Chapter
One
ISLA
Power has a sound.This afternoon it’s the strategicclick, click, clickof Raffael Cavallo’s pen which continues to crank the tension in my team higher.
He sits at the head of his polished boardroom table, his suit charcoal, tie nonexistent, brow arched in a look that hovers somewhere between disinterest and warning as he focuses on my newest analyst recruit, Dane.
Click, click, click.
It’s ridiculous how Raffael’s presence commands the room, transforming my analysts into pieces of furniture with speaking privileges.
His demeanor is controlled. Contained. The type of enviable clout that doesn’t need to raise its voice to own the space.
Click, click, click.
“That’s everything we have on Petersen & Sons.” Dane’s voice wavers as he finishes his presentation, then clears his throat for what I’m guessing is the thirty-seventh time. “Clean numbers. Healthy margins. No litigation risks.”
Kayla angles closer to the head chair, her blonde waves sliding off her shoulder like she’s practiced the move. “Honestly, Mr. Cavallo, it’s the cleanest company we’ve reviewed all year.”
Easy, Kayla.Raffael can detect flirtation better than a polygraph trained to pick up sexual tension and won’t appreciate the lack of professionalism.
His pen stills. He lifts his gaze from the bound report before him. Midnight eyes. Zero shine.
The temperature drops a degree. Maybe two.
“Clean?” he repeats, voice velvet over steel. “You’re certain?”
Dane nods like a bobblehead. “Yes, sir.”
Those sharp eyes finally shift to mine, ensnaring me in intimidating goodness. “You agree, Ms. Cross?”
I fight not to roll my eyes at the formal address. “Petersen’s books are solid. Profits are climbing. Debts are minimal. If the Cavallo Group wants a stake in New York’s premium logistics game, this is the golden ticket.”
Raffael inclines his head in approval, or at least the absence of displeasure. The pen clicks once. Final. A full-stop of punctuation. “Then we’re done here.”
Translation: Everyone out.
Chairs scrape. Papers shuffle. Kayla exhales a sugary, “Have a wonderful weekend, Mr. Cavallo,” which is rewarded with zero eye contact and not one ounce of acknowledgement while Dane practically scrambles to the glass door.
I hold in a chuckle, slide my folder into my black leather satchel, and start to rise.
“Not you, Ms. Cross. We have other matters to discuss.”
I hesitate, my stupid pulse skipping a beat while I scrutinize Raffael, attempting to gauge what he might want from me so late on a Friday afternoon.
“Of course.” I turn to my team. “Have the car brought around. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Sure thing.” Dane’s already halfway out the door.
“We’ll be a while,” Raffael states, his enthralling dictatorship slithering down my neck to awaken goose bumps.
My sense of idiocy only increases when Kayla wiggles her brows at me.
“In that case, I’ll see you both Monday morning.” I infuse authority into my tone, reminding her this is business, not the makings of whatever fictional hookup she’s mentally formulating. “Enjoy your weekend.”
Dane murmurs a goodbye. Kayla purrs hers.
