Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
ISLA
Shock doesn’t render me speechless. Rage does.
I drop the folder and launch to my feet.
Raffael doesn’t move. Just stands there, infuriatingly poised, as if the vile words he spoke mean nothing.
“You own me?” I stalk toward him and plant both palms into his chest with a shove. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
He absorbs the strike with a subtle shift of his weight, his arms remaining still at his sides.
I shove him again. And again.
Not only fighting him—fighting everything.
The disgust. The betrayal. The overwhelming hatred of having clawed my way to the top of a man’s world, only to be told I’m now owned by one of the bastards.
“This isn’t 1865. I’m not some fucking slave to be traded behind closed doors and passed off as compensation.
” I shove him again. “How could you do this?”
He snatches my wrists and yanks me against him. “I didn’t do this. It was your father.” He walks into me, forcing me backward until my ass hits the desk. “But if you want me to be the villain, then I’ll be the fucking villain.”
“Are you going to claim you’ve gained no benefit when the preferential treatment you received must have been next level to allow for those type of debts?”
He gets in my face, those dark eyes violent. He’s furious. Enraged.
Same, bro. Same.
“This agreement has been nothing but a thorn in my side,” he snarls.
“Must be hard, drowning the inconvenience in vintage scotch on a yacht financed by betrayal.”
His nostrils flare, his chest rising and falling with rough restrained breaths.
We stare at each other, hatred thick between us. Then, jaw tight, he releases my wrists and turns his back.
“This isn’t legal,” I grate. “It can’t be enforceable.”
“Maybe not in a court of law.” His tone is cold. “Contracts like this are upheld in ways far more permanent than legal proceedings.”
I pause, the words turning over in my head. Slowly. Heavily.
Does he plan to force compliance? To hurt me? Hurt my father?
My thoughts stutter, chasing each other in mindless circles. I try to latch onto something rational. Some plan or angle. But grounding slips out of reach.
He glances at me over his shoulder, self-assured. “I think you understand exactly what I’m trying to say.”
Oh my God.
I do.
I no longer understand him as a person. I have no clue who this man is. But the violence he’s insinuating sinks deep, the sickening clarity making my stomach turn.
Everything I’ve built—my reputation, my independence, my goddamn identity—is hollow now. Fragile. Fake. All because of greed, exploitation, and a drop of blood.
I blink hard, trying to find a foothold in logic, in anger, in anything I can control. But it’s all slipping. Dragging me under. Drowning me.
My chest tightens. My breaths shorten.
I will my mind to focus, to strategize. Yet, it’s too busy calculating worst-case scenarios.
My legs give out.
I barely register the fall until I feel the thick fibers of the rug beneath me, the desk hard at my back.
There has to be a way out of this. I’ll find a way.
I snatch the folder off the floor and hug it to my chest. “What’s to stop me from destroying the documents?”
Raffael doesn’t even flinch. “The paper doesn’t hold the debt. Something forged in blood can’t be destroyed. Paperwork or not, the agreement stands. Until death.”
I raise my chin, calculating whether I have the guts to commit murder for my freedom.
His eyes narrow, as if hearing my thoughts. “Your death, Isla. Not mine. As flattering as it is to imagine you ditching that high moral ground in an attempt to kill me, you’d also have to get rid of everyone else involved.”
More people know about this?
Maybe it’s common knowledge.
Maybe I’ve been the industry’s inside joke all along.
“Who’s everyone else?” My voice trembles.
“Although I’m confident you’re not about to attempt mass murder, one can never be too sure. So I think it’s best to keep that information to myself for now.”
Asshole. “I want to speak to my father. Bring him back in here.”
“Your father left.” Raffael levels the blow with efficiency. “He was supposed to deliver the news before departing, but evidently, he took the easy way out.”
No. He wouldn’t leave me.
No, no, no.
I clench the folder tighter, my knuckles aching.
“I’ll give you some time to prepare your statement. Have Elena come get me when it’s done.” He heads for the hall.
Panic and fury surge. “I haven’t changed my mind. I won’t do it.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and continues to the door. “That’s an unfortunate decision given the consequences.”
“You mean being your possession.” I force a laugh. “Because I’m assuming you have no plans to make me your wife, considering how much you clearly despise me.”
He opens the door and pauses inside the frame. “Don’t be so sure.” His gaze travels over me—my hands clutching the folder, my hips, my bent legs. Then his eyes meet mine. “You look awfully good on your knees.”
Then he’s gone, his stride unhurried, his padded footsteps vanishing down the hall.
A scream claws its way up my throat and breaks free. I drop the file and grab the closest object from his desk—a heavy paperweight—and hurl it at the wall. It hits with a violent thunk, denting the paneling.
I don’t fucking care.
I spiral, throwing everything I can get my hands on. Pens. Papers. A stapler. The tray of appetizers—the food hitting the wall and sending arancini, caviar, and goat cheese flying.
