Chapter 1
Cassian
Three years later…
I despised interviews. Waste of my fucking time.
The executive floor of Barone Industries stretched before me in gleaming steel and glass as I strode toward my office, adjusting my cufflinks. The entire twenty-eighth floor bore the weight of my impatience this morning.
"Mr. Barone, your ten o'clock is waiting in your office." My outgoing assistant, Eleanor, fell into step beside me, tablet in hand. "HR sent up the most promising candidates as requested."
"How many?"
"Three. I've arranged fifteen minutes for each."
I checked my watch—an understated Patek Philippe that cost more than most people's homes. "Make it ten. I have the Azerbaijani call at eleven."
Eleanor nodded, her efficiency the only reason I hadn't replaced her months ago. "Of course. And the files you requested on Senator Harriman are on your desk."
Blackmail material. Useful for the upcoming vote on the energy bill. I didn't say this aloud—Eleanor knew better than to ask questions about certain files.
"Coffee," I said, not breaking stride.
"Already on your desk, black."
I grunted acknowledgment as we reached my office doors. The first candidate—a reed-thin man with an eager smile—stood as I entered. I dismissed him within seven minutes. Too nervous, too desperate to please. In my world, desperate people made dangerous employees.
The second candidate lasted eight minutes before revealing she'd researched my "alleged connections" to certain families in New York. I made a mental note to have her investigated. People who dug too deep tended to disappear in my orbit.
"Send in the last one," I told Eleanor after showing the second candidate out.
I moved to the window, gazing down at Manhattan.
My empire. The legitimate face of it, anyway.
Fifty-two oil refineries across three continents, pipelines stretching through six countries, and shipping contracts worth billions.
The perfect cover for my other operations—the docks I controlled, the cargo manifests that never saw customs inspections, the shipments that moved through channels no government tracked.
Operations that my cousin Matteo had been eyeing with increasing interest. He'd made his ambitions clear at the last family gathering—subtle jabs about "modern leadership" and "new directions." As if our grandfather's empire needed his input.
As if being the older grandson entitled him to something our grandfather had already decided.
I'd need to watch him. Family or not, ambition made men dangerous. Especially when combined with resentment.
The door opened behind me.
"Mr. Barone? Isla Quinn."
Something in her voice—the slight husk around the edges—made me turn slowly. The woman who stood in my doorway knocked the air from my lungs.
Dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders.
A charcoal pencil skirt hugged curves that my hands suddenly itched to trace.
But it was her eyes that snagged me—sharp, intelligent, wary.
And her mouth—the full curve of her lower lip that she caught between her teeth when I didn't immediately respond.
Something twisted in my chest. A flicker of recognition that I couldn't place, like déjà vu I couldn't shake.
"Ms. Quinn." I gestured to the chair across from my desk. "Sit."
She moved with deliberate grace, spine straight, chin lifted. Confidence without arrogance. Her resume sat on my desk—impressive credentials, excellent references. But a piece of paper told me nothing about the woman herself.
"Why do you want this position?" I asked, remaining standing. Power dynamics—I'd perfected them years ago.
She met my gaze directly. "I don't believe in wasting time, Mr. Barone. I'm the best at what I do. I organize chaos, anticipate needs, and solve problems before they become problems. I'm discreet, efficient, and I don't require handholding."
Direct. Refreshing after the first two candidates. But something else caught my attention—the slight pause when she first looked at me, a tension in her shoulders that hadn't fully released.
"Your previous employer was Jensen Financial. Why leave?"
"The glass ceiling there was reinforced steel." She didn't blink. "I prefer environments where competence matters more than gender or connections."
I circled my desk, leaning against it, closer to her. "And you believe Barone Industries offers that?"
"Your company has a reputation for rewarding results, not relationships. I deliver results."
As she spoke, I caught her scent—citrus with something softer underneath. Vanilla, perhaps. It triggered something—a flash of memory. Warm skin under my hands. A laugh, low and intimate. A hotel room overlooking water.
The memory dissipated before I could grasp it.
"You'd be required to travel," I said, watching her reaction. "Sometimes with little notice."
"I'm adaptable." A slight hesitation. "Though I would need advance notice for overnight trips."
Interesting. "Family obligations?"
Her expression cooled. "Personal obligations. Nothing that would interfere with my performance."
