Chapter 25 #2
"No!" Panic flooded through me. "No, Quentin, I swear. That assassin tried to kill me. You saw the bullet hole in my windshield—it missed my head by inches. I had no idea you were following me. You weren't the target until you intervened."
"Then what was your role?" Each word cut like a blade. "Besides spying on me? Setting me up for someone else's bullet?"
The shame was crushing, suffocating. I couldn't meet his eyes.
"Julia." His voice dropped dangerously low. "What were you sent here to do?"
"I was supposed to kill you myself." The confession ripped out of me in a whisper. "I'm the hitter. I was the assassin they sent."
Silence.
When I finally forced myself to look up, his face had gone blank. Completely shut down. The warmth I'd seen in his eyes all evening had vanished, replaced by the cold calculation of a mob boss assessing a threat.
“They sent a woman to kill me.” His voice was devoid of emotion.
"Technically a hitwoman," I tried weakly, desperately searching for any crack in his armor. Any sign the man I'd laughed with over dinner was still there.
Nothing.
"Your family put you in danger to kill me.” He shook his head slowly, like he didn't recognize the world anymore. "Your father wouldn't have approved." The words came out hard, almost accusatory. "For any reason."
"I know." Fresh tears spilled over. "You're absolutely right. He'd be furious with me. Disappointed. Ashamed." I wiped at my face with shaking hands. "But it's hard—navigating this world as a woman. Maybe you wouldn't understand that."
He lifted his wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid like blood. Studying it. Not looking at me. "It still isn't right."
The words landed like a death sentence.
This was it. The moment I lost him. The moment everything I'd started to hope for shattered into pieces I'd never be able to put back together.
"There's no justification for it." My hands trembled. "You're right. I looked you in the eye every day and lied. I let you trust me. I let you—" My voice broke. "I let myself care about you while planning your execution. There's no defense for that. No argument that makes it okay."
"Then why are you still here?" His tone was ice. "Why confess now?"
"Because I can't do it." The words came out as barely a whisper. "I was supposed to kill you, Quentin. That was the job. But I can't. I won't. Even if it costs me everything."
His intense gaze met mine, piercing into my soul.
“Julia. You came to work for me specifically to kill me.
You looked me in the eye every single day, smiled at me, let me trust you—all while planning to put a bullet in my head.
" His voice dropped dangerously low. "You can't expect me to just brush that away. "
"I know." My vision blurred with tears. "I know it's unforgivable.
But please—" I reached across the table, stopping just short of touching his hand.
"I'm so sorry, Quentin. You have to believe me. When we’re together, it's real.
I'm not playing you. I couldn't do it. I'm not a person who would sleep with someone as an undercover role.
Never. I only have sex in caring relationships formed around love and respect. I didn't know you at the beginning."
He didn't move. Didn't acknowledge my outstretched hand.
"But I know you now," I continued, my voice breaking. "You're innocent. This—what we have—it's real, Quentin. Something powerful. Something worth fighting for. Please don't throw it away because of what I was supposed to do. I'm asking you to look at what I didn't do. What I couldn't do."
Silence stretched between us.
Then he pushed back his chair and stood. "I need to think."
My heart dropped into my stomach. "Quentin—"
"Excuse me." His voice was polite, distant. The voice of a stranger. "I need to use the restroom."
He walked away without looking back.
I sat frozen, watching him disappear around the corner. My hands were shaking so badly I had to grip the edge of the table.
He's not coming back. He's going to walk out. Or worse—he's calling someone. Stone. His security. Someone to deal with the threat.
Seconds after Quentin walked away from the table, my phone buzzed. I didn’t have many contacts stored because it was my cover phone. As much as I trusted security technology, I used a separate burner for family business.
It was my brother. I recognized the number. One of his burners. A message from him on this phone would be bad news.
Your cousin is waiting outside with the engine running. You have ninety seconds. If you don’t comply, your date is going to have a fatal accident. And you’ll be up shit creek. Move.
My heart pounded in my chest.
