. “I asked you to retract the statement, Isla.”
My heart clenches, his detachment, or maybe it’s shame, stripping my anger and forcing fear to take its place.
“I did warn you.” Raffael places his tumbler on the desk, the delicate thunk of glass on wood bearing the weight of an avalanche. “There’s been a longstanding agreement between CrossPoint and the Cavallo Group that you shouldn’t have messed with.”
“I don’t care what was negotiated in the past,” I snap. “No agreement is immune to ethics. If you’re not acting in our best interests, you don’t get to be our client.”
He holds my gaze. Patient. Perfect. “Unfortunately, this is exactly the kind of agreement that’s immune to ethics.”
I shake my head, refuting him, refuting all of it.
“Is this blackmail?” The question comes out breathy and brittle.
“No. This is business.” The calm in Raffael’s tone is sharpened by an edge of condescension. “Things work differently in the big leagues.”
My mind wars with the ridiculousness of the situation.
CrossPoint’s reputation is flawless. Squeaky clean. We’ve built a name on trust, transparency, and moral integrity. Whatever this is, I won’t be a part of it.
“Turn the boat around,” I demand. “Or I’ll call the cops.”
His eyes remain locked on mine, his chin arrogantly high, one brow raising as if to call my bluff.
I don’t make empty threats, asshole.
I raise my phone, unlock the screen, then stop breathing.
No bars. No cell service.
City skyscrapers flank the water on either side of us, so close I could wave to the tourists onshore. Yet there’s nothing. No means to contact the outside world.
Holy shit. Has he blocked the signal?
“You were saying?” he drawls.