Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
ISLA
The aftermath is different.
Soft touches. A silence that feels earned, not empty.
The ocean breeze cools my overheated skin as he plays with my hair, his gaze locked on mine.
Neither of us speak.
We just look. Stare. As if cataloging all the changes that have taken place between us.
When he finally slides off of me, it isn’t rushed. He helps me to my feet. We right our clothing. Then he leads me back down to his cabin and into his bathroom.
This time he doesn’t leave me at the shower’s edge. He undresses me with reverent hands and hungry eyes, then steps beneath the spray with me. His lips trace my shoulder. His palms gently explore my curves.
He treats me as if I’m sacred, the unholy worship addictive.
I moan as the tenderness burns away, a harsh fever taking its place.
His mouth trails fire along my skin. My nails dig into his nape. He pins me to the cold tile. Fucks me against the wall.
The slap of water echoes through the bathroom, his name torn from my throat like a confession before I’m left wrung out, trembling, and wrecked beyond recognition.
“Dormirai con me stanotte,” he says against my temple. “You sleep with me tonight.”
My cheeks warm at his unfettered translation. Dear Lord, hearing him speak in Italian is the world’s most dangerous aphrodisiac. “As long as you sleep under the covers.”
He dries me with soft, fluffy towels and drapes me in a fresh robe. “Neanche l’ombra di un vestito tra di noi.”
He agrees without hesitation, his promise a low thrum of intent I feel deep in my bones even if the words themselves are a mystery.
We settle on the bed in the darkened cabin. No lights. Just me leaning against the solid plane of his chest as we eat the delights of a fresh charcuterie board and stare at the stars out the window, the ghost of Raffael’s fingers idly tracking along my back.
It feels like a stolen fragment of domesticated bliss. A glimpse of a relationship with overwhelming potential.
“Were you born in Italy?” I ask.
There’s a lengthening pause before his voice rumbles near my ear. “No.”
I wait for him to elaborate, hoping he’ll let me in, praying I haven’t reached a dead end, but nothing comes. “You don’t want to talk about it?”
His chest tightens against my cheek—the only sign I’ve hit a nerve. “Some details come with risks.”
My heart pangs.
He doesn’t trust me.
He’s happy to share a bed and learn the intimate secrets of my body, but insider knowledge on his life is a step too far.
I inch away, trying, and failing, not to take it personally.
I don’t regret what we’ve shared—I’d relive it a thousand times over—but I foolishly thought it might mean more. That the crackling energy in my veins was reciprocated.
“I was born in New York and raised by my biological parents until I was six.” His palm slides around my neck, stopping my retreat. “That’s when my mother was murdered and we were shipped off to Italy.”
I raise my gaze to his, understanding the magnitude of his offering. The risky glimpse into the foundation of the man he became.
I want to know more. To learn everything, but I remain quiet, worried one wrong word will ruin our progression.
“We were all young.” His thumb strokes my skin, featherlight and soothing, as if the contact grounds him as much as it comforts me.
“But I was old enough to understand what happened, at least to an extent. I knew the masked men who stormed our house were the reason we’d never see our mother again.
And that she was gone because of the type of man our father was. ”
Raffael was there? He still remembers?
“But Giancarlo was more of a dad than my own flesh and blood,” he continues. “Him and his wife, Marianna, had struggled to conceive for a decade and considered us a blessing when our father called in a favor.”
“Did your father visit often?” I risk asking.
“Not at all.” His eyes close briefly. “We were raised as if Giancarlo and Marianna were our birth parents. And given how young we were, within months I was the only one who remembered otherwise.”
“You didn’t tell your siblings? Do they know now?”
“I played make-believe for a long time. I think it helped me distance myself from the trauma. But eventually I told my brothers the truth. Eliseo was sixteen, and Miko eighteen, when I sat them both down.”
“What about Aurelia?”
He looks away, a muscle shifting in his jaw. “She doesn’t know.”
I school my expression, hiding the hollow ache that carves through my chest. “Not about any of it?”
“Some truths do more damage than the secrets they replace.”
I sit with his confession. Turn it over in my mind. Contemplate how his past would’ve shaped the man he’s become. “That must be an incredibly heavy burden to bear.”
He gives a one-shouldered shrug, a casual gesture that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s how it has to be.”
I don’t know how to respond.
