Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
RAFFAEL
I close the cabin door behind me and level a scowl on the bosun waiting at the top of the staircase. “I want every available staff member guarding this door. No one goes in or out. Are we clear?”
He nods. “Yes, sir.”
I continue past him, down the stairs. He follows in my wake, relaying my command through his radio.
The eyes of a wary Elena and her second stew greet me as I pass through the salon. They’re concerned, but not panicked. It’s fucking telling.
“You know who’s trying to board?” I grate over my shoulder.
“To an extent, sir.” The bosun jogs to catch up. “We’re sure they worked for your father.”
That explains Elena’s composure. She’s familiar with the approaching threat. The entire crew must be.
I stride past the glass sliding doors onto the aft deck, my cell vibrating with a short, sharp message in my pocket as the sea breeze hits my face.
I take out the device. Withhold a glare.
Unknown number:
We’re here to talk. Let us board.
I grit my teeth and stop at the polished teak railing.
The speedboat giving chase is right behind us, riding in the yacht’s wake. Two men are aboard—black suits, broad builds, their faces hidden from view under the shadow of the sun roof.
“Get me a visual confirmation,” I bark at the bosun. “I want names.”
“On it, sir.” He hustles away, radio to his lips.
The man on the left of the speedboat pulls a cell from his suit jacket, taps on the screen, then raises it.
A heartbeat later my phone rings.
I answer and the grumble of the speedboat’s engine echoes through the speaker, the unknown caller greeting with a faintly familiar, “Morning, Cavallo.”
It’s the same figlio di puttana who’s been calling for days, claiming he’s one of the enforcers of my father’s will.
“What do you want?” I snarl.
“I already told you—it’s our duty to uphold the terms of the agreement. And given the disruptive behavior of one of the involved parties, it’s necessary for us to investigate.”
My father wasn’t the type to employ men to investigate. He employed men to act.
“I have the situation under control,” I bite out.
“Would you prefer if we wait until you and Ms. Cross part company? Because you can’t watch her forever.”
Vehemence claws inside my skull, the type that can only be inspired by a father who never should’ve had children.
“We just want a chat,” the guy says.
I mute the call as the bosun returns, his face grim.
“The crew at the passerelle recognize them, sir.” He fidgets with his radio. “They said it’s Bishop Cappelletti and Matthew Langston.”
Fuck.
Not just employees of my father, but his right-hand men. The ones who, even in retirement, are still notoriously known in criminal circles as the Butcher Boys of Baltimore.
The crew would have doted on them during my old man’s era.
“This isn’t the time to forget who you work for.” I turn to the bosun, crowding his space. “Your allegiance is to me. Are we clear?”
He fumbles, his gaze darting toward the approaching boat. “Yes, of course, sir.”
“Make the crew aware,” I seethe. “My father is dead. You answer to me now.”
As the bosun relays my message into his radio, I unmute the call. “You can board under my rules.”
“Whatever you say, Cavallo.”
I disconnect and pocket the cell. “They get frisked at the gangway. If a single weapon comes on board, you’ll be held responsible.”
The bosun gives a tight nod and moves to obey.
From my position on the upper deck, I hear the yacht’s engines cut out.
We glide to a halt. The speedboat closes the distance.
Below me, the crew assemble in the shadowy open doorway of the tender garage and secure lines.
Then the two figures from the speedboat transfer from their boat into the belly of mine.
I recognize them from my father’s funeral. Bishop—the hulking brute with dark blond hair and a beard that barely hides the scar crossing his cheek. And Langston—dark hair, dark eyes, the epitome of our Italian heritage.
They submit to a pat-down as my crew confiscate multiple guns and blades before they’re ushered out of view.
I drag in a deep breath, locking my fury behind a wall of icy control, then take a seat at the head of the outdoor dining table, my posture a carefully constructed facade of calm.
The two men climb the stairs to the aft deck, strolling forward as if they own the place. My crew trails them timidly while Elena scoots from the salon to station herself outside the doors.
I don’t stand. Don’t offer a hand to shake. Not even a bare-minimum expression of civility.
“Cavallo.” Bishop scrutinizes the deck with a raised brow and helps himself to a seat halfway down the table. “You haven’t changed a thing. This place is exactly how your father left it.”
It’s a deliberate provocation. A reminder that my father’s ghost still owns this vessel and, by extension, me.
I ignore him and eyeball my crew. “You’re dismissed.”
“Hold up.” Bishop glances at Elena. “I need coffee. Do you remember how I like it, Ellie?”
She blushes. Smiles. Nods.
I clamp my mouth shut, running my tongue along my teeth to keep from snarling.
“Same for me. Thanks.” Langston rounds the table, walking behind my chair and clapping me lightly on the shoulder. “Good to see you again, cousin.” The familial reminder grates as he sits opposite his partner in crime. “How’s business?”
I meet his stare, my rage barely leashed. “Cut the shit. What do you want?”
A flicker of warning narrows his eyes. “There’s no need for hostility. We’re just doing our job.”
