Chapter 25
Julia
A server approached. “It was often used as ballast, sir.”
“No kidding.”
“Many streets in New York and Boston were paved with ballast stones arriving from Irish and Scottish quarries.”
“Learn something new every day.” Quentin took my arm. “Cocktail?”
“I think Greene Street in SoHo is made from cobblestones. I like it. It’s charming.” I contemplated how tipsy I wanted to get before dinner and decided on an Aperol Spritz.
Quentin took my hand. “I’m happy I hired you. Stone almost convinced me it was too risky.”
“Why?” I knew I’d passed all the background checks or they’d never have let me in the building again.
“He could see I was attracted to you.” A smile softened his face, and his thumb brushed gently across my knuckles. “It’s always a risk to let someone into your business and private life. To give access to information crucial to your company and also your heart.”
“I have information crucial to accessing your heart?” I brightened at the thought. “Do tell.”
“You know what I mean.” Quentin squeezed my hand. “I’m very fond of you and there’s a risk to that, as you’ve seen. You could have been killed the other night.”
“That’s also true of you.” I lifted my brows. “You were the one in a gun battle.”
“Saving you.”
“That was wonderfully old-fashioned of you.” I glanced over my shoulder. A suit of armor was displayed with a plaque stating the knight who’d worn the armor was killed when he and his horse got stuck in a bog. “That guy died playing the knight.”
“It’s a dangerous job.”
“I know.” My face flushed. “Do you think there's actually something here? Something that could last?”
“Is this the opening line to a what are we talk?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” I placed my free hand over his. “I know we’re exclusive.”
“We are?” Quentin asked.
My eyes narrowed. “You’re teasing me.”
“Maybe.” Quentin picked up his phone, his expression deadpan.
“Let me check my calendar. Ah yes—Saturday dancing with Susan.
Sunday drinks with Samantha. Monday is Marta for bowling.
Taco Tuesday with Teresa at Ricardo's. Wednesday is—” He looked up at my face and burst out laughing, the sound rich and unrestrained.
“Oh, you should see your expression right now.”
“You’re not funny.” I smacked his arm. “I’m trying to be serious.”
“I’m not seeing anyone else, Julia.” He gave me a grin. “I’ve been with you every night this week.”
“So, we’re kind of serious, then?”
“Let’s not put a label on it, okay?” He squeezed my hands. “I think things are going great but it hasn’t been that long since we met. In my line of work, well…”
“You think I could be working undercover for the FBI?” I snickered. “That’ll be the day.”
“Stranger things have happened. I knew a guy who knew a guy. Undercover for four years and three months. Building a RICO case.”
“Sounds like Donnie Brasco.”
“Yeah, great flick, by the way.” Quentin sipped his Negroni. “I’ll admit I have a fondness for Johnny Depp. That guy can play a gangster.”
“And a pirate. You know one of my hobbies is watching mafia movies?” I said it casually. Normally, I didn’t divulge this tidbit about myself because it led to awkward questions.
“No?” Quentin’s brows went up in surprise. “I took you as a fan of chick-flicks.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I love Julia Roberts. And not just because we share an awesome first name. Pretty Woman. Runaway Bride. Notting Hill. Eat Pray Love.”
“Let me test your love of mafia movies.”
“Go ahead.” I adjusted everything on the table so it didn’t look like we were about to take leisure and dining magazine photos. “I’m ready.”
“Johnny Depp roles. Black Mass.”
“He played Whitey Bulger, a Boston mob boss. Too easy.”
He raised a brow. “Okay. Public Enemies.”
“John Dillinger.”
“Blow.”
“Not a mafia flick, but Depp played George Jung, a drug smuggler who worked with a cartel from Colombia.”
“Okay, who starred in Casino and what were the real-life characters they played?”
“De Niro played Sam Rothstein. Joe Pesci played Nicky Santoro. Sharon Stone played a character based on Geri McGee and James Woods was playing Lester Diamond.”
He shook his head. “You must kill it at trivia night.”
“When the topic is gangster films, sure.” I tilted my head and sent him a smile. “I’m pretty good with thoroughbred racehorse trivia, mafia films, and eighties music. But I’m terrible at sports and geography.”
Our server approached quietly and cautiously, like we’d been discussing state secrets. “Excuse me, sir. Your table is ready.”
∞∞∞
Dinner was phenomenal.
But somewhere between courses, the evening transformed into something more. The banter about gangster movies and trivia faded away, replaced by something deeper, more intimate.