This moment is too raw for platitudes. The seriousness too intense for silence. I settle on the first question that comes to mind. “And Marianna? Where is she?”
He stills, the steady rhythm of his thumb pausing for a single telling beat. “There was a car accident when Eli and Aurelia were three. Giancarlo went from praying for children to becoming a widowed father of four in the blink of an eye.”
My heart pangs as I struggle to imagine the pain they must have endured.
Especially Raffael.
He didn’t just lose one mother—he lost two. Yet he continues to soothe me with his touch, the quiet reassurance now clearly for my benefit.
“It’s okay.” His mouth lifts in a faint, wry smile. “Given the circumstances, I turned out alright, didn’t I?”
Despite the sarcasm, I agree. He’s perfect. Maybe a little rough around edges, but still breathtakingly worthy.
“You did.” I hug my arm around him, placing a kiss to his throat. “Do you miss Italy?”
“I visit often.”
“I know, but obviously it’s not the same.”
“You know?” He tickles my ribs.
“Yes.” I squirm. Squeal. “You vacation there every year. You’ve been doing it for as long as I’ve known you.
And before you make a stalker claim, the reason I know is because your assistant has consistently forgotten to RSVP your attendance for the CrossPoint Christmas party since the dawn of time.
My PA complained about having to chase her for years until I told her to stop bothering. ”
His grin is slow and subtle, the most delicious curve of lips. “You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve had her fired.”
I snort, thankful his mood has lightened. “Because she forgot to make a phone call?”
“Because she wasted your valuable time.”
Butterflies spread their wings inside my belly, preparing to take flight.
“Don’t believe me?” he asks. “You should enquire with my staff about the intern who made a lewd remark about you prior to one of your first meetings with our company. He was unemployed before you arrived.”
Those butterflies take flight, flapping like prehistoric vultures. “You fired him over a lewd comment?”
He holds my gaze, his eyes dark and unflinching. “It was more of a sexualized compliment that I guess I didn’t appreciate.”
Raffael Cavallo doesn’t guess. He knows. And the understated admission lands like a physical blow, leaving me reeling and aching with the burden of a future I can’t bear to lose.
I return my attention to the view and snuggle in further, the silence stretching as I savor the feel of him.
Eventually, he changes the subject, but we continue to talk, the hours passing too quickly. The night leads into slow kisses and even slower, more intimate sex that seems like less of a goodbye and more reminiscent of a quiet argument against the approaching dawn.
Sleep finds me well after midnight, in a tangle of limbs and scorching praise that blurs into fevered dreams.
When I wake it’s to the muted rumble of the yacht’s engine and the far-off shout of crew members. Raffael is spooned against my back, his arm draped over my waist, his face nuzzled against my shoulder.
For a moment, I pause to breathe him in, the solid warmth of his body, the devastatingly perfect fit.
I fight a groan at the sore and swollen parts of me that he ravaged mercilessly, yet heat floods my middle as soon as he shifts, the hardness of his cock grazing my ass.
“Morning, la mia rovina.” His voice is graveled from slumber, his palm splaying possessively across my abdomen. “Did you sleep well?”
“Mmm.” I nod. “How about you?”
“Perfino nel sonno hai potere su di me.”
“Translate please.” I slide my hand over his, my teeth digging into my bottom lip as he kisses my shoulder.
“Even in sleep you rule over me.”
The admission should invigorate. Scorch and indulge. Instead, it’s as if he’s reached inside my chest and grabbed my heart, squeezing the beats right out of it.
If I ruled him, we wouldn’t be parting ways this morning. We would’ve spent last night negotiating my father’s debt into some semblance of a resolution so we could stay together.
“Have you and your brothers worked out how much my father still owes?” I ask as a muffled, indistinct shout carries in the distance. “Given the allowances for the preferential treatment?”
His arm falls lax around my waist, the chemistry fizzling. “I’d willingly forgive the financial burden, Isla. It’s the blood debt that can’t be resolved.”
“Why not?” I swallow over my drying throat, my insides tightening in time with the rising tension outside the cabin.
“Blood debts are serious business.” He pulls away as if the topic requires physical distance. “They’re handled differently.”
“Handled?”
“Overseen,” he clarifies, resting back against the headboard, face stern, body tense. “Just like banks mitigate financial debts, there are people assigned to ensure those signed in blood honor the contracted terms.”
