Cassian: We'll discuss it at 9 a.m.
I stood frozen in the lobby, commuters flowing around me like water around a stone. Maya's words echoed in my head: "You have to tell him."
But I couldn't. Not yet. Not when I didn't know what he knew or what he was looking for.
The walk to the subway felt longer than usual, every step weighted with dread. Cassian Barone wasn't the type to schedule morning meetings about nothing. He'd found something.
The question was: what?
Then I headed for the subway and another day of pretending I didn't know exactly what Cassian Barone looked like when he came undone.
Another day of pretending I hadn't given him the most precious gift of all—and kept it secret.
But now, I couldn't shake the feeling that my carefully constructed lies were starting to crumble.
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.
