Chapter 15
Julia
By eleven, I'd caught up on emails, organized Quentin's schedule for the week, and started reviewing quarterly reports.
All while trying not to think about the man twenty feet away.
Trying not to remember last night.
Trying not to notice every time he looked up at me.
I needed to focus. Needed to start the real investigation.
Carlo wanted results. He wouldn't wait forever. And Silvio was pushing for a quick conclusion—pushing for me to find evidence of guilt, or failing that, for Carlo to make his decision without it.
I needed to find the truth before Carlo lost patience.
I pulled up a new document on my computer. Started building a timeline.
Big Sal's last two weeks. His meetings, his travel, his business dealings.
If Quentin had killed him, there would be evidence. A meeting. A confrontation. Something.
I started with what I knew: Big Sal died three months ago in New York. Shot in the privacy of his own home. No witnesses—conveniently. Carlo assumed Quentin because of territorial disputes and Aunt Filomena’s sources.
But what if we'd assumed wrong?
I pulled up Quentin's calendar from three months ago. Checked his travel records since I now had access as his assistant.
The week Big Sal died, Quentin had been in... Los Angeles. Business meetings. Confirmed by hotel records, restaurant receipts, photos from a fundraising event.
He couldn't have been in New York.
Unless he flew in, killed Papa, flew back.
I checked flight records. Private jet logs.
Nothing. No flights to New York that week.
So he couldn't have done it personally. But he could have ordered it.
I dug deeper. Looking for payments to hitmen. Suspicious money transfers. Anything.
Nothing.
This doesn't make sense. If Quentin killed Papa, where's the evidence?
I glanced out the window, remembering the early morning phone call from Aunt Filomena.
"Zia," I’d answered.
"Bambina, how are you?"
"Good. Busy with my new job."
"I've been thinking about our conversation. About your concerns regarding the assignment." Her voice was warm. Loving. "Have you found anything that confirms or denies Vanetti's involvement?"
"I'm working on it."
"Julia, I know this is difficult. Your first major assignment. But you must be thorough. Your father deserves justice."
"I know."
"Do you?" A slight edge had entered her voice. "Because Silvio mentioned you seemed... distracted."
Of course he’d told her.
"I'm not distracted. I'm being careful. Building trust takes time."
"Time we may not have. Carlo's patience isn't infinite." A pause. "Neither is Silvio's."
"Silvio nearly blew my cover. I had to make up a story about him being my ex-boyfriend. Did he tell you they got photos of him? If he shows up again, it may be the last thing he ever does."
"Yes. He told me. I admit he’s been overly enthusiastic.
Don’t worry. They won’t see him again.” Her voice had softened.
"He’s just concerned. As am I. Julia, you know I love you.
That I've raised you as my own daughter.
So please, hear this with love: don't let compassion cloud your judgment.
Vanetti may seem charming. May seem innocent.
But he's a dangerous man who murdered your father. "
The certainty in her voice had made something twist in my chest.
"How do you know?" I’d asked quietly. "What if we're wrong?"
"We're not wrong."
"But what if—"
"Julia." Her voice stern. "Your father was my baby brother.
I held him when he was born. I watched him grow.
I protected him his entire life. And when I couldn't protect him anymore, when that bastard Vanetti took him from us—" Her voice broke.
"We owe Salvatore justice. Carlo will deliver that justice once you finish your investigation.
Just find the proof, bambina. That's all we need from you. "
Guilt had crashed over me. "I know. I'm sorry. I just... I need to be sure."
"Then be sure. Investigate thoroughly. But don't take so long that Carlo loses patience."
"I won't."
"Good. I love you, bambina."
"I love you too, Zia."
I swallowed. She was right. Papa deserved justice.
But didn’t justice mean finding the real killer?
What if it wasn't Quentin?
I glanced at my computer. Opened the timeline again.
Started cross-referencing Big Sal's movements with everyone else's.
Carlo. Silvio. Aunt Filomena. Business associates. Rival families.
If Quentin didn't do it, someone did.
And I needed to figure out who.
∞∞∞
That afternoon, Quentin introduced me to someone new.
"Julia, this is Serenity Jones. She's joining the security team."
I glanced up from my desk to find a woman in her late twenties watching me with unsettling intensity. Beautiful. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Confident. And something else—something that made my skin prickle.
"Pleasure to meet you," I said, extending my hand.
Serenity took it. Her grip was firm, her palm warm.
And then her eyes went distant. Like she was seeing something I couldn't.
My heart lurched.
"Serenity is a psychic," Quentin said with a smile. “I know it’s hard to believe, but she’s proven herself.”
Psychic. Oh crap.
"That's... interesting." I tried to pull my hand back, but Serenity held on for another moment.
"You're carrying something heavy," she said softly. "A burden. Secrets that are tearing you apart."
The words landed like a punch.
I forced a laugh. "Isn't everyone carrying something?"
"Some burdens are heavier than others." Serenity finally released my hand, but her gaze stayed locked on mine. "Be careful, Julia. The truth you're seeking might destroy you."
She knows. Somehow, she knows.
"I'm just here to do my job." I shrugged, trying to sound casual.
"Mmm." Serenity tilted her head. "If you say so."
Quentin frowned slightly. "Everything okay?"
"Fine." Serenity turned to him. "Just getting a sense of the team. Julia's energy is very... conflicted. Lots of internal war."
"Can you blame her? This is only her second week and she's already dealing with my complicated life."
"I suppose not."
Quentin met my gaze. "Stone’s been in some trouble lately, and Serenity’s helping us out, so you’ll be seeing a lot of her.”
My brows rose. “Stone? In trouble?”
Serenity sniffed. “Yeah. Hard to believe, right? He’s kind of stubborn and—well, anyway, it’s nice to meet you. We should have coffee sometime."
Absolutely not.
"That would be nice," I lied.
After Serenity left, I sat at my desk, pulse racing.
The psychic worried me. If she could actually sense things—or even if she was just obscenely observant—she could expose me.
I couldn't afford that.
Not when I was this close to understanding the truth.
Not when that truth was threatening to destroy everything I thought I knew about my family.