Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
ISLA
I don’t take long getting ready. There’s too much I need to know.
I speed through a shower. Brush my teeth. Dress in the tailored skirt suit Quinn packed. Paint on a quick layer of makeup. Then whip my hair into a loose chignon I secure with three bobby pins I scavenge from the bottom of my tote bag while I hustle from Raffael’s cabin.
The yacht is quiet as I make my way down the spiral staircase and into the dining room, only to find it completely empty. Not a plate. Not a soul.
In the salon, I catch one of the male crew members from last night stepping in through the glass sliding doors.
“Excuse me…” I throw a pointed glance over my shoulder toward the empty dining area. “Do you know where breakfast is being served?”
He inclines his head with a polite nod. “Yes, ma’am. Upper aft deck.”
I stand there, waiting for more clarification.
He smiles, clearly clocking my ignorance. “Upstairs. Back of the boat.”
“Right. Thank you.”
He gestures behind me. “The quickest way is the spiral staircase and through the lounge.”
I nod tightly. “Thanks again.”
A knot forms in my stomach as I walk away.
I grew up with money—West Village brownstone, private school, a summer house in Maine.
But not multi-deck-yacht kind of wealth.
Raffael has always lived in a different stratosphere, yet with the bright spring sun gleaming off every polished surface of this mansion-on-water, the distance between our worlds has never felt more blinding.
I step past the lounge doors and out into the open air.
The breeze catches my hair, cool and clean, and I pause to take in my surroundings.
No land. No shoreline. Just endless water and the faint outline of skyscrapers, distant through the morning haze.
The yacht coasts forward, slicing through open sea.
I’m miles out. Cut off. Removed from everything but him.
He’s already seated at a thick teak table, coffee in hand, sheets of paper in the other, relaxed like it’s any other Tuesday.
He doesn’t acknowledge my arrival. Not even with a glance.
“Coffee, Ms. Cross?” Elena glides around the table and pulls out the chair opposite Raffael.
“Thank you.” I nod numbly and sit.
“Pancakes are the featured breakfast this morning.” She pours me a glass of sparkling water. “But the chef is happy to accommodate any request.”
“I’m not overly hungry.” Though the pancakes give me pause. I’m not usually one to pass up the ultimate breakfast meal.
“You need to eat,” Raffael mutters, gaze still locked on his papers.
I offer a tight smile, blinking slowly. Performative peace draped over reawakening hostility.
“Why don’t I ask the chef to prepare you a plate anyway?” Elena offers, cutting through the tension. “Maybe you’ll be hungry once it arrives.”
“Yes, do that.” Raffael flips to the next page of his document.
I force a measured breath while Elena glances between us with obvious discomfort.
There’s no point fighting him over a meal I’d salivate for given different circumstances. So instead, I sigh. “That would be appreciated. Thank you.”
Her shoulders relax. “Perfect. I’ll be back with your coffee in just a moment.” She disappears inside, leaving me alone with the dietary police.
“It’s nice to see you do still remember how to be polite.” He shuffles his papers into a neat pile and places them on the table. “I was starting to think snarky hostility was your new default.”
Don’t bite. Remain calm.
I take a drink of water to steady my voice. “Who was on the phone earlier?”
He raises a brow in that quiet, superior way that makes it clear I’ve overstepped whatever invisible line he thinks I should still be toeing.
“What were you talking about?” I add, undeterred.
He sips his coffee, eying me over the rim of his mug. “What part of my facial expression suggests I’m eager to host a Q&A about a conversation that was none of your business?”
“So you weren’t talking about me?”
He holds my stare, feigning boredom.
I can’t tell if he’s stalling or provoking.
Then he slides the papers toward me and takes another sip from his mug.
“What’s this?” I glance at the small print. Legal. Dread-inducing.
“Details of a mentorship program we’re about to partner in—the Cavallo-Cross Futures Initiative,” he says dryly. “I’ll front the funding, naturally, given your family’s history with mismanaged funds, while CrossPoint takes care of the program’s operations.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Your solution to me trying to cut ties is to form another partnership?”
“It saves you from retracting your statement and shifts the narrative. It will show my investors that we were never the focus of your smear campaign.”
I grasp the pages and skim the proposal as Elena returns with my coffee and vanishes again.
“You’ll call it a trial,” Raffael continues. “It will last twelve to eighteen months. Then we let it die a slow death.”
