Chapter 2
Isla
Everything about you is relevant if you work for me, Ms. Quinn.
His words hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. The way he studied me—like I was a puzzle with missing pieces—made my skin prickle with awareness. This wasn't just a boss evaluating an employee. This was a predator assessing prey.
I forced myself to maintain eye contact. "I understand the importance of transparency in professional relationships, Mr. Barone. But there's a difference between professional relevance and personal intrusion."
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Not in my world."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I'd made a terrible mistake taking this job.
Almost three years of careful planning, of building a life for Leo and me, threatened to collapse because I'd been desperate enough to walk straight into the lion's den—deliberately, knowingly, because I'd wanted my son to know his father.
But I hadn't expected Cassian to look at me like this.
Like he was already unraveling my secrets.
"Your world seems… complicated," I said carefully.
"It is." He moved closer, his expensive cologne wrapping around me. "Which is why I need to know exactly who I'm letting into it."
I needed this job. The salary was double what I'd make anywhere else, and Leo's medical expenses weren't going to pay themselves. The specialist appointments, the tests—they all cost money I didn't have.
"Ask what you need to know," I said, steeling myself. "I'll answer what's relevant."
His mouth curved into something not quite a smile. "You'll answer what I ask."
The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thin. I uncrossed and recrossed my legs, buying myself seconds to think.
"Your background check would have shown I'm qualified. Overqualified, actually." I kept my voice steady. "My references were impeccable. My skills match your requirements. What else matters?"
Cassian leaned forward, bracing his hands on the armrests of my chair, caging me in. His face hovered inches from mine, close enough that I could see the faint scar above his lip. A scar I'd once traced with my fingertip in a dimly lit hotel room.
"What matters, Ms. Quinn, is what you're hiding."
I didn't flinch. Couldn't. "We all have private lives, Mr. Barone."
"Privacy is a luxury you surrendered when you accepted this position." His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes. "Your employment gap. Explain it."
The lie came easily, practiced as it was. "I was caring for a family member."
"Who?"
"My mother. Cancer." I swallowed. "She didn't make it."
Not entirely false. My mother had cancer, but that was ten years ago.
He studied me for a long moment, then straightened. "I'm sorry for your loss."
The unexpected gentleness in his voice caught me off guard. I looked away, afraid he'd see the truth in my eyes.
"Thank you."
He returned to his desk, putting a welcome distance between us. "One more question, Ms. Quinn. Why did you apply specifically to work for me?"
Because I needed to know what kind of man fathered my son. Because I needed to understand if you were someone Leo should ever know existed.
"Your reputation," I said instead. "You're known for recognizing talent and rewarding excellence. I wanted to work somewhere my capabilities wouldn't be wasted."
He nodded slowly, considering. "Fair enough. For now."
For now. The implied threat wasn't subtle.
"Will that be all, Mr. Barone?" I stood, needing to escape the suffocating tension of his office.
"No." He glanced at his watch. "I have a dinner meeting tonight. You'll accompany me."
Not a request. A command.
"That wasn't on today's schedule."
"It just came up. Seven o'clock. The Carlton. Wear something appropriate."
My mind raced. I'd need to call Mrs. Petrovich, see if she could watch Leo longer. "May I ask what the meeting concerns?"
"You may not." His tone brooked no argument. "Be ready at six-thirty. My driver will collect you."
"Mr. Barone, I have personal obligations this evening that—"
"Reschedule them." His eyes hardened. "This is non-negotiable."
I bit back the refusal that rose to my lips. I couldn't afford to lose this job. Not yet. Not until I had what I needed.
"Six-thirty," I confirmed, hating the acquiescence in my voice.
He dismissed me with a nod, already turning his attention to his computer. I walked out, spine straight, steps measured, while inside my mind screamed with panic.
I called Mrs. Petrovich from the bathroom, speaking in hushed tones.
"Of course I can keep little Leo," she said, her thick Russian accent comforting somehow. "He is good boy. We make cookies tonight."
"Thank you. I'll pay extra for the late hours."
"Bah! No talk of money. You bring me that coffee I like, the one with vanilla. We are even."
I smiled despite myself. Mrs. Petrovich lived down the hall and had become my lifeline when work ran late or Maya's daycare closed early.
She never pried into my life, never asked why a single mother worked such long hours for a man whose last name carried weight even in Brighton Beach.
If she recognized the Barone name, she was wise enough to say nothing.
"Deal. I'll text when I'm on my way home. "
After hanging up, I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection. Dark circles shadowed my eyes, a testament to too many nights of broken sleep and worry.
"You can do this," I whispered to myself. "Just get through tonight."
But as I dried my hands, doubt crept in. The way Cassian looked at me—it was more than suspicion. There were signs of recognition lurking beneath the surface, like he was trying to place me in a half-forgotten memory.
How long before he remembered the woman he'd spent one night with in Miami? How long before he connected Isla Quinn to "Celia"?
And if he did, how long before he discovered Leo?
I returned to my desk, forcing professional composure into every movement. Cassian emerged from his office minutes later, stopping at my desk.
"The Richardson files," he said, extending his hand.
I passed him the folder. Our fingers brushed, and electricity shot up my arm. His eyes locked with mine and narrowed slightly.
"You seem troubled, Ms. Quinn."
I schooled my features. "Not at all. Just focused on preparing for tonight's meeting."
"Good." He tapped the folder against his palm. "I don't tolerate distractions."
"Neither do I."
Something like approval flickered across his face. "We'll see how true that is tonight."