Carlo was not one for dramatic embellishments. He didn’t use exaggerations. Like our father, he never issued empty threats.
I stood, grabbed my handbag off the handy little hook, and scanned the restaurant for Quentin.
He wasn’t in view. I simply didn’t have time to bust into the men’s room and explain.
I wouldn’t even know what to say if I had.
I raced for the exit. Shit. This was going to send the wrong message to Quentin and his team.
Silvio sat behind the wheel of a plain domestic sedan. He liked keeping a low profile and I supposed it was for good reason. The passenger door flew open. He growled at me like I was going to be his next meal. “Get in.”
I jumped in and slammed the door. “I’m in. What the hell, Silvio?” I could growl, too. “What’s going on?”
“Carlo wants you in New York. Immediately. I’m driving you to the airport, putting you on the jet, and not telling you anything more.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Take it up with Carlo.”
"Please, Silvio. Tell me you're not going to take out Quentin.
" I was panicking on the inside. Silvio, if he was anything, was a good soldier.
He'd do whatever Carlo commanded. Or die trying.
I needed to warn Quentin. I felt guilty immediately after having that thought. I could not betray my family.
But I had something special with Quentin. Something real. Something I didn't want to lose.
"Please, Silvio." I reached across the car and tugged his arm. "Tell me the plan."
"I told Carlo what I've been seeing all week. You spending the night with him. The way you look at him. That cozy dinner tonight. You're compromised, Jules. I'm not letting you blow this."
He took his eyes off the road for a brief moment and looked at me with disgust. "And you know why, Jules?"
I hid a tear, ashamed of my weakness at that moment. I knew. The oath. The one I'd be taking soon—if I survived making my bones. The one that bound Silvio tighter than blood, tighter than anything. Once you're made, you don't betray the family. Not for love. Not for money. Not for anything.
Silvio would kill me tonight without question if Carlo ordered it. Family isn't necessarily blood related when it comes to The Family.
∞∞∞
I couldn't sleep.
The jet's silk sheets felt like sandpaper against my skin.
At least I had a go-bag in the plane with a change of clothes, sleepwear, and personal essentials.
I'd taken half a Sonata an hour ago—nothing.
My mind wouldn't stop racing, replaying every moment of that dinner.
Quentin's face when I told him. The coldness in his eyes. The way he'd walked away.
And then I'd run. Left him there without explanation.
What must he think of me?
I tried Carlo again. Straight to voicemail. No callback.
Aunt Filomena—same thing. Not even a text.
My fingers hovered over Vinny's contact. But no. He'd stay loyal to Carlo, as he should. I couldn't put him in that position, force him to choose between his don and his cousin.
Silvio had said exactly three words to me after dropping me at the private terminal: "Good luck, Jules."
Then he'd driven away, probably waiting in the parking lot to make sure the jet actually took off before reporting back to Carlo.
The pilots wouldn't talk to me beyond basic pleasantries. Their orders came from Carlo, not me. The flight plan was locked.
I tried Quentin's number again.
It didn't even ring. Straight to voicemail.
He'd blocked me.
My chest constricted, making it hard to breathe. I set the phone down with shaking hands and stared at the cabin ceiling, eyes burning.
Nobody was talking to me.
Nobody would help me.
I was completely, utterly alone.
Thirty thousand feet in the air, racing toward either redemption or execution, and I had no idea which.
Hours ago—just hours—I'd been sitting across from Quentin in that beautiful restaurant, candlelight warming his eyes, his laugh making my heart race.
Eating perfect gnocchi, drinking wine that cost a fortune, feeling like maybe, just maybe, I could have this.
Could have him. Could have a life beyond blood and loyalty and impossible choices.
Now?
Now I was choking on the consequences of every decision I'd made since the moment I'd walked into Vitality Ventures with a fake name.
They say only two things are certain in life: death and taxes.
But there's a third certainty they never mention.
One minute you're on top of the world.
The next, you're drowning.
And nobody's coming to save you.