Page 2 of Heir of Ruin
Then the door whispers shut behind them.
I turn back to Raffael as he tosses his pen onto the table and eases into his chair, the switch from corporate bulldog to relaxed rogue enviably instantaneous.
“The pen was a nice touch.” I reclaim my seat. “Classic psychological warfare. Very on brand.”
His gaze loses its hardened edge. “What did you expect? Your junior analyst wasted forty-five minutes of my life rambling through filler slides. I needed something to keep me awake.”
“So you weren’t tapping out an SOS signal?”
“If I was, you’re a terrible friend for ignoring it.”
Friend.The description makes my pulse flutter.
I sit with the feeling, letting the stutter echo through me. We’ve shared a lot of titles over the years—client, confidant, occasional partner in crime—butfrienddoesn’t get mentioned all that often.
I guess it’s hard to hear him classify us on an even level when he’s so…much.
Everything about him is commanding and bold. Sickeningly handsome and perfectly balanced. While occasionally I still have to hide behind fake bravado and forced smiles.
Sure, we’re cut from similar cloth. Both born with silver spoons—him being the crown prince of the Cavallo Group, a private-equity empire polished to a mirror shine, while I’m the heir to CrossPoint Analytics, a boutique consultancy builton ruthless precision and spotless reporting, established by my grandfather and handed down to my dad.
Two nepo babies with boardroom pedigrees and matching poker faces, raised to respect profit margins and dynastic obligations long before bedtime stories.
“Maybe next time try firing a flare gun,” I drawl. “It’d be more efficient.”
A slow curve lifts one corner of his mouth in pure weaponized beauty. “A flare would set off sprinklers. I figured the queen of damage control could understand Morse code.”
“Alas, it seems my crown has slipped. But Kayla would’ve endorsed the flare option. She’d slay the evil Dane for you, given the incentive of the drool-worthy Raffael Cavallo in a wet shirt.”
He raises a perfectly arched brow. “Drool-worthy?”
“Herwords,” I clarify with a roll of my eyes. “Not mine.”
“Obviously.” He smirks, pushing to his feet. “Have a drink with me.”
It’s not a question. Raffael’s invitations rarely are. They’re commands disguised in that perfectly honed Italian charisma, leaving just enough air for me to pretend I have a choice.
He strides to the bar cart against the wall, the glistening Manhattan skyline twinkling behind him. “Do you want the Macallan or the Dalmore Constellation?”
“Surprise me.”
He chooses the Dalmore, the dark-mahogany liquid in a crystal decanter adorned with the brand’s signature stag head. The kind of bottle that costs as much as a sports car.
He pours two fingers into twin tumblers, then returns to the table.
He offers me a glass. Our hands touch. Warm skin. Cool crystal. And a live wire of unexpected connection courses along my arm.
My eyes snap to his.
He makes no show of feeling the spark.
He’s still Raffael. Unrattled. Unreadable.
“You’ll deliver my reports solo from now on.” He retreats to reclaim the seat next to mine at the head of the table while electricity tingles through my wrist. “Another Dane slideshow and I’ll resort to violence.”
“You know I can’t do that.” I sip the whiskey, forcing my focus on the burn that contains hints of dark chocolate and spice as it travels down my throat. “Presenting as a team is part of their training.”
“Then train them on someone else’s dime. My business outweighs your mentorship program.”
