Chapter 19
Julia
Late night or not, I woke at eleven, mind already racing.
I had a one-thirty reservation—made it when I checked in—but eating alone held zero appeal. Besides, I needed to keep investigating.
I sent Chiara Moretti-Bianchi a message inviting her to join me.
She returned my message almost immediately. I’d love to see you.
Astor Court at 1:30.
Chiara and I went way back, elementary school, in fact.
She was part of the Moretti family, and I was a Russo in everything but the name, so we had a lot in common.
We’d gone to prep school together and even ended up at the same university.
Our paths diverged after she started having children, and I started managing the family’s rental properties.
She met me at Astor Court as the pianist was starting a new set. We were seated and served coffee. We chit-chatted for a few minutes before surveying the buffet. I ordered eggs Benedict, and Chiara followed suit.
“You’ve always copied me.” I smiled, not meaning it maliciously.
She grinned. “You’ve got good taste.”
“Except when it comes to men and having children.”
“True.” She reached across the table and took my hand.
“I love being a mom, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes I’m jealous of your freedom.
You can go where you want, when you want.
You can book lunch at the last minute and eat brunch without having to wipe a snotty nose or take a four-year-old to the bathroom six times. ”
“You ever regret becoming a minivan-driving-soccer-mom?” I asked between bites of eggs Benedict.
“No.” She shook her head. “Like I said, I love being a mom. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
I’m just saying we all have our burdens.
You know what’s crazy? Anthony’s mom wanted the kids today for some photo shoot at her house.
I think she’s got a fantasy that her grandkids will all be models or land roles on Broadway.
Anthony knows there’s some friction between us, so he actually suggested—before you’d messaged me—that I take the day for myself. ”
“That’s unusual?”
“Honey, I haven’t had a day off from the kids in eighteen months. Not since my friend, Sofia, got married.”
“He’s good with the kids?”
“Hell no.” Chiara laughed. “Anthony hires this sitter from the neighborhood to help. She’s with him today.”
I raised my brows. “Really?”
“Yeah. I’m sure he’s sleeping with her.”
“What?!” My jaw dropped. “That doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it does.” Her lips turned down. “I kind of want to kill him. But I’m so relieved to have the time away from the little demons, I sort of forgive and forget. Let’s talk about something else.”
I realized that, while Chiara was having kids, Aunt Filomena was grooming me to become a gangster. Because I was single, I had no obligations to stop me from stepping into the family business. I didn’t think it was a bad life, but I found her stories about her kids endearing.
“I guess the grass is always greener.”
She smiled, ate the last bite of her eggs Benedict, and nodded. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter what you have, it’s human nature to want something else.”
“Isn’t that the truth.”
In our family meeting the night before, the Moretti family had been discussed.
Carlo was confident the truce was still in place, but Silvio and Filomena were suspicious.
Our families had a truce since back in my grandfather’s days.
If they were behind the move on Vanetti, it would be well masked.
I didn’t think it was a play they’d make, but anything was possible in this business.
The ones who could hurt you worst were always the people closest to you—friends, associates, the ones you trusted.
I carefully timed a sensitive question between bites, hoping it would sound nonchalant. “You stay informed on your family's doings?”
She narrowed her eyes, scrunched her brows, and met my gaze. “You didn’t ask me here to talk business, did you?”
I held up my hands and forced a friendly smile. “No. Well—yes. Sort of. I have a problem. It involves a man.”
“Figures.” She shook her head and raised a brow. “Start with the gossip. Then I’ll decide if there’s anything to tell.”
I told her about Quentin without mentioning his name. Our dinner at his place. The kiss. The banter and warmth and also the possible attempt on his life.
“Poison?” she asked. “That sounds more like a jealous wife than a professional hitter.”
“That’s true.” I held up my coffee cup and took a sip. “But, doesn’t the Moretti family—” I lowered my voice to a whisper “—sometimes use Luca Dolce?”
She frowned, but said nothing.
Luca Dolce was known on the street as The Baker. He was a ruthless hitman who worked freelance, and his signature kill method—poison in pastry—made hits look like accidents or confused investigators about the source. Exactly what was happening in the case of Quentin Vanetti.
Chiara lowered her voice to just above the din of the restaurant and the piano music.
