Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
ISLA
My mouth drops open. No words come out.
“I’ll leave you two to discuss your predicament in private.” Raffael stands and walks to the door with maddening composure. The sharp click of the latch as it closes behind him acts like a gun being cocked.
The moment he’s gone, I cut across the room and drop to my knees in front of my father, the hardwood floor biting into my skin.
His eyes are glassy, his lips pressed thin.
“Dad?” My voice cracks under the weight of dread. “Tell me what’s going on.”
He doesn’t reply, just breathes, slow and unsteady.
“Dad, please.” I study him, searching for answers in a face that seems to have aged dramatically since this morning.
His fingers twitch against the armrest. “It’s like he said—our families have had an agreement in place for a long time.”
“What sort of agreement?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “We look after each other.”
“How does a private equity firm look after a consultancy when they’re already being charged legacy rates?”
His face crumples, despair bleeding through every line.
Fine. I’ll try an easier angle. “How do we look after them?”
He focuses on the desk behind me. “We prioritize their projects.”
I digest the information slowly. Thoroughly.
Okay, so preferential treatment without full disclosure to our client base undermines trust and creates a conflict, but it’s not insurmountable. I can fix this.
I lean in, trying to regain eye contact he won’t allow. “Is that all?”
His despair deepens. Contorts.
Shit. “What else, Dad?”
He draws in a shaky breath. “There have been times when projects came in from other clients. Good ones. With high return potential.”
All the warmth drains from my face. “And?”
“And I’ve advised the client it was too risky. That they should pass on the acquisition.”
Oh, fuck.
He doesn’t need to spell it out for me to know he fed the information on those high-return projects to the Cavallo Group.
I shoot to my feet, pulse rampant, mind racing. I snatch the glass of Dalmore from the desk and down it in three blistering gulps, hoping the fire might cauterize the panic.
How could he have done this?
It isn’t just shady. It’s a professional sinkhole. Insider manipulation. Advisory malpractice. Ethics torched to ash.
I slam the glass back down on the desk. “Why?”
What could’ve possessed him to gamble his father’s legacy on something so stupid?
He shakes his head, denying me a response.
“No.” I storm toward him. “You don’t get to shut down. Tell me why.”
His gaze lifts. Haunted. Hollow. “I’ve never been good with money, Isla. I’ve tried, but…” His lower lip trembles. “I have no self-control. I buy things I can’t afford. I create debt that I can’t get out of.”
Debt?
A chill ripples down my spine. “We owe Raffael money?”
“No,” he says quickly. “That’s been taken care of.”
Taken care of. Right. He means brushed under the rug in exchange for corruption.
“That’s why you work so hard.” I stare at him, trying to reconcile this man with the one I’ve admired my entire life.
The one who made indulgence look effortless.
Who acted like extravagant purchases were a God-given right.
“That’s why every project has to come through you before anyone else sees it. ”
It was never about dedication or excellence. His actions were based on sabotage. Covering his tracks.
He’s not a leader. He’s a fraud.
“I’m doing better,” he pleads. “I promise. I’ve kept my spending under control. But I should’ve warned you. I just… I really thought it was in the past until…”
Until I caused waves that uncovered his transgressions.
Fucking hell.
A gentle knock breaks the tension a second before Elena steps inside with a tray of appetizers.
“Sorry to interrupt.” She places the food on Raffael’s desk. “Dinner will be served within the hour. Are there any dietary requirements I should pass on to the chef?”
I turn away, not wanting to level my glower on someone undeserving. “No, thanks. We’re good.”
I don’t plan on eating. I can’t stomach the thought.
“How about another drink?” she asks. “A cocktail, maybe?”
“No.” Resentment creeps into my tone.
For heaven’s sake, Elena, read the goddamn room.
“Okay.” Her footsteps retreat toward the hall. “I’ll be nearby if you need anything.”
My father and I are left alone, this time with the door open, our secrets free to escape into the outside world.
Dad remains quiet as I pace, massaging my temples to keep a headache at bay.
I don’t understand how we got here. How I missed the signs.
God, what were the signs?
The questions multiply. The dread snowballs.
And then I feel it—the additional presence in the room that raises the hair on the back of my neck.
I glance over my shoulder.
Raffael stands in the doorway, a shoulder cocked against the frame, his expression neutral. Unreadable. “Are we all up to speed?”
He should be smug, but I guess he doesn’t have to be when his foot is pressed to my throat.
My father bows his head while I fight not to shatter beneath the pressure of my limited knowledge. Not to announce that all I have are broad strokes. Lethal slashes. There are no specifics. Nothing to makes sense of this.
