Chapter 27
Julia
The family meeting wasn't scheduled until eleven tonight. Nearly twelve hours away. Twelve hours to sit here and imagine every possible outcome.
Carlo had summoned me Friday night to pull me away from Quentin. The timing, the urgency—it all pointed to one thing: Silvio was stepping in to finish what I couldn't.
Quentin was going to sleep with the fishes. Push up daisies. Take a dirt nap. Feed the worms. Get a one-way ticket to Uncle Paulie's upstate farm.
The euphemisms were endless, and I clung to them because they made death seem almost funny. Almost manageable. We joke about death because it's coming for all of us eventually, and humor is easier than terror.
Then a wave of relief crashed over me, immediately followed by crushing guilt.
If Carlo had ordered both our deaths—mine and Quentin's—they wouldn't have bothered with a cross-country flight. I'd be at the bottom of a lake right now, or buried in a forest where hikers would find my bones in twenty years.
The fact that I was breathing meant I had a chance.
But the guilt... I closed my eyes tightly. Held back a sob. The guilt was suffocating.
Because somewhere between taking this assignment and boarding that plane, I'd fallen completely, irrevocably in love with Quentin Vanetti.
The man I'd been sent to kill.
The man who might die because I'd failed my family.
Please let him be okay. Please don't let Silvio be back there finishing the job.
Carlo had sent me straight from the plane to a room at the TWA Hotel—whether for my convenience or to keep me under surveillance, I wasn't sure. Probably both. It seemed safe to assume my own family wasn't going to kill me here. If they wanted me dead, I'd already be dead.
Small comfort.
I'd showered until the water ran cold, then collapsed onto the bed and turned on Netflix without really seeing it. Some true crime documentary about cults and murder. Perfect. Just what my anxiety needed.
I'd passed out somewhere around episode two.
When I woke—afternoon, not morning—I felt worse than before. Groggy, disoriented, my dreams a tangled mess of love triangles and briefcases full of blood money. Note to self: set the TV timer before passing out.
I lived in a world of crime. Grew up around it, worked in it, accepted it as normal. But even in our world with its shades of gray, some things were unforgivable. Lines you didn't cross.
I had to believe Carlo saw that. If he was thinking clearly, he wouldn't order my execution.
Sure, he might censure me, punish me, strip me of responsibilities—but I hadn't betrayed the family.
Maybe he saw what I saw—that we were being deceived.
That Quentin could be innocent. And if Quentin was innocent, then loving him wasn't a crime.
Right?
In fact—if we could solve who really killed my father—my relationship with Quentin could expand our territories and profits. Exactly what Papa had wanted. What Carlo was trying to achieve.
Keep telling yourself that, Julia. Maybe you'll believe it by tonight.
My stomach growled, pulling me from the spiral of anxiety.
The TWA Hotel didn't have room service. And even if it did, it would probably be terrible anyway. Not that I could go out—Carlo had made it crystal clear I was to stay invisible until the car picked me up.
Which meant food delivery.
I scrolled through apps with shaking hands. Grubhub. Uber Eats. DoorDash. Too many choices. My brain couldn't process decisions right now. Everything felt impossibly hard.
Finally, I just picked something. White clam pasta. Salad. Whatever.
I needed to move. Needed to do something other than sit here drowning in what-ifs.
I wandered the hallways looking for vending machines, trying not to think about Quentin. About whether he'd tried to call. Whether he hated me now. Whether he thought I'd played him all along.
Did you get my texts? Do you know I didn't want to leave? Do you understand I had no choice?
I bought two Diet Cokes. Then a Snickers. Then Wise Onion & Garlic chips. Halfway back to my room, I turned around and grabbed Zapp's Cajun Dill Gator-Tators too.
The ice machine was down another corridor. I filled the bucket mechanically, the sound of ice tumbling oddly soothing. Normal. Mundane.
This is what being middle class is like, right? Getting your own ice?
The thought made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.
I was such a spoiled brat. Here I was, complaining about fetching ice, when I might not live to see tomorrow.
When the food arrived, I had to go down to the lobby to get it myself. Stand at the front desk like a regular person while the delivery guy handed over a plastic bag.
This definitely wasn't The Regis.
Riding the elevator back up, clutching my sad little bag of pasta, I understood.
Carlo had done this on purpose.
The message was subtle but clear: Remember your place. Remember who you are. Remember that all the designer clothes and expensive hotels and proximity to power? That's a privilege. One that can be taken away.