Snippets catch my eye, language that screams press-ready and investor-approved. But I’m hunting for traps. Clauses that will increase his leverage.
“When did you come up with this?” I ask.
“In the early hours. While you were snoring like a bull with sleep apnea.”
I ignore the jab and keep reading.
I’m two pages deep into what seems to be a legitimate proposal, albeit one that leaves all the workload in my hands, when Elena emerges for the third time to seat a plate piled high with pancakes before me.
Not just any pancakes. My banana pancakes. Strawberry glaze. Almost an exact replica of the ones from my eighteenth birthday, back when my father threw a party crowded with his colleagues and barely a handful of my friends.
But I hadn’t cared about the more adult-skewed crowd because the cake had been dreamworthy, and exactly what I’d requested—a mountain of banana pancakes drowning in strawberry sauce.
And now, here they are again. Smaller. Neater. Served as if they’re nothing more than breakfast and not the ghost of a core memory.
I raise my gaze to Raffael, about to question him on the uncanny coincidence. Only he’s already pushing to his feet.
“I’ll be in the study when you’re ready to take center stage.” Then he strides away, disappearing inside.
Every time I think I couldn’t possibly be more confused, the universe doubles down.
Yes, pancakes are common for breakfast. But banana pancakes? Paired with strawberry glaze?
I tear off a bite, my queasy stomach suddenly ravenous.
The fluffy texture hits my tongue and my mouth salivates. It’s a rush of sweet sugars and cloudy goodness that only makes me want more.
I eat. I drink my coffee. I scan the proposal… and I spiral.
Why did Raffael take the time to come up with this partnership?
Why does he care if I eat? Or what I eat?
Then there’s the phone call and the unknown woman who’s under his protection. The woman that’s potentially me.
The next bite turns gluggy. I wash it down with water, the nausea creeping back in.
I’m grasping at straws, trying to find the man I once believed he was in the monster he now is.
It’s ridiculous.
Delusional.
I need to get a grip.
I push back from the table, thank the stewardess stationed just inside the door, and head for the study.
Raffael is seated on the guest side of the desk. Laptop open. Facing the primary chair.
“Everything’s ready,” he says, legs crossed, arms relaxed, no shits given. “Just press launch and the live feed will start recording.”
I round the desk to find the screen’s feed preview on the empty chair I’m expected to sit in. “The laptop has internet?”
He gives me a droll look and raises his cell. “I can cut it with one tap.”
Of course he can.
I take the seat and stare at my face on screen, slightly less wrecked than last night, but still far from impeccably presented.
“So once I do this… I go home? No more threats? No more blood-debt games?”
“You broke the agreement and publicly jeopardized the Cavallo Group’s reputation.” He leans back in his chair, all effortless arrogance. “But yes. Cooperate and you walk away like this never happened. Just remember that it did. And know I won’t be as lenient in future.”
Lenient?
I choke on a laugh, along with all the things I still don’t understand.
“Can I speak to my father first?”
Raffael’s lips thin. “You mean the man who left you here without warning? Who didn’t have the stones to tell you what he signed you into?” His gaze hardens. “No, Isla. He’s caused enough problems. You can handle this on your own.”
A low hum of nervousness stirs beneath my ribs.
I sit there, holding Raffael’s stare longer than I should.
The quicker I get this over with, the quicker I can move on. Right?
This isn’t a big deal. It’s just my dignity, legacy, and the weight of two family empires.
I skate my fingers over the trackpad and click to launch the live recording.
A timer blinks up on screen.
Three.
I just don’t understand. If I already broke the agreement, why offer a way back in?
Two.
Why not do to me what he did with some of his recent acquisitions—gut me, ruin me, and turn my downfall into a trophy?
One.
Why isn’t he taking the opportunity to publicly humiliate me?
I slam the laptop shut.
Raffael’s eyes flash in warning, sharp and narrowed.
“Where did you shower this morning?” I demand.
He scowls, as if caught off guard. “You’re stalling a get-out-of-jail-free statement to ask about my bathing habits?”
I swallow, keeping my palms flat on the desk. Steady. Unflinching. “You didn’t use your private bathroom. I would’ve heard you.”
“I showered in one of the guest cabins.” He folds his arms over his chest, his shirt straining across broad muscles. “Any other hygiene habits you’d like to scrutinize before we continue?”
The need for air increases. “Tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Well, right now you’re delaying a very generous solution I was kind enough to offer so you can psychoanalyze my shower choices.”