Chapter 25
Chapter
Twenty-Five
ISLA
I hustle off the boat, trying to outrun the tears attempting to chase me down.
The dock is a blur of noise and sunlight, but all I see is my phone lighting up with incoming messages, Quinn’s name stacked like a neon warning on the screen in my hand.
Quinn
Are you back yet?
Where are you?
Give me a fucking update before I call the cops.
A tired smile ghosts my lips. She’s dramatic, impossible, and exactly the support I need right now.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the heart to face her.
She’ll see right through me. She always does.
And I don’t have the energy to lie, not about the yacht, the agreement, or how I feel about Raffael.
It’s just another reason why I need to disappear for a few more days.
Me
Just docked. Haven’t slept. I’m going to work from home.
Her reply is immediate.
Quinn
No, we need to talk. In person. Now.
I sigh, juggling the tote that’s determined to slide off my shoulder while the straps of my heels threaten to fall from my fingers.
Me
I’m exhausted. I need to regroup.
Quinn
This is important.
I’m at the office but I’ll come to you if I have to.
Me
I’m literally barefoot walking around the marina. Whatever it is can wait. I need to get home before someone recognizes me.
The three dots of impending reply pop up on screen. It’s enough to inspire a headache.
I ditch the chat and press the call button. She answers before it finishes the first ring.
“Where are you?” she demands.
“Like I said, I’m at the marina, doing what must look like the worst walk of shame recorded in history.”
“Is that what it is? A morning-after situation?” Her voice is firm and full of judgment.
“That’s not—”
“Forget it. I don’t want to know. What we need to discuss surpasses whatever lust-drunk decisions you made. Are you alone?”
“As alone as I can be while walking in public, but my ride is waiting.” The limo is double-parked on the street ahead, the driver standing like a sentry at the back door in a black suit with a matching chauffeur’s cap.
“The ride can wait. I’ve been digging and I think I’ve found something,” she says in the familiar rush that announces a hyper-fixation.
My insides hollow. “Whatever it is, this isn’t the time for a deep dive. I need a shower and a—”
“It’s exactly the time. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours. It’s about Raffael.”
My steps slow as unease prickles the back of my neck. “You shouldn’t be digging into clients—”
“So you don’t want to know why I think he snapped your head off after you two were getting cozy in his boardroom all those years ago?”
“No.” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, my hand tightening around the phone. “I don’t. It’s in the past—”
“Just confirm the timeline with me.” She bulldozes over my dismissal. “This all went down when you were working on the Petersen & Sons account, right? Back when you were mentoring Kayla and that overly anxious guy that got fired a few months later.”
“Quinn, please—”
“You’re telling me, after years of sleepless nights, you don’t want to hear why Michelo interrupted your private moment and Raffael lost his shit?”
My stomach churns. I want to know exactly what happened. What I don’t want is her getting more involved.
“Lorenzo Cappelletti was murdered that day,” she blurts. “Probably an hour or so before your meeting.”
I frown. “Lorenzo Cappelletti?”
“A man rumored to be the East Coast Godfather. A major Italian mafioso. The kind of criminal the FBI would blow their load over putting behind bars.”
A violent man. Cut-throat and fucking conniving.
All the blood drains from my face. “What does that have to do with Raffael?”
“Great question. Thanks for asking. Decades ago, Lorenzo had sons, three little boys, all of them having disappeared a few days after their mother’s murder.
There was speculation they were kidnapped by the same men who killed Lorenzo’s wife, but their bodies were never found.
I think Raffael and his brothers are Lorenzo's lost—”
“They have a sister.” I shake my head refuting the possibility. “Aurelia is Eliseo’s twin.”
“I know. Just hear me out. In the whole scope of underworld hierarchy, baby boys grow to be assets, while little girls are liabilities. Kidnap victims. Weaknesses. It isn’t far-fetched to think Lorenzo hid the birth of his daughter as soon as she was born,” she rambles.
“But let me tell you the convincing part. The trail started with the yacht. The Requiem used to be Lorenzo’s.
Then he died and ownership passed to a trust.”
“Raffael could’ve chartered the yacht.” I force myself to keep it together. To contain the panic.
“Potentially, but listen—someone put a lot of work into hiding the benefactors of the trust, and I mean a lot. It took me forever just to find who managed the asset, which was a super-shady corp rumored to cater for a niche clientele, who all have extreme wealth and hard time behind bars in common.”
My lips part but nothing comes out.
