Chapter 37
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
ISLA
He cuts the call on me. Again.
My face heats, and it’s not due to building defiance like it should be.
What surges through me is need. Raw and reckless. The urge to see him is undeniable. The impulse to drag him out of my thoughts and back into reality a hardship I no longer care to endure.
I want to make him solid. Tangible. Touchable.
I grit my teeth through the poisonous itch, white-knuckle my cutlery, and focus on my meal. Each bite is a quiet act of rebellion, each delicious mouthful an added hit of remembrance. But I chew through it, ignore how I’m unraveling with every swallow, just in case he’s still watching.
The second my plate is cleared I drain my wine and signal for the bill.
My server returns with a pleased smile. “Your dinner has already been taken care of, ma’am.”
I blink. “My date paid before he left?”
“Ah, no.” There’s a telling pause that lands like a gavel. “Another gentleman handled it earlier.”
Raffael.
I nod, murmur my appreciation for the meal, and pretend my skin isn’t prickling with awareness as I leave the restaurant and direct a cab to take me home.
I am not going to him.
City lights blur past the windows as I stare at my clutch, my pulse increasing, my torment accumulating. Every logical argument of why I can’t see him wrestles with the emotional pleading of my nervous system screaming for me to do the opposite.
But nothing has changed.
He’s still Raffael Cavallo—son of a monster who bound my father with financial and blood debts, brother to the asshole who abducted and imprisoned me. And the only person I’ve never felt the need to prove myself to.
The one highly successful and excessively formidable man who—long before this nightmare began—never made me feel small.
I pick at the quick on my thumb, digging my nail deep, attempting to alleviate the building pressure.
I have to go home.
I need to maintain distance.
Caving isn’t optional.
Each turned corner and pause in traffic increases the torture, the city conspiring against me with every red light until the driver pulls up outside my building.
I glance outside, my eyes catching on the dark windows of my apartment, the cavernous ache of stepping inside already setting in.
“Miss?” the driver asks. “You getting out?”
My hand closes around the door handle. I hesitate. Tense.
God-fucking-dammit.
“No.” I meet the driver’s confused stare. “Please take me to Midtown.”
Desperation must be written across my face because he doesn’t question the change in plan, just pulls from the curb while my heart thunders in my ears.
I’m a wreck by the time we reach the familiar high-rise home to the Cavallo Group office, already bracing for the regret that will follow my stupid decision to hear what Raffael has to say.
I pay the driver, step onto the pavement, and focus on putting one foot in front of the other as I walk to the front doors.
The lobby is quiet, the polished marble gleaming under soft light. The night manager barely glances my way as I pass, recognition flickering in his expression, then indifference, as if I was expected. As if I belong here.
This is a meeting.
Business.
A renegotiation of a verbal contract necessary to maintain the functionality of his brother’s incarceration.
“Nothing more,” I whisper to myself.
I ride the elevator to Raffael’s floor.
The doors open to silence. The lights are on. The reception area is pristine. But the usually buzzing office feels more lifeless and eerily deserted than I anticipated.
My heels echo down the corridor, each step stirring memories forged into the space. Moments of confidence, confrontation, ambition, and desire.
I’ve walked this marble tile so many times. With purpose. Shoulders squared. I’ve walked it furious, determined, victorious.
But never like this.
Never with my pulse tripping over itself, my body acutely aware that I’m striding toward someone who has always known how to undo me.
The glass walls of the boardroom are frosted as I approach, the veil adding to my unease.
I stop before the door, place my hand against it, and tell myself to relax.
It’s not too late to leave. To run.
Yet even the contemplation of retreat tightens my chest, as if leaving were an allergy severe enough to trigger anaphylaxis.
Get it together.
I hold my head high, completely ignore how I’m about to face the enemy in a dress that screams seduction, and push inside.
Raffael is seated at the head of the table.
Not waiting.
Commanding.
The composed authority rolling off him is nothing like the confidence I’ve spent years admiring. That historical version pales in comparison to the man before me, navy suit immaculate, tie loose, dominance radiating from him with lethal ease.
“Isla,” he greets, voice low and velvet rich.
I force moisture into my mouth. “Raffael.”
He gestures to the seat on his right.
I approach and pull out the next chair along instead, placing a full foot of oak between us before sitting.
For long moments he simply stares at me, as if drinking me in, his perusal a sinful caress and pure torture in equal measure.
