He used to send something daily—flowers, letters, new clients. Now the pace has eased. Days pass with longer stretches of no contact.
I should feel relieved.
Iamrelieved.
The solace is just emptier than I’d anticipated.
“Isla.” CrossPoint’s receptionist walks through my open door, a small turquoise jewelry box in her hand. “The courier delivered another package for you.”
She places the velvet-covered nightmare atop a stack of project files on the desk in front of me.
I swallow down a groan and paste on a smile. “Thanks, Chelsea.”
“You’re welcome.” She spins on her heel, leaving me to side-eye the intrusion.
I ignore it for as long as I can, burying myself in reports and emails, pretending the latest gift isn’t burning in my peripheral vision.
I last an hour before I crack and snatch the box from its perch. I open it, my stomach twisting in on itself at the gold anchor pendant threaded onto a delicate necklace chain. My fingers move without my permission, lifting the charm, turning it over with reverence I don’t want to feel.
On the back there’s an inscription, the three words tattooing my soul.
La mia rovina
I snap the box shut, shove it into my top drawer, then slam it closed.
It’s been weeks since Raffael spoke the foreign endearment and the words still haunt me, their meaning unknown.
I’ve fought not to translate it online. Not to obsess over the weight it might carry.
And every time I win the fight, I weaken a little more.
I strive harder to lose myself in my work, ignoring the painfully specific gift that dredges memories of the starlit ocean, heated touches, and breathless wanting. I persist long past the setting sun and the office falling quiet.
I’m deep in distraction’s grip when a knock sounds at my door.
I raise my gaze. “Come i?—”
The welcome dies on my lips. The blood drains from my face.
The uninvited guests from the yacht stand in my doorway—Matthew and Bishop—both suit-clad and radiating refined menace.
My heart lurches toward an instinct I swore I’d outgrown—the panic to reach for Raffael’s protection—but the muscle memory slams through me before I can shut it down.
“We come in peace.” Matthew enters my office with a charming smile, his dark Italian features painfully similar to his cousin’s.
Bishop remains standing, his large frame moving to my bookshelf where he inspects the finance hardcovers. “We thought it best to wait until the last of your staff went home for added privacy.”
Despite the promise of peace, I can’t tell if that’s a threat.
I inch my chair backward, eager to create room in case I need to bolt. “Why are you here?”
Matthew relaxes into one of the chairs on the opposite side of my desk, arms spread along the rests. “To discuss the agreement.” He holds my gaze with an attentive curiosity that makes my skin prickle. “Your father’s debt has been wiped clean.”
A jolt of disbelief buckles through me. “How?”
Bishop takes a book from my shelf and flicks through the pages. “We were informed of a situation that adversely affected you at the hands of the Cavallos. It was negotiated that, given your pain and suffering, the debt would be nullified.”
A breath stutters in my throat, the hope—stupid and dangerous—rising before I can slam it down. “Negotiated by who?”
