Chapter 5
Cassian
Istared at the document in front of me, the words blurring together. Three times I'd read the same paragraph without absorbing a single word. My focus kept drifting across the conference room to where Isla sat, taking notes with meticulous precision.
This morning, Eleanor had mentioned Isla would be attending the quarterly investors’ gala tonight at The Plaza—representing Barone Industries since I'd declined the invitation. Another tedious evening of schmoozing donors and socialites. At least Isla could handle it.
Right now, though, I needed to focus on Calabrese.
Her dark hair fell forward, creating a curtain that partially obscured her profile. When she tucked it behind her ear, the simple gesture sent an unwelcome jolt through my body.
Fuck.
This was getting out of hand. I'd spent years perfecting the art of compartmentalization. Business. Pleasure. Family obligations. Each had its place, its time, its purpose. Nothing bled into the other. Until now.
Until her.
"Mr. Barone?"
I blinked, realizing everyone at the table was watching me expectantly. Marco, my head of security and right hand, raised an eyebrow. He knew me well enough to recognize when my mind had wandered—something that never happened.
"The Calabrese numbers," I said smoothly, as if I'd been following every word. "They don't add up. The tonnage reported through their Miami terminal is significantly lower than what our sources confirm."
Relief flickered across my CFO's face. "Exactly. We believe they're underreporting by at least thirty percent."
I nodded, forcing myself to engage. "Which means they're moving product off the books. Interesting." I tapped my pen against the table. "Isla, your analysis?"
She looked up, surprise momentarily widening her eyes before she composed herself. I rarely asked for input from assistants during these meetings. But I'd reviewed her work on the Calabrese portfolio. It was exceptional.
"Based on the satellite imagery of their loading docks and the manifest discrepancies," she began, voice steady and professional, "I believe they're moving shipments during the third-shift gap when port authority changes personnel.
The cameras in sector four have a three-minute blind spot during the backup server reboot at 2:17 a.m."
The room fell silent. Marco's expression shifted from skepticism to grudging respect.
"How did you notice the camera reboot?" he asked.
"The timestamp notation in the security logs," she replied without hesitation. "It repeats the same second for approximately three minutes before continuing the sequence."
"Impressive," Marco said slowly. "Most people wouldn't catch that level of detail."
I studied her. "Your previous experience, Ms. Quinn. Remind me what that was?"
A flicker of caution crossed her face before she answered. "Data analysis. Risk assessment and fraud detection for supply chain security." She met my gaze steadily. "Pattern recognition is a skill that transfers across industries.
"Clearly." I made a mental note to have Marco pull her complete employment history. The level of expertise she'd just demonstrated went beyond what her resume suggested. "Continue with your analysis of their operation."
She nodded, returning her attention to her notes, but I caught the slight tension in her shoulders. The way her grip on her pen tightened just a fraction.
She knew I was watching her more closely now. Knew she'd revealed more capability than a typical executive assistant possessed.
Good. Let her be worried. I was beginning to suspect there was far more to Isla Quinn than she'd disclosed.
For the next twenty minutes, she walked us through her analysis of Calabrese's operation—weaknesses in its security, inconsistencies in its financial reporting, opportunities for leverage. Her presentation was concise, insightful, and delivered with quiet confidence, holding everyone's attention.
Including mine. Especially mine.
It wasn't just her competence that struck me—though that was impressive enough. It was the way she seemed to understand instinctively how power operated in the shadows. How information could be weaponized. How systems could be exploited.
Who the fuck was this woman?
When she finished, there was a moment of silence before my team began asking questions. She fielded each one with precision, never overreaching, never guessing when she didn't know an answer.
"That's enough for today," I finally said, rising from my chair. "Marco, implement the surveillance adjustments Ms. Quinn suggested. Johnson, rework the offer based on the actual tonnage numbers, not their reported figures."
The room emptied quickly, leaving only Isla gathering her materials.
"Where did you learn to analyze security protocols like that?" I asked, remaining at the head of the table.
She kept her eyes on her laptop as she disconnected it. "I read a lot."
"Bullshit."