After he left, I released the breath I'd been holding.
My phone buzzed with a text from Mrs. Petrovich—a photo of Leo napping, his dark curls splayed against her floral couch cushion.
My heart clenched. His face in sleep was so like his father's—the same strong jawline already forming, the same thick lashes.
I should quit. Walk away now, find another job, move to another city. Start over again.
But I'd been running for almost three years, and what did I have to show for it? A string of apartments, dwindling savings, and a growing mountain of medical bills. Leo deserved stability, security—things I couldn't give him if I kept running.
No, I needed this job. Needed the money and the access it gave me to information about Cassian Barone—the man who could either be the father Leo deserved or the danger that would destroy us both.
The Carlton was precisely the kind of place Cassian Barone would choose—old money elegance with modern power dynamics. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over dark wood and cream linens. Men in bespoke suits exchanged handshakes while women in designer dresses offered air kisses.
I'd worn my one good dress—black, fitted, with a neckline modest enough for business but low enough to remind everyone I was a woman. The kind of dress that said I belonged without trying too hard.
Cassian waited in the lobby, his back to me as he spoke with the ma?tre d'. Even from behind, he commanded attention—broad shoulders encased in a perfectly tailored suit, dark hair just brushing his collar, a stance that radiated authority.
He turned as I approached, his gaze sweeping over me with unhurried assessment. Something shifted in his expression—a darkening of his eyes, a slight parting of his lips.
"Ms. Quinn." His voice was deeper than usual. "You clean up well."
"I'm always presentable, Mr. Barone." Professional. Distant. Pointed.
He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
I hesitated before placing my hand on his forearm, feeling hard muscle beneath fine wool. The contact sent unwelcome heat spiraling through me. This close, memories threatened to surface—his hands on my skin, his mouth at my throat, the weight of him pressing me into hotel sheets.
I pulled my hand away. "Who are we meeting?"
"Vincent Calabrese. He owns shipping companies I'm interested in acquiring." Cassian guided me through the restaurant with a light touch at the small of my back. "He'll have his lawyer with him. You'll take notes."
"That's all?"
His lips quirked. "For now."
We reached a private dining room where two men stood in conversation. They turned as we entered, their eyes landing first on Cassian, then lingering on me.
"Vincent," Cassian greeted, his voice warming with false camaraderie. "Thank you for agreeing to this meeting."
The older man—silver-haired, tan, expensive watch glinting at his wrist—stepped forward. "Cassian. Always a pleasure." His gaze shifted to me. "And who is this lovely creature?"
"Isla Quinn, my executive assistant," Cassian said, his hand still at my back, fingers pressing slightly. Possessive. Warning.
"Charmed," Vincent said, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips.
I smiled politely while fighting the urge to wipe my hand on my dress. "Mr. Calabrese."
The younger man—Vincent's lawyer, presumably—watched the exchange with shrewd eyes. "David Mercer," he introduced himself with a nod.
We sat, Cassian positioning himself beside me rather than across. The proximity made it difficult to focus as servers poured wine and presented menus.
"Ms. Quinn will have the salmon," Cassian ordered for me without consultation. "I'll take the steak. Rare."
I stiffened, biting back the urge to correct him.
I hated salmon. But correcting him now, in front of Calabrese, would undermine whatever power dynamic he was establishing.
This wasn't about me or my dinner preferences.
This was business, and I was a strategic asset in whatever game he was playing. I could push back later. In private.
The conversation flowed around business pleasantries until the appetizers arrived. Then Vincent leaned forward, voice lowering.
"Let's not waste time, Cassian. We both know why we're here."
Cassian sipped his wine, unruffled. "Your southern ports. I want them."
"They're not for sale."
"Everything has a price."
I took notes diligently, tracking the verbal chess match while trying to ignore the heat of Cassian's thigh, occasionally pressing against mine under the table. Each contact sent a jolt through me, unwanted memories surfacing.
The way he'd looked at me in that Miami bar. The heat in his eyes when I'd let my hair down. The growl in his voice when he'd whispered what he wanted to do to me.
"Isla."
I snapped back to the present. Cassian was watching me, one eyebrow raised.
"Mr. Mercer asked you a question."
"I apologize," I said smoothly. "Could you repeat that?"
The lawyer smiled thinly. "I asked if you've prepared the preliminary offer documents."
"They're being finalized," I lied, following Cassian's lead. "We'll have them to you by Monday."
Vincent studied me with newfound interest. "You trust your assistant with sensitive negotiations, Cassian? That's unlike you."
"Ms. Quinn has earned my confidence," Cassian replied, his hand dropping to my knee under the table. A warning. A claim.
I didn't move, didn't breathe. Not because I was afraid—but because if I moved, if I reacted at all, Calabrese would see the flush creeping up my neck, the way my pulse hammered visibly at my throat.
His thumb traced a small circle on my skin through the fabric of my dress.
Heat pooled low in my belly, unwanted and undeniable.
"How… interesting," Vincent murmured.
The rest of dinner passed in a blur of business talk and veiled threats. I played my part—competent, observant, forgettable. But Cassian's hand remained on my knee, his thumb occasionally stroking higher, sending unwelcome heat through my body.
By the time dessert arrived, I was a mess of contradictions—angry at his presumption, terrified of my response to it, and worst of all, remembering exactly why I'd gone to his hotel room three years ago.
Because Cassian Barone was magnetic. Dangerous. Irresistible.
And I was in far deeper trouble than I'd realized.