“There is no job. I have the situation under control.”
“Understood, but given this is our last duty to your father, we’re not going to neglect our responsibilities.”
“And what a sad duty that is. He left you nothing, yet you still run around after him like Satan’s favorite lapdogs.”
Bishop snickers. “He gave us everything we needed while he lived. I’d say that’s worth more than your inheritance.”
He’s right, and the truth reopens the old festering wound—my father chose to mentor these monsters while he abdicated his own sons.
“Tell us more about Ms. Cross’s appointment as CEO,” Langston says. “Why are there rumors she severed ties with the Cavallo Group?”
“Rumors being the operative word,” I mutter.
Langston quirks a brow. “That’s all they were?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t see her statement addressing the matter.”
“A statement that reeked of desperation and backpedaling,” Bishop counters.
Elena returns with a serving tray and sets a flat white—my usual—in front of me, her gaze apologetic as I scowl at her.
The three of us wait in taut silence as she serves the remaining coffees, then retreats inside.
The moment the sliding doors shut behind her Langston lifts his mug. “We’d like to speak with Ms. Cross.”
“No.” My word is final. Absolute. I’m not negotiating when it comes to Isla’s safety.
Bishop smirks. “He still doesn’t understand how this works.”
Langston sips his coffee. “It seems that way.”
“You can cut the subtle intimidation.” I relax farther in my chair, trying to own a calm that’s overridden by hostility. “You’re glorified messengers for a dead man. The agreement hasn’t been breached.”
“And your brothers would agree?” Langston asks.
“My brothers are just as disgusted by the blood debt as I am. We never wanted any part of our father’s lifestyle.”
Bishop chuckles and spreads his arms wide, indicating our surroundings. “Obviously.”
“If you’re not interested in the favorable terms of the debt, why not sell it?” Langston counters. “The woman is young, smart, beautiful. She’d fetch a high price.”
The thought of Isla sold—of some piece of shit buying her like property—
My body primes, like it’s waiting for permission to unleash hell.
“Is there more to this, cousin?” Langston cocks his head. “The situation seems personal.”
“What’s personal is you tracking me down in the middle of the ocean over something that shouldn’t exist.”
His eyes narrow. I feel the weight of Bishop’s doing the same in my periphery.
“Do you have feelings for her?” Langston questions slowly. “Because feelings tend to complicate business.”
“Your concern is noted and unwarranted. Now leave.”
“Like we said, we’re interested in speaking to Ms. Cross. Once you facilitate that conversation—”
“I’m not facilitating a fucking conversation,” I sneer.
“No?” Bishop’s smirk widens as he turns his attention to the glass salon doors. “I think your staff would disagree.”
I follow his gaze to where Isla stands at the opening doors, flanked by two deck crew, their hands on her arms, her expression stark with panic.
I shove to my feet, the chair screeching against the teak.
“Sit,” Bishop warns.
“She’s fine.” Langston places his coffee down with deliberate care. “This is nothing more than a conversation.”
Like hell.
It’s a threat. A bribe. Pure intimidation.
Isla isn’t even properly dressed. She stands frozen in my oversized shirt as if she’s been unceremoniously hauled from my cabin.
“If you think I’m an easy target because I didn’t grow up under the dictatorship of a felon, you’re fucking mistaken.” I pin Langston with apocalyptic hatred. “You don’t want to go to war with me.”
He remains composed. Apathetic. “Again, cousin, all we require is a conversation. You’re escalating a situation—”
I stalk toward Isla, fighting the need to run my hands over her to check for injuries. “Are you okay?”
She nods, a jerky, fearful movement.
It does nothing to appease the thunderous rage pounding at my temples as the traitorous crew members release her.
I lock my hand around the first man’s throat, cutting off his air before my right drives a fist into his gut. He folds with a stifled choke while the second man’s eyes widen. I pivot, using the momentum to slam my elbow into his face, the crack of cartilage sharp and final.
Isla retreats with a gasp that has me following her, instinct overriding all else. I grab her wrist, hold her gaze, and convey my claim with a feral look.
She’s mine to shield. Mine to defend. At least until she leaves this yacht.
“Raffael…” Her voice is frayed.
“We’ll talk later.” I stroke my thumb along her arm—the barest form of soothing I’ll allow in front of the company who would use it against us—and switch my venom to the bosun. “Were you involved?”
“No, sir.” He shakes his head.
“It’s true,” Isla says in a rush. “He tried to stop them.”
My temples pulse as I recalibrate my thought process from murder to damage control. “Then escort them to the storeroom. Use the restraints from the security locker and post a guard. I’ll deal with them later.”
The bosun quickly herds the two injured men away, while Isla shuffles closer, her palm finding my chest, her touch a brand.
“Raffael,” she whispers, voice trembling. “What’s happening?”
I don’t get a chance to answer.
There’s a scrape of a dining chair. The approach of steps.
Isla stiffens, her attention straying over my shoulder.
“I think an introduction is in order,” Bishop drawls. “Don’t you?”