Quentin shared stories about his travels—museums he'd fallen in love with, art that had moved him, cities that had changed him. His eyes lit up when he talked about a Caravaggio he'd seen in Rome, the way the light seemed to glow from within the canvas.
I listened, drawn in, and then found myself sharing things I rarely told anyone. How my grandmother had taught me to crochet, her patient hands guiding mine. How I still took Sunday walks and thought of her—the way she'd point to trees, birds, buildings, teaching me their Italian names.
Nonna. The word caught in my throat.
I stopped myself abruptly. Too much. I was saying too much, getting too close to memories that would lead him straight to the truth about who I really was.
And just like that, reality crashed back in. My family expected me to kill this man. The man whose laugh made my heart race. The man I was falling for.
I couldn't do it. The realization hit me like a physical blow. I can't kill him.
Panic clawed at my throat. Think, Julia. Think. If I didn't complete the assignment, someone else would. Silvio, probably. Carlo would send another assassin, someone who wouldn't hesitate, someone who wouldn't know Quentin the way I did.
I couldn't just refuse. Not without proof. Not without explaining everything—and explaining meant confessing I'd gotten emotionally involved with the target. They'd pull me immediately and send someone else to finish the job.
No. I had to prove Quentin's innocence. That he didn't kill my father.
I was certain of it now—as certain as I'd ever been of anything.
All my efforts to find real evidence this past week had failed.
But it was working inside Vitality Ventures that had actually convinced me.
The way he ran his business, treated his people, honored his word.
This wasn't a man who'd order a hit on a partner, especially not one as valuable as my father had been.
Quentin was being framed. And I was running out of time to prove it.
"What are you thinking?" Quentin asked softly.
My throat closed. This was it. The moment everything either came together or fell apart.
I had to tell him. Had to come clean before this went any further, before I fell any deeper, before the lies became so tangled I'd never escape them. But telling him meant risking everything—his trust, his safety, maybe even his life if he reacted badly.
And there was still my family. Carlo. The hit he'd ordered. The ticking clock I couldn't stop.
"It's complicated," I managed.
"Those are usually the best stories."
If only he knew. "Can we order dessert first?" My voice sounded strange, too bright. "I think better with elevated blood sugar."
Something shifted in his expression—concern, maybe wariness. "This must be serious." He signaled the server. "Coffee too?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Yeah, it's going to be a long night. If you don't kill me first.
The Crostata di Ricotta e Limone arrived, beautiful and perfect. I forced myself to eat slowly, savoring each bite like it might be my last meal. The lemon was bright, the ricotta silky. I chased it with coffee, buying time, delaying the inevitable.
Finally, the plate was empty. No more excuses.
I looked at Quentin—studied him—tried to memorize his face. The way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. The strong line of his jaw. The mouth that had kissed me breathless just hours ago.
"If I die tonight," I said quietly, "know that I died happy."
His brow furrowed. "Nobody's dying tonight."
"You haven't heard what I have to say yet."
My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the table, took a breath, and forced the words out before I lost my nerve.
"I'm not who you think I am."
He went very still.
"My real name isn't Julia Russell." The confession tore out of me. "It's Julia Russo. Big Sal's daughter." My voice cracked. "I'm so sorry, Quentin. I deceived you. I lied to you from the very first moment. But I didn't know you then. I didn't—I couldn't have known—"
The silence stretched between us like a chasm.
"Your family thinks I killed your father." His voice was flat, emotionless. Dangerous. "I suspected as much when Carlo refused to take my calls."
"Yes." The word came out as barely a whisper. "My aunt Filomena was certain. She had a source, proof—everything pointed to you. It was confirmed, double-checked. There was no doubt in anyone's mind." Tears burned behind my eyes. "We all believed you murdered my father to take his territory."
"And now?" Each word was carefully measured, controlled. "What do you believe now?"
"Now I know you didn't do it." A tear escaped, trailing down my cheek.
"You couldn't have. I've seen who you are, Quentin.
How you treat people, how you run your business, how you honor your commitments.
You're not a man who'd kill a valuable partner.
" My voice broke. "You're being framed. And I—” I managed to meet his gaze. “I'm so sorry."
He leaned back, physically pulling away from me, his jaw tight. "This is a lot to process."
"I know. I know it is, and you have every right to—"
"What was your role?" His eyes were hard now, chips of ice. "You set me up with that gunman, didn't you? I was supposed to die that night?"