Chapter 21
Julia
I left the office and headed to my car. Quentin was right. I was exhausted. The weekend had wrung me out—flying, airports, my family's suffocating presence, Silvio's threats, the discovery at my father’s house.
The enemy could be anyone. A rival. An ally.
Someone I trusted.
Someone close to me.
My mind recoiled from the thought, but I couldn't escape it. If someone in our family had betrayed us—if one of our own had killed my father—everything would collapse. Blood would flow in the streets. People I'd known my whole life would die.
And I'd be the one pulling the trigger.
Meglio avere il diavolo per nemico che una donna offesa. Better to have the devil as an enemy than an offended woman. Nonna had whispered that to me when I was young, her eyes hard as stone. She knew what our blood was capable of.
If someone close to me had done this? They'd learn exactly what fury looked like.
But Quentin's revelation kept circling back, refusing to let me settle into rage.
That letter. My father's handwriting—I'd know it anywhere, that messy scrawl I'd watched him sign on birthday cards and death warrants.
Could it be forged? Maybe. But who would have planned for me to see it? Who could have known I'd recognize it?
The pieces were shifting, and I didn't like where they were landing.
Quentin was being framed. I felt it in my bones now, that sick certainty.
Which meant whoever wanted him dead had also wanted my father dead. The same hand had set both murders in motion.
Find the person framing Quentin, find my father's real killer.
Simple. Terrifying. And I was running out of time.
I sat in my car trying to think. What should I do?
The evidence from Papa's house burned in my mind. The security override. The cryptic "F" notation.
Someone in the family.
I needed to know who. And there was only one way to find out—carefully test the people who had access, who had motive, who might know something.
I pulled out my phone and stared at it.
Call Filomena. See how she reacts.
My finger hovered over her name. Part of me didn't want to make this call. Didn't want to suspect the woman who'd raised me, loved me, taught me everything I knew.
But I had to know.
I pressed dial.
"Jules, sweetheart!" Filomena's voice was warm, familiar. I could hear snippets of New York city traffic in the background. "I wasn't expecting to hear from you today. Everything all right?"
"I need to talk to you about something." I kept my voice steady, casual. "About Papa's case."
"Of course. What is it?"
"I've been going through Quentin's business records. Really digging deep." This was true, but not what I wanted to talk about. I was laying groundwork. "And I'm not finding anything that connects him to Papa's death. No money trails, no suspicious meetings, nothing."
A pause. "That's because he's good at covering his tracks."
"Maybe." I let doubt creep into my voice. "Or maybe we're looking in the wrong direction."
"Julia." Her tone sharpened slightly. "We've been over this. I have sources—"
"I know, I know. You can't reveal them." I interrupted, watching my own face in the rearview mirror, searching for any hint that I was giving myself away. "But Zia, what if your sources are wrong? What if someone's feeding you bad information?"
"Why would they do that?"
"I don't know. That's what I'm trying to figure out." I took a breath. "Did Papa have any enemies in the family? Anyone who might benefit from his death?"
Another pause, longer this time. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm asking." I softened my tone. "You knew him better than anyone. You two were close. Was there anyone he was having problems with? Anyone he didn't trust?"
"Your father trusted family." Her voice was firm. "That's why this hurts so much. Quentin Vanetti was his partner, someone he'd worked with for years. And that snake betrayed him."
I noticed she didn't actually answer my question.
"When was the last time you saw Papa?" I asked, keeping it conversational. "Before he died, I mean."
"I already told everyone. I’d been there earlier that night. Why?"
“What did you talk about? Did he worry that someone might want him dead? Did he tell you that?”
“No. We spoke of other things. Family things. You.”
“Me?”
“Yes. He regretted pushing you into the business. Wondered if you’d be married by now with a couple of kids.”
“Oh.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
"The police went through everything, Jules.
So did Carlo's people. So did I." A car horn blared in the background.
"Look, Tesoro, I appreciate that you're being thorough.
But you're way out on a limb here. Quentin Vanetti is dangerous.
He's manipulative. And I know you've been working closely with him—"
"I'm just doing my job."
"Are you?" Her voice dropped. "Because it sounds like you're defending him."
