Chapter 12
Julia
I made it to my car after work before the shaking started.
Hands trembling on the steering wheel. Heart racing. Face flushed.
What just happened?
The break room. Quentin. The way he'd looked at me.
The way I'd looked back.
"This is probably a terrible idea."
"Probably."
We'd almost kissed. Right there in the break room with Barbara's farewell party happening twenty feet away. If his phone hadn't buzzed—
I pressed my palms against my eyes.
What am I doing?
One week. I'd been his assistant for one week, and already I was compromised. Already I was feeling things I had no business feeling. Already I was imagining futures that couldn't exist.
Because Quentin Vanetti was my assignment. My target. The man I was supposed to investigate and potentially—
I couldn't even finish the thought anymore.
My phone buzzed. Text from Silvio: Dinner. Luigi's. 7 p.m. Don't be late.
My stomach dropped.
I typed back: Can't risk it. They’re watching me.
His response was immediate: Wasn't a request.
I stared at the message, jaw clenched. Too bad. Not coming.
Silvio had been in Salt Lake for two weeks now, "as backup." Which really meant: watching me, pressuring me, waiting for me to fail so he could take over.
Every few days, he demanded updates. Demanded results.
And I had nothing to give him.
Well, not nothing. I had access to Quentin's offices. His files. His schedules. His secrets.
I just... hadn't used any of it.
Hadn't stolen documents. Hadn't planted bugs. Hadn't dug into his business dealings looking for proof he'd killed my father.
Because somewhere between the job offer and the polygraph and this first week of working beside him, I'd stopped believing he was guilty.
Another text. Fine. But I need results. Clock’s ticking.
I’ll have something soon. In the meantime, back off.
I started the car, pulled out of the parking garage.
At home, I changed into something more comfortable and sat on my couch in the dark.
I needed to reassess what the hell I was doing.
My plans up until now had been successful. Get the job. Prove myself capable. So what was my next step?
I needed to find proof that Quentin had killed my father. The problem? I didn’t think he’d done it.
Over the past week, working beside him, watching him interact with his staff, seeing how he ran his business—nothing added up to a man who'd murder a partner.
He was careful. Strategic. Sometimes ruthless, yes. But calculated ruthless. Not impulsive or violent. That wasn't Quentin's style.
Which meant someone else had killed my father.
And my family had the wrong target.
But who? And how do I prove it in two weeks?
The smart move would be to tell Carlo. Explain my doubts. Ask for more time to investigate properly.
But Carlo had given me one month for a reason. The family was vulnerable after Big Sal's death. They needed to project strength. Needed revenge to prove they weren't weak.
If I came back empty-handed, or worse, if I told Carlo I didn't think Quentin was guilty without proof of who actually did it—
Silvio would take over.
And Quentin would die anyway.
Unless I find the real killer first.
Two weeks.
I sighed. That wasn’t much time. If I was going to clear Quentin's name and identify the actual murderer, I needed a plan. First, I needed to figure out where Quentin was the night my father was murdered. Did he have an alibi? Of course, that wouldn’t mean anything if he’d hired a hit.
What about Stone? He could have been the hitman. But so far, nothing I’d seen pointed in that direction. Sure, he was Quentin’s bodyguard, but to send him out on a hit seemed out of character. Quentin would have wanted to be more discreet. He’d hire a professional.
Maybe I could get a look at his financial transactions during that time and see if a large payment went out? I knew what to look for, so that would be a good place to start. Researching Quentin’s finances might reveal other things as well.
It also wouldn’t hurt to look into the deal he’d ‘supposedly’ made with my father. I knew it had something to do with an expansion Quentin had already begun. I’d seen something about a business development in California and vetting potential partnerships. I could start there.
My shoulders relaxed. Now that I had a plan, maybe I could deal with the rest of what was going on. Namely, managing the attraction between Quentin and me that had almost turned into a kiss. Anyone could have walked into the break room and found us. What was I thinking?
So, for the next two weeks, while working as his assistant and pretending that everything was normal, I had to manage an attraction that was getting harder and harder to resist.
"This conversation isn't over."
Quentin's voice in my head. The way he'd looked at me.
The way he'd reached up and tucked that strand of hair behind my ear.
The way he said 'Julia' like it's a complete sentence.
The way he looked at me in that break room like I was the only person in the world, which was totally ruining everything.
Because I'd wanted him to kiss me. Badly.
You're compromised, Silvio's voice echoed. Too emotional. Too soft.
Maybe I was.
But I was also determined.