I moved closer, ostensibly to retrieve her resume. In reality, I wanted to see if she'd flinch. She didn't, but her breathing changed—faster, shallower.
"You're overqualified," I said bluntly. "Your skills would be wasted on calendar management and travel arrangements."
"With respect, Mr. Barone, you don't know what skills I bring until you see me work. Executive assistant is the title. What you're really hiring is someone to make your life run smoother. I excel at that."
The corner of my mouth twitched. Backbone. I respected that.
I sat in my chair, studying her. Something about her pulled at me—familiar yet foreign. Her eyes held secrets, and if there was one thing I'd learned in both my businesses, secrets were either valuable or dangerous. Often both.
"Tell me something that's not on your resume, Ms. Quinn."
She paused, considering. "I have an eidetic memory. I never forget a face, a name, or a detail once I've seen it."
My instincts sharpened. "Useful skill."
"It can be." Something flashed across her face—caution, perhaps.
She claimed never to forget a face. If we'd met before—and that nagging sense of familiarity suggested we had—would she admit it? Or was she here under false pretenses?
I leaned forward, testing. "And what do you remember about me, Ms. Quinn?"
Her composure slipped for just a fraction of a second—a microexpression most wouldn't catch. But I'd built empires on reading people's tells.
"Only what research told me. Your reputation precedes you."
Lie. She knew something she wasn't saying. The question was: what?
I stood abruptly. "The position requires absolute discretion. You'll see and hear things that never leave this office."
"Confidentiality is non-negotiable in my work ethic."
"You'll start Monday. Eleanor will brief you on protocols and security clearance." I extended my hand, curious how she'd react to my touch.
She hesitated, then placed her hand in mine. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through my arm—her skin warm, soft. Her grip was firm but brief, as if touching me burned.
"Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Barone." Her voice remained steady, professional, but her pulse—visible at her throat—had quickened.
I held her gaze longer than necessary. "Eleanor will show you out."
After she left, I stood at the window again, rolling my shoulders against an unfamiliar tension. Something about Isla Quinn unsettled me. The nagging familiarity. The careful way she held herself around me. The secrets behind her eyes.
I picked up my phone. "Marco. I need information on an Isla Quinn. Everything—background, finances, personal connections. Priority."
Marco, my security chief and cousin, understood the subtext. Dig deep. Find what she's hiding.
"Something concerning, boss?" Marco's tone carried a hint of surprise—I rarely requested deep background checks on administrative staff.
"Instinct," I said shortly. "She's hiding something."
"The assistant?" A pause. "That's—unusual."
"I know." And that's what bothered me. "Just find out what she doesn't want me to know."
"Understood. I'll have preliminary findings by tonight."
I watched Isla cross the street below, her dark hair catching sunlight.
"Not yet. But I intend to find out."
I ended the call, my mind already calculating possibilities. If Isla Quinn was a threat—corporate espionage, law enforcement, rival family—I'd know soon enough. If she were simply a woman with secrets unrelated to me or my businesses, I'd know that too.
Either way, I'd made the right choice bringing her close. Keep your enemies closer—a principle that had served me well.
My intercom buzzed. "Mr. Barone, the Azerbaijani minister is on line one."
I straightened my tie, pushing thoughts of my new assistant aside. Business first. Always.
But as I took the call, her scent lingered—citrus and vanilla—tugging at memories I couldn't quite grasp.
Three days later, I stood in my private elevator, reviewing acquisition documents for a struggling refinery in Texas. The doors opened directly into my office suite, where Isla sat at her desk, phone to her ear, fingers flying across her keyboard.
"Yes, I understand the senator's position," she was saying, her voice cool and professional. "However, Mr. Barone's schedule is fully committed. The earliest he can meet is Thursday at four."
She glanced up as I approached, nodding acknowledgment without interrupting her conversation.
"No, I'm afraid that's not possible. Mr. Barone values the senator's input, which is why he's making time despite his commitments overseas next week." She paused. "Excellent. Thursday at four. I'll send the confirmation now."
She hung up, immediately rising. "Good morning, Mr. Barone. Senator Harriman's office confirmed for Thursday. Your coffee is on your desk, the Beijing contracts are flagged for review, and I've rescheduled the board call to accommodate your lunch with Commissioner Davis."