I'd pushed too hard. Time to pull back.
"I'm not defending anyone. I'm investigating.
" I let frustration bleed into my tone—not hard, since I was actually frustrated.
"But I need to be sure, Zia. Think of what happens if we're wrong.
If we go after Quentin and he's innocent, we start a war for nothing.
The Morettis, the CS13—they'd tear us apart while we're fighting the Vanettis. "
"We're not wrong."
"How can you be so sure?" I pressed. "If you can't tell me your source, at least tell me what evidence they have. Something concrete I can verify."
"I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because that's not how this works!" Her patience was fraying. "If people can't trust me to keep their confidence, I'm useless to this family. I'm dead. You understand that, don't you?"
"I understand." But I also understood that she was hiding something. "I just—I need to be one-hundred percent sure before I do this."
"You can be sure. I'm telling you, Jules. Quentin Vanetti killed your father."
The conviction in her voice was absolute. Either she truly believed it, or she was an exceptional liar.
Or both.
"Who benefits?" I asked quietly. "If Quentin's dead and we're at war with the Vanettis, who benefits from that?"
Silence.
"I don't like what you're implying," Filomena said finally, her voice cold.
"I'm not implying anything. I'm asking questions. Papa taught me to always ask questions."
"Your father also taught you about loyalty. About trust." She softened slightly. "I've been watching over you since the day your mother brought you home from Saint Camillus. You know this, Tesoro. You know I would never lie to you. Never lead you astray."
Tesoro. Treasure.
Something cracked inside my chest. She'd called me that when I was little, when she'd hold me after nightmares. Zia had been the one who taught me to cook, to laugh, to believe I mattered beyond my last name.
"I know," I whispered, hating the doubt creeping through me like poison. "I know you wouldn't, Zia."
"Then trust me. Finish your assignment. Do what needs to be done."
"Okay." The word felt like glass in my throat.
"I love you, Jules. Everything I do, everything I've ever done, is to protect this family. To protect you."
"I love you too."
I hung up before she could say anything else.
My hands were shaking.
She'd refused to reveal her source or any evidence. She'd deflected every question about potential family involvement.
And she'd pushed—hard—for me to kill Quentin without proof.
I stared at my phone, at Filomena's contact photo. Her smiling face, arm around my shoulders at my college graduation.
Either she's protecting her source and genuinely believes Quentin is guilty... Or she's the one who's been playing me all along.
I didn't know which possibility terrified me more.
But I knew one thing: I couldn't trust anyone in my family until I figured out the truth.
Not even the woman who'd raised me.
Especially not her.
I needed to concentrate, so I silenced both my phones. I tossed them into the glove box, but not before connecting the music app via Bluetooth to the car's stereo system.
The Crimson Rooster happened to be on my route home. I made an impulsive decision to pull in—not for the food, exactly. More for the few minutes of mindless waiting. Time to think without driving.
Without making decisions.
I rolled into the drive-through, barely looking at the menu. "Small fries, a Diet Coke and..." I hesitated. "You know what? Add an order of your Hell's Whisper Wings with the sauce."
I wasn't even that hungry. But I needed something. Anything to feel normal for five minutes. The sauce had a reputation—Nashville hot with a kick that would probably destroy my palate for the next meal. Whatever. I'd eat one wing and toss the rest.
The wait time was long—Crimson Rooster was always busy. I sat in line, music playing, trying to sort through the mess in my head.
Someone in the family had betrayed us. Someone close. The pieces were shifting, and I didn't like where they were landing.
Several minutes later, I pulled onto the street with my order. I grabbed a fry—hot, salty, perfectly greasy. I popped one in my mouth as I pulled onto the street, savoring the deep-fried perfection. Chasing it down with a sip of soda.
My mind drifted to brunch with Chiara Moretti. Had she been honest with me? My instincts said yes, but—
Blue sedan. Three cars back.
I'd seen that car before. My hand froze halfway to the fries.
Was someone following me? I knew it wasn’t Silvio. He’d promised to keep his distance.
I took a left on Second Avenue instead of my usual right, watching the rearview. The sedan turned too. Crap. No point leading them straight to my apartment, though if they'd been tailing me for any length of time, they already knew where I lived.