Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
ISLA
Raffael’s hold on my wrist is a silent balm, a stark contrast to the dull ache left by the crewmen’s grip. But no amount of his comforting solace erases the malicious presence of the man behind him.
The intruder is broad, intimidating, yet somehow handsome in a way that threatens violence—a threat underscored by the scar peeking from beneath his beard.
Raffael turns to face him, guiding me behind his back, a protective shield vibrating with hostility. “Get your fucking eyes off her. You talk to me. Only me.”
The man levels Raffael with a smug look that doesn’t just question, but demeans. “I suggest you calm down.”
“Calm isn’t a direction this conversation is headed.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, then meet the stranger’s eyes and refuse to blink. It’s a lie, blatant and sickeningly optimistic. I raise my chin, step around Raffael, and inch closer to the threat with an extended hand. “I’m Isla. And you are?”
Raffael’s fingers plant on my wrist, firmly lowering my arm. “Don’t. If you knew this man’s notoriety you wouldn’t want to touch him.”
The man grins as if the vicious reputation is a point of pride. “The name’s Bishop.” He jerks his chin toward the table. “Take a seat.”
A glance at Raffael highlights the storm darkening his features. Temperamental and enraged, he leads me to the outdoor setting and pulls out a chair to drag it directly beside his in a territorial display.
“That wasn’t so fucking hard, was it?” Bishop reclaims his position at the table.
The other man remains quiet, not as overtly cold and cocky, but his scrutiny is unnerving in its precision.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Isla,” he says, all charm and refinement. “My name is Matthew. I’d offer to shake your hand, but it seems my cousin has staked a claim.”
Cousin? Claim?
“There’s no claim,” Raffael seethes.
“Tell that to your face,” Bishop mutters. “It also doesn’t help that she’s half-naked and wearing what I assume is your shirt.”
Matthew glances at him in warning, then returns his attention to me. “I apologize if the crew took liberties while escorting you from the cabin. That wasn’t our intent. We’re only interested in speaking to you about the current situation.”
They all look at me. Bishop—arrogant and assessing. Matthew—patient and deceptively charismatic. And Raffael—a live wire of protective fury.
This is a test. Maybe even a trap.
I swallow against the grit in my drying throat. “It takes more than a little rough handling to scare me.”
Bishop’s smirk is one of approval, or maybe it’s patronizing.
“Good.” Matthew smiles, a devastatingly gorgeous curve of lips unmistakably meant to lull me into a false sense of security. “You hear that, cousin? She’s fine. So you can quit glaring at me as if you’re planning my death.”
Raffael’s expression doesn’t change from the features carved in granite, his eyes promising retribution.
“Don’t fret, Isla,” Matthew soothes. “I behave the same when my wife is threatened. Thankfully, my cousin doesn’t have the stomach for the family business.”
“I’m willing to learn.” Raffael’s voice melts with an undercurrent of surgical malice.
Bishop leans back, a mocking glint in his gaze. “Look at that. The pup’s finally growing teeth.”
Raffael’s gaze cuts to him and the air turns to ice.
I place a hand on his leg, a silent plea for calm. “What do you want from me?”
“Assurance,” Matthew states simply. “We want to know why rumors are circulating that you cut ties with the Cavallo Group.”
Before I can reply, the automatic glass doors slide open, saving me from responding as all eyes turn to Elena who steps outside.
“I’m sorry.” She gives a stiff, nervous bow of apology. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything else.”
“More coffee would be appreciated,” Matthew says, the picture of casual ease in the midst of a tsunami of tension. “Make them piccolos.”
Bishop gives a lazy, dismissive wave. “And some food if the chef can oblige.”
“The chef is busy,” Raffael growls.
Elena winces and flees back into the salon.
Matthew doesn’t miss a beat, his focus returning to me like a laser. “Where were we?”
“The rumors,” Bishop drawls. “The complications.”
“Right.” Matthew inclines his head. “Ms. Cross, are you familiar with an agreement your father made that placed you as collateral for a substantial debt he accumulated?”
Shame heats my face, the warmth traveling down my neck.
“She’s aware,” Raffael replies, his tone honed like a blade.
“So are the rumors true? Was your first act as CEO to sever ties with the Cavallo Group, in turn breaking the agreement, and making yourself active property of the Cavallo Trust?”
“It’s not fucking true.” Raffael studies Matthew as if he’s a problem he intends to solve violently.
“Do you need a muzzle?” Bishop drawls.
Raffael stills, frighteningly motionless. “Do you need a reminder of whose blood flows through my veins, tu brutto pezzo di merda?”
“Basta.” Matthew glares at them. “Lei può rispondere da sola.”
“Don’t make an enemy out of me.” Raffael leans forward as if preparing to launch across the table. “I might not have your penchant for blood but I’ll make an exception.”
My mouth dries as trepidation courses through me like a current.
Bishop remains relaxed, smug, the seconds ticking by like a countdown to detonation.
“I understand what you’ve heard…” I press my palms against my thighs to steady myself. “But Raffael is right. It’s not true.”
All eyes snap to me, the combined weight of their scrutiny immense.
“You didn’t sever ties with the Cavallo Group?” Langston raises a brow.
No, it wasn’t my first act as CEO. Nuance is my only shield.
“I answered your question.” I sit taller, chin high. “Now, is that all you need from me? Because I’m not exactly dressed for company.”
“Ms. Cross, this is serious,” Matthew presses. “If you’re not being truthful—”
“I’m more than aware of the seriousness given it’s my life that’s been bartered like livestock.”
“So you’re aware you’ll become Raffael’s wife, mistress, or slave if you did cut ties?” Bishop asks.
“They were rumors,” Raffael counters, voice dangerously low.
“And if he doesn’t want you,” Bishop continues, “then his brothers get their turn.”
Raffael clenches a fist. “None of us will claim her.”
“I’d advise against that commitment.” Matthew runs a finger along the rim of his empty coffee mug. “If you don’t honor the agreement, the rights of the breach are passed down the family line. And not all your relatives will be as kind.”
Volatility casts across Raffael’s features. A mix of hatred and vengeance.
“As your oldest cousin, I’d be the next beneficiary. But—” Matthew offers a regretful smile “—my wife would disapprove. Which means Isla would fall into the hands of Salvatore. And given he’s always looking for new… assets since taking over your father’s business, I’m sure he’d find a use for her.”
I don’t know who Salvatore is, or what the family business consists of, but the unspoken threat siphons the air from my lungs.
“Are you still not interested in claiming her?” Bishop taunts.
“As I’ve mentioned numerous fucking times, Isla has done nothing wrong.
” Raffael’s fingers flex in silent warning.
“What you’re both also aware of is how my father spent a lifetime keeping his violence from my door.
But if you take this further, I promise I’ll become the man he never wanted me to be.
I’ll prove to you I don’t need your experience to become an unwanted adversary.
” He shoves to his feet. “Now get the fuck off my yacht.”