Yet I’m too ashamed to speak. I divert my gaze instead.
“The silence sounds promising.” Raffael’s attention needles my periphery. “Do you think you could spare me a minute alone with your daughter, Philip?”
My father’s eyes cut to mine, concern and fear building in his features.
“I’ll be fine,” I mutter, despite every inch of me fraying.
I can handle Raffael. He doesn’t scare me.
What’s more troubling is the nausea that increases whenever I think of how self-righteous and moralistic I’ve been while unknowingly balanced on a temperamental deck of duplicity.
Dad stands, slow and fragile.
Everything in me strains to reach for him. To console him. But I don’t. I can’t. Not when he’s betrayed my past and endangered my future.
His hand grazes my shoulder. A phantom apology.
I cringe, the contact wrapping a two-fisted grip around my resolve. I retreat toward the window, needing the distance, the isolation, the view of dark water glinting under city lights.
He walks away, his feeble posture reflected in the tinted glass as he murmurs something to Raffael I don’t catch. Then he’s gone.
I stand there, suspended in the void he left behind.
My hands shake. My chest won’t expand properly. I want to scream, to throw something, to rewind time.
But mostly, I want to crawl out of my skin and discard the shame.
I’ve spent my whole damn life trying to earn a seat at the table only to learn that the table is warped and rotten.
I don’t know who I’m more furious with—my father… or me.
Raffael crosses the room and perches a hip against the front of his desk. “You should’ve listened to me.”
“I should’ve done a lot of things.” I cross my arms over my chest, clinging tight against the whirlpool of chaos. “And if anyone had been kind enough to clue me in to the reality of the situation earlier, I would’ve.”
“What would you have done?”
Distanced myself. Not planned a future that revolved around lies.
Not that Raffael cares. He only wants more ammunition.
I meet my gaze in the reflection of the tinted window, the desperation in my expression aging me by a decade. “How do you suggest I fix this?”
“I don’t have suggestions, Isla. Only stipulations.”
Asshole.
“So I’m Isla now? Not Ms. Cross.” I swing around to face him. “I guess there’s no longer a need to hide behind professionalism since it’s now come to light that you have none.”
His jaw clenches. “I didn’t start this.”
“No? Well, you sure fucking capitalized on it.”
His eyes narrow, his chin hiking.
I glare at him.
He glares back. “Here’s what’s going to happen.
You will remain on Requiem until you’ve gone on record—live—shutting down every rumor about a rift between CrossPoint and the Cavallo Group.
You’ll state clearly, and convincingly, that our partnership is intact.
That it’s flourishing. And then you’ll upload the video to your website and every one of your social channels. ”
Indignation engulfs me, its hold savage. “Like hell I will.”
“Oh, you will. And the sooner you get over your wounded pride, the better.”
“You think pride is my issue? Let me clarify—the thing that’s got me in a mind melt is how stupid you must think I am.
It’s not like I’ll be the only one affected if the truth comes out.
The Cavallo Group will go down, too. Nobody will want to work with a company who buys preferential treatment, and God knows what else. ”
“You have far more to lose, piccolina.”
Piccolina? He can shove whatever the hell that means up his ass.
My fury escapes in a huff of hot air. I’m surprised I don’t breathe fire.
I don’t believe this. Don’t understand how a man who once called me a friend—a man I fantasized about, a man I’ve previously kissed—could do this to me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he snarls. “This isn’t my doing.”
Bullshit.
Bull. Fucking. Shit.
“You can’t possibly expect us to work together after this,” I snap. “Just tell me how much you paid for this so-called agreement and I’ll compensate you accordingly.”
Unlike my father, I’m actually good with money.
I have a trust that could buy us out of this.
Raffael straightens, stills, his eyes narrowing to hard slits. “Exactly what did Philip tell you?”
“That CrossPoint’s reputation is worthless because we’ve been giving you preferential treatment. That he sabotaged clients’ projects, profitable ones, so they could be given to you.”
“That’s it?” A furrow digs its way into his brow. “That’s all he said?”
There’s more?
“Jesus fucking Christ.” His nostrils flare as he shoves a wild hand through his hair, the uncharacteristic fracturing of his composure spiking my adrenaline.
I swallow, my throat suddenly desert dry. “What else is there?”
He kicks his chair out behind him, banging the wheeled projectile into the wall. “Stay here.” He strides for the hall. “Don’t you dare fucking move.” Then he storms from the room, slamming the door behind him.