And for those few hours, wrapped in his warmth as the city slept below us, I let myself believe it.
When I woke to golden sunlight, I reached across empty sheets. "Antonio?"
Silence. He was gone—no clothes, no suitcase, not even a note. I checked everywhere. Nothing.
I gathered my things, shame and hurt battling inside. What had I expected? I'd given myself to a stranger whose real name I didn't know.
Walking away from him felt like leaving a piece of myself behind. I pressed my palm against my stomach in the early morning light, unaware of the tiny spark of life beginning. A consequence I never imagined.
I had no way of knowing that almost three years later, desperate and determined, I would walk into his office with my carefully crafted resume, and gamble everything on the hope that he wouldn't recognize me until I was ready.
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 beingthe 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.