He was reminding me that I was dispensable.
Or maybe—maybe he was protecting me. Keeping me isolated so no one else in the family would know I was back. So I'd be safe until the meeting.
I wanted to believe that. Desperately.
I'd bet money there were watchers on the hotel. A couple of soldiers making sure I didn't run. That was fine. I had nowhere to go anyway. No one I could see. And honestly? I was too exhausted and terrified to leave this room.
Carlo had never mistreated me before. Never lied to me. He wasn't our father—no one could replace Papa—but he was a good man. A capable leader.
Please let him be fair. Please let him listen.
I turned on the TV. Found a show about an international serial killer who murdered tourists in the jungle. Watched bodies being hidden, evidence being destroyed, families left with nothing but questions.
Perfect.
I ate my pasta without tasting it.
Napped fitfully, dreams full of blood and betrayal.
Woke up and ate half the Snickers. Then a handful of chips. Then another handful. Both flavors, obviously. Who doesn't eat Onion & Garlic chips when they're alone and possibly facing execution?
The hours crawled by like years.
At eight o'clock, I took a scalding shower, letting the water burn my skin until I felt something other than numb terror. Put on the clothes from my go-bag. At least they were practical—slacks, a simple blouse, flats I could run in if I needed to.
You're not going to need to run. Carlo will listen. He has to listen.
I checked out at nine sharp. Met the limo at the curb.
The driver was the same kid who'd taken me for pizza that first week. A lifetime ago, when I'd thought this assignment would be simple. When I'd thought I could kill a man and walk away unscathed.
He opened the door without speaking.
I tried for levity, desperate for anything to feel normal. "You look a year older."
"Driving in this city ages you fast." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Word from Carlo is no stops."
"Expected."
He shut the door. Got behind the wheel. Didn't say another word.
The silence pressed in as we pulled away from the hotel, heading toward Howard Beach.
Toward my family.
Toward whatever judgment waited for me.
I pressed my forehead against the cold window and whispered into the darkness: "Please let Quentin be alive. Please let him be safe."
Even if I never saw him again.
Even if tonight was the end for me.
I just needed him to be okay.
Because loving him might be the only real thing I'd ever done.
And I refused to let that be the thing that got him killed.
∞∞∞
I followed our route on my phone, more out of boredom than curiosity.
We ended up in Mill Basin at my great-uncle’s place.
I’d been here a few times for someone’s birthday party.
I couldn’t recall whose birthday it was, one of my many cousins, probably.
I do remember he had a nice pool in the backyard.
I often wondered why these old guys didn’t sell their multi-million-dollar mansions, take their accumulated fortunes, and move somewhere exotic by a beach.
Like Barbara—the woman I’d replaced—had done.
Thinking about her, I hoped everything would end up resolved with Quentin and Carlo. If they could come to terms, nobody would pay poor Barbara a visit on Maui. She didn’t deserve to be collateral damage in someone else’s war.
The young driver opened my door and politely declined to answer when I asked if he’d be waiting for me. “I do what I’m told.”
“Got it.” I walked toward the path up to the gate at my great uncle’s place.
This particular great uncle was my mom’s uncle, on her father’s side.
Most of his generation had passed, but Uncle Giuseppe was still hanging on.
Last I saw him, he was still getting around on his own and cracking jokes.
I wondered if he ever dreamed of a different life.
He could be living on a beach in South America or in a cosmopolitan city in Europe.
Instead, he’d chosen to stay in New York and he continued to host family meetings.
I wondered if this was my fate as well. If I didn’t die first.
As I approached the gate, one of the family’s soldiers, someone I didn’t recognize, approached me. “Inside the gate, you’ll be patted down, Donna Julia. If you’re carrying, please return to the limo and leave—”
“What the hell?”
“Carlo’s orders, Donna Julia. It’s everyone. He said to tell you you’re not being singled out. Everyone is getting checked for weapons.”
“Shit.”
“He told me to tell you not to take this personally.”
“Okay. Whatever. I’m not carrying.”
“Right this way.”
He opened the gate for me. I strode into the courtyard a bit arrogantly. Two men I didn’t recognize carrying MP5Ks greeted me. One watched and one frisked me. By the time I walked into the foyer, I was fuming.
Vinny greeted me with air kisses but no humor. “Hey Jules.”
“You look like you lost a puppy.”
“Things are tense.”