“Then suddenly,” she continues, “within a few weeks of Lorenzo’s death, the management of the trust changes hands. Which makes sense if it was being moved to his benefactor’s management, right? And do you want to know who now manages the trust?”
No, I don’t. I really don’t.
“It’s Spector & Associates, Isla. The group who handles all of the Cavallo—”
“Quinn, stop.” I start walking again, faster this time—anything to distract me from the world tilting.
“I’m not falling off the rails,” she promises. “I haven’t even told you the most convincing part.”
“Don’t—”
“They were at the funeral. It was a closed ceremony. Super small. And Raffael and his brothers were there. At least I swear it was them. The only photo I could find was grainy and the resolution collapsed when I zoomed in, but I’d bet my shoe collection on it.”
A photo? Does Raffael know about this? “How would you even find something like that?”
“It’s a long story that started with a Reddit rabbit hole, a sub-thread that reeked of psychopathic misogyny and somehow ended in a dark-web cesspool where incels basically fangirl over notorious criminals like they’re anime idols at a Comic-Con for the emotionally stunted.”
“Okay, seriously, that’s enough.” My grip on the phone goes numb. “Do you even realize what you’re implying? We worked with Raffael’s father for years. Giancarlo adored his sons. He’s probably rolling in his grave—”
“But what if I’m right?”
“If you’re right,” I hiss, “and that’s a laughable concept—then the last thing you should be doing is digging deeper. You’re talking about a criminal organization who hides information for a reason. You get that, don’t you? You could be putting your life in danger. Have you told anyone about this?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” I fight to steady my tone, to make myself sound like I’m in control instead of rapidly flailing. “My reputation can’t take another hit right now, especially one about a staff member—who happens to be my best friend—digging into the lives of my clients’ private business.”
“Isla—”
“I’m serious. I need you to focus on keeping things stable at work, not throwing more fuel on the fire of my ineptitude.”
I reach the idling limo and keep my face downcast, not wanting the driver to clock my panic and report it back to Raffael. He opens the door, I murmur my thanks and my address, then slide into the temperature-controlled interior.
“Please, Quinn. I can’t manage any more drama right now.”
There’s a long pause, thick with my best friend’s silence and the pulse hammering in my ears. I reach for the frosted bottle of water in the cup holder, twist off the lid, and take a sip to keep myself occupied.
Quinn isn’t built to let things go. She needs full pictures, clear endings, facts that make sense. Ambiguity is her personal hell, which means I’m demanding her sufferance.
“Okay…” Quinn murmurs in defeat.
“You’ll drop it?” I dump the water bottle in the cup holder and pull on my seat belt.
“Yeah, fine. I’ll drop it.”
“Thank you.” The limo eases from the curb. “I’m on my way home now. I’ll catch up with you soon.”
We say our goodbyes and I end the call, sinking back into the seat. The leather is cold against my legs, the silence colder still. First my father, then Raffael, now Quinn—one by one, the people tethering me to solid ground are slipping away.
But Lorenzo Cappelletti?
Jesus Christ.
I shake my head, struggling to process the bloodline Raffael came from.
But Quinn’s right. It tracks.
Yet somehow he stood up for me. Stood between me and men who, I can only assume, live and breathe violence and intimidation—and, no doubt, far worse.
I should go back. To the yacht. To Raffael. To a proud man who tried, in his own broken way, to shield me from a truth that’s clearly been eating him alive.
The urge claws at me, sharp and stupid. I stare at the partially lowered privacy partition between me and the driver, tempted to tell him to return me to the marina. To insanity.
But each mile that carries me away from Raffael forces the ache into submission, layer by layer, until all that’s left is resolve.
We turn left, driving in the opposite direction to my apartment, the detour dragging a sigh from my chest as I slump deeper into the upholstery. The streets are busy and all I crave is the sanctuary of home, not a diversion because of heavy traffic.
Only one wrong turn transitions into another, then another, and within minutes we’re moving farther and farther away from our destination.
I lean forward and knock lightly on the privacy partition. “Excuse me. I’m not sure you heard me correctly. My address is—”
The glass slides up the final inch, cutting me off.
I gape. Stunned. Speechless. Then suddenly, fearfully frigid.
I didn’t pay attention to the driver. Didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t take note of his face.
Fuck.
I glance around the interior, searching for a sign that I didn’t just willingly climb into a waiting vehicle arranged by the mafia.
I test my door handle—locked.
I press the button to lower my window—nothing. No movement. No sound.
Then I grab my phone and my heart sinks because the screen mocks me with the same dead signal I had the moment I stepped aboard the Requiem.