I almost smiled back. Almost. "Define 'direct.'"
"I simply outlined the consequences of continued delays, including how certain information might impact their pending merger with Westlake."
Information that had been in the confidential files I'd left on my desk yesterday. She'd not only read them but also understood their strategic value.
"Effective," I acknowledged, studying her. Today she wore a deep blue dress that emphasized the curve of her waist, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Professional, polished—yet something about her called to me on a visceral level I found increasingly difficult to ignore.
"The Richardson portfolio is on your desk as well," she continued. "I took the liberty of highlighting discrepancies in their financial statements."
I hadn't asked her to review those files. "Initiative. I like that."
"I noticed patterns in the quarterly reports that suggested creative accounting. Page seventeen shows where they've been shifting losses."
I moved closer, curious about what else she might have uncovered. "And what would you suggest we do with this information?"
Her eyes met mine, unflinching. "That depends on your objective. If you're looking to acquire Richardson, these discrepancies give you leverage to negotiate a lower purchase price. If you're looking to destroy them, an anonymous tip to the SEC would be effective."
Sharp. Calculating. Unafraid to suggest tactics that bordered on corporate warfare.
"Impressive analysis," I said, watching her reaction.
"Thank you." She held my gaze for a moment before looking away. "I should mention your brother called. Twice. He insists it's urgent."
Vito. Always a complication. "Did he say what he wanted?"
"Only that it concerns family business. He emphasized it wasn't something to discuss over the phone."
The way she said "family business"—careful, deliberate—caught my attention. Did she know what that meant in my world? The legitimate business was Barone Industries. Family business meant something else entirely.
"I'll handle my brother," I said, watching her closely. "What else?"
She hesitated, just slightly. "There's a school in Brooklyn—St. Catherine's. They've been trying to reach you regarding their fundraiser next month. Apparently, you're listed as a potential donor."
I frowned. "I don't donate to schools." Not personally. My own education had been fragmented—private tutors, boarding schools I was expelled from, lessons learned in my father's world that no classroom could teach. The foundation handled educational philanthropy through proper channels.
"That's what I told them, but they were insistent that you'd expressed interest through a foundation connection."
"Decline. If they persist, refer them to the Barone Foundation's formal application process. The foundation exists precisely to handle these requests without my personal involvement."
She nodded, making a note. As she wrote, I noticed a small scar on her wrist—thin, white, old.
"Your predecessor left detailed protocols," I said, "but you seem to have developed your own system already."
"Eleanor's system was effective for her workflow. I've adapted it to better suit how I process information." She glanced up. "Is that a problem?"
"Not if it works." I moved toward my office, then paused. "Join me for a moment. There are matterswe should discuss."
She followed me into my office, closing the door behind her. The space—all dark wood, glass, and strategic lighting—was designed to intimidate. Most people shrank from it. Isla didn't.
"Sit," I gestured to the chair across from my desk.
She sat, crossing her legs, hands folded in her lap. Composed. But her pulse—visible at her throat—betrayed her. Faster than it should be.
I remained standing, establishing dominance through positioning. "You've exceeded expectations this week."
"Thank you."
"Which makes me curious why someone with your capabilities would take this position."