Then, without a word, he stands, strides for the drinks tray in the corner, and pours two glasses of Dalmore.
When he returns, he leans in to place a tumbler before me, the sleeve of his suit brushing my bare shoulder. The contact is brief. Incidental. Yet it detonates through me, every nerve screaming for more.
“You wanted to discuss our current agreement?” I ignore the alcohol and pretend each passing second doesn’t ratchet my instability higher as he reclaims his seat.
“I do.” He takes a sip of liquor, eyes dark, intentions seeming darker.
“Years ago we shared a drink that led to more and could’ve evolved into something substantial.
Due to circumstances you’re now painfully aware of, I was unable to pursue what could’ve been, but a lot has changed, and it would be a disservice to us both not to reassess. ”
I school my expression into careful neutrality. “A lot may have changed, but the reasons to maintain distance haven’t.”
“I disagree. Previously, I was concerned about your father’s debt hanging over us and my biological father’s enemies. Those are no longer factors.”
“Lorenzo’s enemies are no longer a factor?” I palm my glass, annoyed I can’t curb the urge to humor him. “Why? I would’ve thought the risk of exposure had increased now that Quinn and I know the truth.”
“The exposure may have increased.” He inclines his head. “But I’m no longer opposed to leaning into my biological father’s legacy if anyone dares to make us a target.”
That’s what’s different about him—the savagery no longer denied but welcomed.
“Hear me when I say this, Isla—I’m desperate to reevaluate our situation.”
He says desperate with unsettling calm. Like a man who’s only familiarity with the word is its pronunciation. It’s enough to make me shake my head in exasperation.
“You don’t believe me?” He raises a brow. “Would you like proof of how being separated from you has torn me apart?”
No. I wouldn’t.
But I hold his stare, neither confirming nor denying, just losing ground with every second his gaze pins me in place until finally he stands, his steps measured as he carries his tumbler to the window.
City lights silhouette his frame, his imperious reflection faint against the glass. “You’re unhappy.”
The change of topic catches me off guard, yet the truth of it burrows deep.
“I can change that if you let me,” he murmurs. “I’ve done this your way. I gave you space. But you’re hitting new benchmarks at CrossPoint, your father is in therapy, and Quinn has Eliseo thoroughly managed—and still, all I see when I look at you is sadness.”
He isn’t guessing. Isn’t probing.
He’s stating a fact I haven’t allowed myself to face.
“Then maybe you should stop looking,” I state firmly.
“Believe me, I’ve tried.” He raises his tumbler and takes a gulp of liquor.
Something fractures inside me, the pressure intensifying along a fault line I can’t hold together.
“I want a chance, Isla.” He speaks to the tinted window, negotiating our potential like a business deal. It’d be off-putting if he wasn’t so captivating.
“What you want is a stronger hold over the person who’s determining your brother’s future,” I counter. “You want me managed just like Elis—”
“Fuck Eliseo.” He turns on me, expression riotous. “Wanting you has never had anything to do with him.”
I want that to be the truth. It’s all I’ve wanted since the morning after my rescue. But…
I shake my head. “I don’t believe you.”
“When have I not put your happiness first?” He returns to the table and slams his tumbler down on the polished wood.
“The biggest sacrifice I’ve ever made was pushing you away in the hopes it would save you from your father’s mistakes.
I’ve fired staff for daring to say your name in the wrong tone.
I’ve ruined careers and sent men into hiding for placing you in harm’s way.
I fucking denied myself the ability to love you.
For years. But I refuse to do it any longer.
You’re mine, Isla. We both know it. I won’t pretend otherwise anymore. ”
Shivers.
So many goddamn shivers.
I anchor my palms against the table, locking my body into stillness. “That sounds like a threat.”
His lips kick in the slightest devil of a smirk. “No, la mia rovina. It’s a prenuptial vow.”
The room tilts, shrinks, those words stealing something from me I know I’ll never reclaim.
It’s laughable how desperate I am to surrender. How malleable I am to his prophecy.
I throw back the Dalmore, cherish the burn, and push from my seat. “As far as vows go, that one was poetic. But given what I’ve been through, there’s no way I can trust you.”
“You can.” His tone hardens, stripped of warmth. “You will.”
He repeats what I said to him the last time I was here, the chorus of my statement only making me feel more seen. More heard.
I start for the door, in a race to escape before I give in.