Then I slump onto my haunches, the carnage of my life matching the carnage I’ve unleashed upon the room as my chest heaves and the back of my eyes burns.
This is insane.
I shake my head, refuting all of it, and focus on my breathing, forcing it to slow in rhythm.
Deep inhale. Long exhale.
My limbs grow heavy, the adrenaline withdrawal coming hard and fast. The fight bleeds out of me, replaced by splintering determination.
I lower my gaze to the damning folder on the floor beside me, the unassuming weapon destroying everything. My career. My name. My sense of self.
Sniffing once, I straighten and force my emotions to the back of my mind where they belong. What I need is understanding. Strategy.
I reclaim the folder and open it to the first page. There’s no letterhead. No legal insignia. Only a brief statement of terms—
In exchange for a non-refundable sum of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, CrossPoint Consulting agrees to provide prioritized access to financial advisory services and expedited portfolio handling to the Cavallo Group for a term of twelve months.
Two signatures solidify the atrocity: my father’s elegant script and the other scrawled and unintelligible.
Then there’s the date I hadn’t paid attention to at first inspection. A date nineteen years in the past.
Raffael didn’t initiate this. He was too young.
This had to have been orchestrated by his father, Giancarlo, the man who smiled at me like I was a beloved niece. Who held my gaze at fundraising galas with nothing but pride and warmth. Who praised my potential in front of my father while quietly laying the groundwork to exploit it behind my back.
I swallow the nausea and flip to the next page.
The same signatures mark the paper. The terms are replicated, only the expiration date has been extended and the financial compensation increased.
Year after year, contract after contract, the numbers stack. Then the language changes and it’s not merely preferential access. It’s insider insight. Strategic loyalty.
And funnily enough, those claws dig deeper right when Raffael and I were becoming power players in the industry, the taint of his ego etched through the fine print. The terms were extended. The payouts increased. The clauses became more aggressive.
It’s systemic. Generational. A calculated exploitation of my father’s weaknesses.
Right up until the blood debt dated three and a half years ago.
Movement catches in my periphery.
Elena steps into the study, her smile composed, but panic flares in her eyes as she takes in the warzone of food and stationery strewn across the floor.
I snap the folder shut, guilt lodging in my chest.
It’s not like Raffael was going to handle the mess. He probably won’t even see it.
“Dinner is ready.” Her voice is gently strained while her gaze drifts over the splotches of caviar and goat cheese embedded in the rug.
That guilt intensifies. “I’m sorry, but I’m not hungry.”
A line forms between her brows, her concern for the destruction seemingly overshadowed by my lack of appetite. “Are you sure? The chef prepared rack of lamb with red wine reduction, parsnip purée, and charred broccolini.”
Strangely enough, it’s my favorite. And yet the thought of food still turns my stomach.
I nod. “If you don’t mind grabbing me a trash bag and some cleaning supplies, I’ll take care of this.”
She looks at me in horror. “Definitely not, ma’am. I’ll have my stewardesses handle it.”
“No, it’s my fault. I’ll—”
“Please,” she cuts in gently. “It would be an insult to my staff to let a guest clean.” She crosses the room and grabs the silver tray from the floor.
“We see things like this all the time. Passionate people sometimes have to release their emotions through—” She hesitates, glancing down at the deconstructed bruschetta bites scattered across the floorboards. “—destruction.”
I wince. “I’m not typically a destruction kind of person.”
Her lips twitch. “Around a man like Mr. Cavallo, I assume it wouldn’t be difficult to succumb.”
His name is enough to siphon my guilt and replace it with annoyance.
I glance away, the city lights fading into the distance out the window.
“Please, Ms. Cross.” She approaches, gesturing to the hall. “Let me have this cleaned up while you wait in the dining room.”
I guess there’s no point staying in here. Sulking in solitude won’t get me off this damn boat. I still need more information. Answers. And there’s only one person who can give them to me.
Holding the folder to my chest, I climb to my feet, my blood pressure already rising with the thought of the confrontation that’s to come. “Lead the way.”
Elena smiles, nods, and sets off down the hall, back past oil paintings, intricate sconces, and soft light, each opulent detail another reminder of the empire built on corruption.
I’m seated at the expansive dining table, stiff-backed and borderline petulant. There are two place settings, but only one plated meal is delivered.
The other setting, presumably Raffael’s, is quickly removed.
“I’m eating alone?” I ask, the delicious scent of lamb making me queasy.
“Yes. Mr. Cavallo requested to dine in his cabin this evening.”
“Why?” There’s a bite in my voice and a violent calling tingling in my limbs. Apparently I crave destruction more than I’d thought. “Is the puppet master suddenly afraid to face the marionette?”
“Excuse me?” Elena pauses. Frowns.
I shake my head, placing the file on the table. “Forget it.”
“Okay…” She moves toward the hall. “Is there anything else I can get you before I leave?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Wine. Please bring lots of wine.”