Chapter 5 #2
Her skin was impossibly soft, warm beneath my fingertips.
The same softness I remembered from Miami.
A tantalizing scent and warmth rose off her.
The memory crashed over me with perfect clarity—moonlight on pale skin, the curve of her neck beneath my lips, my hands tracing this exact path down her spine three years ago.
I knew that body. Had worshipped it in a hotel room overlooking the ocean.
Did she remember? Did she know I was the same man who'd touched her like this before? Who'd made her come undone in silk sheets while she'd called me by a name that wasn't mine?
Or was she playing me, pretending we were strangers while knowing exactly who I was?
She glanced back at me over her shoulder, our eyes locking. In that moment, the air between us thickened, charged with something dangerous and familiar. Her pupils dilated, lips parting slightly—the same expression she'd worn in that Miami hotel room when I'd unzipped her dress.
Recognition sparked in my chest—I'd seen that look before. On her face. In my bed.
But did she recognize me?
Her breath hitched, and I searched her eyes for any sign she knew. Any flicker of memory. Any acknowledgment of what we'd been to each other.
Nothing. Just desire and confusion.
Either she was an exceptional liar, or she genuinely didn't remember the man who'd touched her this way before.
With effort, I forced myself to step away, jaw tight. The test was inconclusive. I needed more time. More evidence.
"You're all set," I muttered, voice hoarse.
"Thank you," she whispered, turning to face me.
We stood too close, the space between us electric with possibility. I could take her right here, bend her over my desk, and satisfy the craving that had been building since she walked into my office. From the way her breath quickened, she might even welcome it.
But something held me back. Not conscience—I'd never been troubled by that. Not propriety—I took what I wanted, when I wanted it. No, it was the nagging sense that I was missing something crucial. That she was a puzzle with pieces deliberately hidden from me.
"You should go," I said, stepping back. "You'll be late."
Relief and disappointment warred on her face. She nodded, gathering her things with hands that trembled slightly.
"Goodnight, Mr. Barone."
"Cassian," I corrected again, the name sounding different in the charged air between us.
She paused at the door. "Goodnight, Cassian."
After she left, I returned to my desk, my hands still remembering the feel of her skin. The same skin I'd touched three years ago under very different circumstances.
I picked up my phone. "Marco. The investigation into Isla Quinn. I need it accelerated."
"Already on it, boss. I should have a full report by tomorrow."
"Make it tonight." I stared at the door she'd disappeared through.
"I want to know everywhere she's been, everyone she's talked to, every dollar she's spent for the last three years.
And Marco? Dig into her personal life. Find out if there's anyone else in the picture. A boyfriend. A husband. A child."
The last word came out sharper than I intended.
"You think she's hiding a family?"
"I think she's hiding something." My jaw clenched. "And I'm done waiting to find out what."
My phone rang at eleven PM, just as I was reviewing contracts in my home office. Marco.
"Tell me you found something."
"The boyfriend story is bullshit," Marco said without preamble.
"Checked her college records, social media archives from that period, even tracked down two former roommates.
Nobody remembers her dating anyone seriously.
One roommate specifically said she 'lived like a nun'—studying, working at the library, no social life. "
I'd suspected as much, but confirmation still sent a cold anger through me. "She lied."
"About where she learned those skills, yeah. Which raises the question—where did she really learn them?"
I thought about the way she'd analyzed Calabrese's security systems. The precision. The expertise. "Previous employment says data analyst at a security consulting firm."
"I'm verifying that now. But boss, if the boyfriend is fake and the consulting job doesn't check out—" Marco let that hang.
"Then she's either working for someone, or she learned those skills specifically to infiltrate my organization." Both options were equally concerning. "Keep digging. I want her entire background verified by morning."
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing yet." I needed more information before I made my move. "But Marco? Put surveillance on her. I want to know where she goes, who she talks to, everything."
"Already on it."
After hanging up, I poured myself a scotch and stood at the window of my penthouse, looking out at the glittering city.
Another lie. Another carefully constructed piece of her cover story unraveling.
The question was: what was Isla Quinn really hiding?
And how much danger was I in by keeping her close?
My phone buzzed again before I could set it down. Marco's name flashed on the screen a second time.
"What now?" I answered, irritation edging my voice.
"We have a situation. Matteo made a move on the Brooklyn docks tonight. Talked to three of our supervisors. Two are solid, but Jenkins is wavering."
My jaw clenched. Matteo. My cousin, my childhood friend, my rival for the family legacy. He'd been testing boundaries for months, probing for weakness.
"How much did he offer Jenkins?"
"Double his current salary. Plus a promise of 'better leadership.'" Marco's voice carried disgust. "His words.
I set down the scotch glass with deliberate care. "Remind Jenkins what happens to people who forget their loyalties. And Marco? Increase security on all our operations. If Matteo's making moves, he's planning something bigger."
"You think he'll escalate?"
I thought about Matteo—ambitious, ruthless, resentful of the role that should have been his father's.
When both our fathers died within a year of each other, our grandfather had to choose between grandsons.
Matteo was older, more traditional in his approach.
I was younger but more willing to do what needed to be done.
Grandfather chose ruthlessness over age. Matteo never forgave him. Or me.
"He's been circling for years. Eventually, he'll strike. I just need to see it coming."
"Understood. Anything else?"
"Keep this quiet. No one outside our inner circle knows about the dock situation. I don't want him knowing we're watching."
After hanging up, I stared out at the city, my mind calculating angles. Matteo was a problem I'd been managing for years—keeping him close enough to monitor, far enough to contain.
But if he was getting bold enough to poach my people openly…
I'd need to remind him why I was Don, and he wasn't.
Two problems. Two threats circling in the darkness.
Isla Quinn with her lies and hidden agenda.
Matteo Barone with his ambition and resentment.
I didn't yet know which would strike first.
But I'd be ready for both.