Chapter 35
Chapter
Thirty-Five
ISLA
I return to the office after my lunch date with Quinn.
She’s still glowing with the energy of her new incarceration fixation, her entire personality rebuilt around the psychology of captivity and prison architecture.
And although I initially didn’t want to know the details, my curiosity drove me to ask for highlights.
Bullet points. The kind of summaries she works hard to tactfully deliver with the blandness someone else might describe a weather report.
The town house basement cell wasn’t fitting for long-term imprisonment, so I’ve barely caught sight of her over the last three weeks as she micromanaged the renovation of Eliseo’s penthouse into a mini penitentiary.
The hardest hit was when she packed her belongings and moved into a vacant apartment in his building, convinced that sleeping off-site when a felon was meant to be under her watch “compromised operational integrity.”
But not having her live under the same roof and check in on me every spare second of the day has its perks.
Life has settled into a strange, shaky kind of normal. Work. Coffee. Pretending I sleep through the night.
For the most part, I act as if I don’t notice the gaping chasm Raffael’s absence leaves—except when he infiltrates my fabricated peace with a new delivery.
He used to send something daily—flowers, letters, new clients. Now the pace has eased. Days pass with longer stretches of no contact.
I should feel relieved.
I am relieved.
The solace is just emptier than I’d anticipated.
“Isla.” CrossPoint’s receptionist walks through my open door, a small turquoise jewelry box in her hand. “The courier delivered another package for you.”
She places the velvet-covered nightmare atop a stack of project files on the desk in front of me.
I swallow down a groan and paste on a smile. “Thanks, Chelsea.”
“You’re welcome.” She spins on her heel, leaving me to side-eye the intrusion.
I ignore it for as long as I can, burying myself in reports and emails, pretending the latest gift isn’t burning in my peripheral vision.
I last an hour before I crack and snatch the box from its perch. I open it, my stomach twisting in on itself at the gold anchor pendant threaded onto a delicate necklace chain. My fingers move without my permission, lifting the charm, turning it over with reverence I don’t want to feel.
On the back there’s an inscription, the three words tattooing my soul.
La mia rovina
I snap the box shut, shove it into my top drawer, then slam it closed.
It’s been weeks since Raffael spoke the foreign endearment and the words still haunt me, their meaning unknown.
I’ve fought not to translate it online. Not to obsess over the weight it might carry.
And every time I win the fight, I weaken a little more.
I strive harder to lose myself in my work, ignoring the painfully specific gift that dredges memories of the starlit ocean, heated touches, and breathless wanting. I persist long past the setting sun and the office falling quiet.
I’m deep in distraction’s grip when a knock sounds at my door.
I raise my gaze. “Come i—”
The welcome dies on my lips. The blood drains from my face.
The uninvited guests from the yacht stand in my doorway—Matthew and Bishop—both suit-clad and radiating refined menace.
My heart lurches toward an instinct I swore I’d outgrown—the panic to reach for Raffael’s protection—but the muscle memory slams through me before I can shut it down.
“We come in peace.” Matthew enters my office with a charming smile, his dark Italian features painfully similar to his cousin’s.
Bishop remains standing, his large frame moving to my bookshelf where he inspects the finance hardcovers. “We thought it best to wait until the last of your staff went home for added privacy.”
Despite the promise of peace, I can’t tell if that’s a threat.
I inch my chair backward, eager to create room in case I need to bolt. “Why are you here?”
Matthew relaxes into one of the chairs on the opposite side of my desk, arms spread along the rests. “To discuss the agreement.” He holds my gaze with an attentive curiosity that makes my skin prickle. “Your father’s debt has been wiped clean.”
A jolt of disbelief buckles through me. “How?”
Bishop takes a book from my shelf and flicks through the pages. “We were informed of a situation that adversely affected you at the hands of the Cavallos. It was negotiated that, given your pain and suffering, the debt would be nullified.”
A breath stutters in my throat, the hope—stupid and dangerous—rising before I can slam it down. “Negotiated by who?”
Quinn wouldn’t dare. She knows enough about the threat these men pose to reach out to them. And my father… he and I have only just started rebuilding our relationship. He’s still barely gaining his footing when it comes to courage.
“Raffael.” Bishop snaps the book closed and slides it back into place on the shelf. “It took a lot of convincing but he’s a determined little fucker.”
I take the hit with a raise of my chin.
So this is Raffael’s latest attempt to skirt the rules of disengagement? First the flowers and the client referrals. Then the keepsakes. The necklace. La mia rovina.
It has to stop. I need to cut him from my life entirely, because the slightly ajar door has me wanting to slip back through it every second of the day.
“Understood.” I incline my head. “The agreement is dead and buried. Is that all?”
Bishop strides toward the chair beside Matthew and grabs the backrest. “You’ve just been cut loose from the noose around your neck and ‘is that all’ is your response?”
“I’m sorry.” I paste on a fake smile. “Were you expecting me to gush with appreciation over something that almost destroyed my life?”
His smirk deepens. “I like you, Isla.”
“That’s not the compliment you think it is,” I deadpan.
He chuckles and makes for the door. “Duly noted.” He strolls from the room and down the hall as if he owns the place, leaving me with Raffael’s cousin.
“You’re free to do whatever you like to the Cavallo Group. Cut ties. Burn bridges. Make enemies.” Matthew unfurls from the chair, rising and towering over my desk. “Although, I’d go easy on them, seeing as though they cut themselves out of millions to grant you and your father freedom.”
My heart pangs. I ignore it.
His eyes narrow. “You understand my cousin would do anything for you, right?”
I want to snap a denial. Refute the pain that lodges itself in my throat.
“Yeah, I thought so.” His expression softens as he inclines his head in farewell. “Until next time…”
He turns for the door, moving with a quiet, confident dominance too painfully reminiscent of another man who shall not be named.
I grip the edge of my desk, my pulse climbing instead of calming, a rush of anxiety surging through me.
“Wait.” The demand slips free.
Matthew pauses at the threshold, a questioning brow raised as he meets my gaze over his shoulder.
I gnaw my bottom lip, damning my curiosity to hell. “What does la mia rovina mean?”
His smile is slow and knowing, a lazy, pitying expression that makes me regret the question. “It means my downfall. My ruin.”
He offers the translation in a low murmur, but it’s as if he’s pulled the pin on a grenade I didn’t know he was holding.
“He’s a good man, Isla. He deserves a second chance.”
“I appreciate the endorsement.” I force the sarcasm past the lump in my throat. “You have no idea what it means coming from someone like you.”
He snickers and disappears through the doorway. “I expect an invitation to the wedding.”