I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest. “Do you know who these people are?”
His expression becomes a contrary blend of stern warning and pained sympathy. “I know enough to understand these men take their job seriously.”
Men who he obviously takes seriously, given the sudden chill emanating from him.
He watches me, his gaze sharp and assessing, as if measuring my fear. “You overheard me speaking to one of them yesterday.”
“That’s why you wanted me to stay another night?” I scoot from the mattress, taking the sheet with me. “You said it was to ensure all involved had heard my statement and were satisfied with the outcome. I thought you meant Eliseo. Or your investors. But you’re worried about these men, aren’t you?”
His features tighten, wrought with apology.
Oh, God, this runs so much deeper than I’d thought. “What will they do to me?”
He reaches out, beckoning me back to bed. “Nothing that I won’t outmatch to keep you safe.”
What does that mean? Is he talking about criminal action?
I break out in a cold sweat.
Of course it’s criminal. This agreement isn’t exactly legal, so the men involved in overseeing it wouldn’t care about the law.
“Who assigned them?” I ask.
That tight apology-riddled expression continues to stare back at me, as if his expression is answer enough. “My father. They would’ve worked for him.”
His father’s men have it in for me? His father, who Raffael himself described as violent? Cut-throat and fucking corrupt? No, he said conniving.
My mouth turns dry. “How many are there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know who they are? Names? Locations? Anything at all?”
“I haven’t been able to trace them.”
“But you’ve tried?” I beg.
“I’ve tried everything in my power this week to keep them at bay.”
The noise outside the cabin grows—a distant, urgent crescendo of activity that mirrors the panic spreading in my chest.
“It’s okay.” Raffael snatches his boxers from the nightstand, slides from the bed, and pulls them on.
“They only came on the scene after rumors spread that you cut ties with the Cavallo Group. They think you’ve broken the agreement.
But I’ve told them otherwise. And you’ve made a statement.
As long as they believe the agreement hasn’t been breached, there’s nothing they can do. ”
I hunch over, my stomach suddenly ready to purge my last meal. “But I did break the agreement. I did blacklist the Cavallo Group.”
“Shh.” He rounds the bed, scowling. “Keep your voice down.”
Oh, God, why?
Could they be listening? Is this place bugged?
I do a visual sweep of the room, eyeballing smoke detectors, scouring light fittings, lamp shades.
“Isla.” He stops in front of me, grabbing my free hand, dragging my knuckles to his lips. “I won’t let them touch you.”
Footsteps echo outside the cabin, a frantic staccato that matches the wild beat of my heart.
Raffael stiffens, his attention snapping toward the door as if he can see straight through it. Then he turns his focus to the window, doing a full one-eighty of our surroundings, as if finally aware of the outside world.
“What is it?” I cling tighter to the sheet. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re moving faster than usual.”
“What does that mean?”
He releases me, strides back around the bed, and snatches his cell from the nightstand. “It means we’re attempting to outrun something.”
Something or someone?
I panic. Breathing erratic, pulse chaotic.
A sharp knock at the door makes us both freeze.
“Mr. Cavallo, sir?” the bosun calls out, voice strained.
Raffael’s posture stiffens with predatory stillness. “What is it?”
“Another boat, sir. They’ve been shadowing us since sunrise. They’re requesting permission to board.”
Raffael steps around me, stalking toward his walk-in closet. “Give me two minutes.”
I chase after him, the sheet trailing behind me. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.” He yanks a white button-down from a hanger and shrugs it on.
“Is it them? Could it be your father’s men?”
“I don’t know.” He shoves his legs into a pair of charcoal suit pants. He looks suave, composed, controlled, yet somehow frayed at the edges in a way I’ve never seen before. “Until I find out, I want you to stay in the cabin. Don’t come out until I come get you.”
“But it’s possible?” I ask. “It could be them?”
He walks around me, pocketing his cell as he exits the closet.
“Raffael.” I follow, grabbing his arm as he reaches the cabin door. “What will they do?”
He pauses, fury or maybe fear darkening his eyes with an edge of pure hostility.
He cups the back of my neck, and plasters his lips to mine. Brutal. Consuming. Final.
When he pulls back, his voice is lethal. “They won’t do anything. I’ll make sure of it.”