“When I told Anthony I was meeting you, he made some calls. Then he put someone—no names here—” she glanced around the restaurant as if rival gangs and the feds might be listening “—on the phone to talk to me. Here’s the message.
” She stopped as a waiter dropped off two mimosas.
She took a sip from the champagne flute and smiled. We’d decided to switch to mimosas before I’d changed the nature of the conversation.
“Go on.” I motioned with my free hand.
She set down her glass. “Our family was thinking of expanding west. I was excited, getting the kids out of New York, you know? Maybe settle in the suburbs and live a more peaceful life. Less traffic, at least. Anthony home more often.” She picked up her drink, sipped, and looked around again, seemingly a bit paranoid.
I was on the edge of my seat. “And what happened?”
“Your father made a deal with you-know-who.”
“You figured out who I’ve been working for?”
“No.” She smiled. “I suspected, and you just confirmed. But it’s not important.”
“Keep this close.”
“Of course.” She nodded. “Our families have been at peace for decades. Nobody on my side wants an end to that. Least of all me. You’re one of the few women I can talk to—” she waved her hands in circles “—about all this shit.”
“And so what happened?”
“We were shocked at your father’s—” she looked down at the table “—you know. We talked at the funeral, you and I. It was a shock to everyone.”
“And your family suspected you-know-who double crossed my father?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. No, of course not. That didn’t make any sense at all.
Your family was expected to grow in power, territory, and make a lot of money from that deal.
And so was your new business partner. He was going to make even more money and have even more influence.
Your family partnering with him was a huge win.
You-know-who was the last person we suspected. ”
My lips turned down. What did this mean? It confirmed my own feelings about everything Quentin had told me. It made no sense for him to kill my father. They were both on track to make a lot of money. My father’s death had left Quentin vulnerable, and a lot of people suspicious.
When a big Italian mob family got suspicious, people tended to disappear.
As Quentin Vanetti was about to find out.
Unless I could prove Quentin's innocence before my deadline. I exhaled slowly, the pieces clicking into place. “You realize what this means. It points back to one of the New York families.”
“Yeah.” She nodded agreement. “And The Baker. But I swear we had nothing to do with this.”
“Who else would use The Baker to deliver a deadly pastry?”
She shrugged. “Could be anyone. He’s a freelancer and well-respected. I can make some calls.”
Hope filled my chest, and I slowly nodded. “Be discreet. I don’t want to bring anything down on you.”
“Agreed.” She finished her mimosa and grinned like we were still school girls. “I’m ordering Crème Br?lée.”
“That’s what I wanted. Torched at the table.”
“Order the sour cream cheesecake, and we’ll split.”
“Deal.”
∞∞∞
Because I’d decided to stay the evening in New York before brunch, I still had my room. I’d also let the pilot know to expect me around midnight, and he had assured me they’d be ready, regardless of the time.
Chiara had pulled me into a hug before leaving. “Be careful,” she whispered. “I'll call if I find anything.”
I desperately hoped she would. Because the thought of going through with this—of putting a bullet in Quentin—sent panic through my chest. The crushing weight of what I'd have to do threatened to drag me under.
To get my mind off those depressing thoughts, I decided to head to my father's house.
The decision came suddenly, but once it formed, I couldn't shake it.
The house had been locked up since Papa's death—Carlo hadn't wanted anyone disturbing potential evidence.
But now, weeks later, maybe there was something everyone had missed.
Something that would prove Quentin's innocence or reveal who really killed my father.
Or maybe you just want to feel close to him again.
Both things could be true.
I took an Uber to the Upper East Side. The brownstone looked exactly as it always had—elegant, imposing, unchanged by tragedy. But seeing it empty, knowing Papa would never walk through that door again, made my chest tighten.
I used my key. The security system beeped its familiar greeting, and I punched in the code with muscle memory. The alarm fell silent.
The house was too quiet.
No sounds of Papa working in his office. No housekeeper bustling about. No life. Just the hollow echo of my footsteps on marble floors and the faint smell of lemon polish.
I stood in the foyer, suddenly unsure. What was I looking for exactly? The police had been through everything. Carlo's people had combed every room. What did I think I'd find that they hadn't?
I should start with his office. That's where it happened.