Her hands stilled. "Excuse me?"
"That level of analysis doesn't come from reading. That comes from experience." I moved closer, watching her pulse flutter visibly at the base of her throat. "What aren't you telling me, Ms. Quinn?"
"I had a boyfriend in college who studied cybersecurity," she said, meeting my gaze with surprising steadiness. "I picked up a few things."
It was plausible. Almost believable. But something in her delivery felt rehearsed, as if she'd prepared this explanation in advance.
"A boyfriend." I let the skepticism show in my voice. "Who taught you how to identify backup server reboot sequences and analyze port authority shift changes?"
"He was very thorough." She closed her laptop with a decisive click. "Is there anything else you need, Mr. Barone?"
The dismissal was clear. She wanted this conversation over.
Which only made me more suspicious.
"For now." I stepped back, giving her space to pass. "But Ms. Quinn? I make it a point to know everything about the people who work for me. Everything."
Something flickered in her eyes—fear, perhaps, or calculation. "I'm sure my background check was thorough."
"Background checks show what's on paper." I held her gaze. "I'm more interested in what's not."
She left without responding, but I watched her go, noting the tension in her shoulders, the slight quickening of her pace.
After the door closed, I pulled out my phone. "Marco. I need a deeper dive on Isla Quinn. Employment history, education records, and known associates. And find out who she dated in college."
"You think she's lying about the boyfriend?"
"I think everything about her feels like a carefully constructed cover story." I returned to the window, watching the city below. "And I want to know what she's covering."
"I'll have it by tomorrow."
"Make it tonight."
Because the woman who'd just walked out of my conference room was either exactly what she claimed—a lucky assistant with a knack for analysis—or she was something else entirely.
And in my world, "something else entirely" usually meant danger.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings and calls. By six PM, the office had emptied, leaving only security and a few dedicated employees burning the midnight oil.
I'd loosened my tie and poured myself two fingers of scotch when a soft knock interrupted my review of quarterly projections.
"Come in."
Isla entered, carrying a stack of folders. I immediately noticed she'd changed clothes since the meeting. Her conservative dress had been replaced by a sleeveless silk dress in deep burgundy for the charity event tonight.
"The Calabrese report, as promised," she said, approaching my desk. "And the updated contracts for the Houston acquisition."
"Put them here." I gestured to my desk, studying her. The silk top draped elegantly, professional enough for a gala but revealing the curve of her collarbones, the smooth skin of her shoulders.
She set the folders down carefully. "Is there anything else you need before I go?"
I should have dismissed her. Should have let her walk away to her charity event. Instead, I found myself saying, "Stay a moment. Have a drink."
Surprise registered on her face. "I don't think that's appropriate."
"One drink to celebrate your first successful executive presentation." I was already reaching for another glass. "Unless you're afraid of me, Ms. Quinn?"
A flash of something—defiance?—crossed her features. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Then sit."
She hesitated, then perched on the edge of the chair across from me. I poured her a measure of scotch and slid it across the desk.
"To exceeding expectations," I said, raising my glass.
She lifted hers cautiously, taking the tiniest sip. Her nose wrinkled slightly at the burn.
"Not a scotch drinker?"
"Not usually," she admitted.
"What's your poison?"
The question seemed to catch her off guard. She stared at me for a beat too long before answering. "Mojitos."
An image flashed in my mind—a hotel bar, the scent of mint and lime, a woman's laugh. I blinked it away.
"I should go," she said suddenly, setting down the barely-touched drink. "The event starts at seven."
As she stood, I noticed her reaching awkwardly behind her back.
"Problem?" I asked.
She hesitated, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. "It's nothing. I just—" She sighed. "I need a favor. Can you help with my zipper? It's caught on the fabric."
I stood slowly, pulse ticking in my throat. This was a line. One I shouldn't cross.
"Turn around," I said, my voice lower than I intended.
She did, presenting her back to me. The zipper of her dress had indeed caught on a small piece of silk. I moved behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. My fingers brushed her bare skin as I worked the zipper free.
The contact was electric. But not unexpected—not anymore.