Determined to find the truth. Determined to protect Quentin. Determined to prove I could handle this assignment.
Even if it meant investigating on my own time. Even if it meant lying to my family. Even if it meant crossing lines I'd never crossed before.
I pulled out my laptop.
Started searching.
Who had motive to kill Big Sal? Who benefited from his death? Who had the capability and the ruthlessness to pull off that kind of hit?
The Morettis. Other rival families in New York. Business partners who'd been cut out of deals. I needed to make a list and go over it for motivating factors that would tie them to the Russo’s and to Vanetti. Someone who wanted us out of the picture so they could take over the deal.
I started there and spent the next three hours digging into the families. I worked until two. Making notes. Building theories. Digging into connections.
By the time I closed the laptop, my eyes burned and my head ached.
But I had leads.
Not proof. Not yet.
But leads.
Two weeks. I can do this.
I crawled into bed, exhausted.
Dreamed of storm-gray eyes and a voice saying my name.
Dreamed of the break room and what would have happened if his phone hadn't buzzed.
Dreamed of a future where I wasn't here to investigate him. Where we'd met differently. Where I could cook him dinner without it being complicated.
Where I could fall for him without it being deadly.
∞∞∞
I woke up Saturday morning, and the dream lingered.
And so did the determination.
Monday. I'll face him Monday. Act normal. Keep building trust. Keep digging.
Find the real killer before Silvio takes over.
Protect Quentin without him knowing he needs protecting.
And somehow—somehow—figure out how to stop falling for a man I'm supposed to be investigating.
Simple.
Except nothing about this was simple anymore.
My phone buzzed. Text from Carlo: How's it going?
I stared at the message.
What did I tell him? The truth? That I didn't think Quentin was guilty? That I was falling for him? That Silvio was breathing down my neck and threatening to take over?
I typed: Good. Making progress. Building trust.
Two weeks left. Don't disappoint me.
I won't.
I set down the phone instead of throwing it across the room. Didn’t anyone in my family believe in me? Did they think I wasn’t good enough to do my job? Sure, I’d never done anything like this before, but did they have to keep shoving it in my face?
Maybe I’d just tell Quentin the truth. It couldn’t be any worse than what I was going through now. He’d tell me it wasn’t him. He’d help me find the truth. He had resources I could only dream of.
Could I risk it?
Probably not.
Could I let Silvio kill him?
No.
I’d just have to start snooping and hope I didn’t get caught.
∞∞∞
Sunday afternoon, I was at a coffee shop when my phone rang.
Quentin.
My heart jumped.
Stay calm. Professional.
"Hello?"
"Julia. Hi." He sounded... different. Careful. "Sorry to bother you on the weekend."
"It's no bother. What's up?"
"I was just... reviewing some files. Had a question about the vendor contracts. Barbara's notes are a bit cryptic."
It was a reasonable excuse. Probably even true.
But something in his voice felt off.
"I can help with that," I said. "Want me to come in?"
"No. No, that's not necessary. I was just..." He paused. "Are you busy right now?"
"Just catching up on some reading. Why?"
"I was thinking about your offer. To cook something."
My breath caught. "My offer?"
"You said you'd make me something healthier than leftover Chinese food." Another pause. "If the offer still stands, I was thinking maybe tonight? I could provide the kitchen. You could provide the expertise."
He's asking me to dinner. He's asking me to his place.
Every alarm bell in my head went off.
This was crossing lines. Professional lines. Mission lines.
Say no. Tell him it's not appropriate. Maintain boundaries.
"Yes," I heard myself say. "The offer still stands."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. What time?"
"Seven? I'll text you the address."
"Okay. Any dietary restrictions I should know about?"
"Just a weakness for Italian food and good wine."
I could hear the smile in his voice.
"I can work with that."
"Great. See you at seven, Julia."
"See you at seven... Quentin."
He hung up.
I sat there, phone in hand, heart racing.
What did I just agree to?
Dinner. At his place. Just the two of us.
This was a terrible idea.
A dangerous idea.
An idea that crossed every professional boundary and compromised my mission even further.
But maybe—
Maybe being at his home would give me access. To his private files. His personal computers. Evidence that could clear his name or confirm his guilt.
You're rationalizing. You just want to see him.
Both things were true.
I gathered my laptop, headed home to change.
To cook dinner for a man I might be falling for.
A man who might or might not have killed my father.
A man I was supposed to be investigating, not having romantic dinners with.
This is such a bad idea.
But I was going anyway.
Because I needed answers.
And because—despite everything, despite the mission, despite the lies—
I could hardly wait to see him again.