Chapter 28
Julia
Filomena stood before the family like a prosecuting attorney delivering final arguments.
"The Moretti family is making territorial moves. They cannot be trusted." Her voice rang with conviction. "But more importantly—Quentin Vanetti is responsible for the death of Don Salvatore. I am certain of this."
My stomach dropped. Certain? But the security system was overridden from inside. Only family had the code. Carlo. Vinny. Her. Me. Not Quentin. He couldn't have disarmed it. So who did?
"How certain?" Carlo leaned forward. "What proof do you have, Aunt Filomena?"
"I have sources I've sworn to protect."
What sources? Papa's notepad said "F – 9 p.m. Tuesday. Wine. Talk." Tuesday. The night he died. F could be anyone of our people. But whoever F was, they were there that night. And the security system was overridden from inside. Only family had that code.
"From your own family?" Carlo's voice sharpened. "From your don?"
"My word is my bond." Filomena's chin lifted. "If I break faith with my sources, how will I maintain the network we need to survive in this world?"
My hands clenched in my lap under the table, nails digging into my palms.
She's going to get him killed. She's going to get Quentin killed and she won't even say why.
"I understand protecting a turned cop," Carlo said carefully. "That's valuable. But you have more than that. And you're not sharing it with me."
"Please, Don Carlo." Filomena spread her hands in supplication. "Trust me. I've been faithful to this family since before you were born. Everything I do, I do for love of the Russos."
I couldn't stay silent. Couldn't let this happen.
"Carlo." My voice came out stronger than I felt.
He looked at me, and I held his gaze. "I'm certain Quentin is innocent. I've seen evidence—real evidence.” I paused, knowing I couldn’t reveal what I’d seen in Papa's office.
The security override. The meeting with “F” the night he died.
His journal entry. None of it pointed to Quentin.
I swallowed before continuing, “He has accounting books for a restaurant with a handwritten note from our father.
He knows things, Carlo. Personal things.
About the cigars Papa loved, the tequila he drank, how he conducted business.
Did you know that Papa's death cost Quentin millions?
It makes no sense for him to be the killer. "
Filomena turned to me, her expression pitying. Dismissive. "You're too emotionally involved, dear."
The words hit like a slap. I wanted to scream.
Emotionally involved? I'm the only one who actually investigated.
Who found the evidence everyone else missed.
The phone number hidden in The Count of Monte Cristo.
The security code that proved Quentin couldn't have been there.
But I couldn't say any of this. Not here. Not now.
Heat flooded my face. My heart hammered so hard I was sure everyone could hear it.
Vinny started to speak—"Actually, Carlo, Julia has a point—"
"Not now, Vinny." Carlo's hand came up, cutting him off.
Then my cousins started arguing about territory. About respect. About who should handle what. One of them made some joke I didn't hear over the blood rushing in my ears.
From the patio, Nonno's voice drifted in: "That rat bastard Vanetti... I'd kill him myself if I could still hold a gun straight..."
The room erupted into overlapping voices. Accusations. Arguments. Everyone talking over each other.
I sat frozen, watching it all spiral out of control.
This is it. They're going to order the hit right now. Silvio's going to kill him and I won't be able to stop it.
"ENOUGH!"
Carlo's fist slammed onto the table with a crack that made everyone jump.
Instant silence.
No one moved. No one breathed. You didn't provoke the don when his temper flared.
Carlo stood, his chair scraping back. Then he began to pace.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Like a predator in a cage, all coiled energy and barely restrained violence.
Five minutes passed. No one spoke. Even Vinny sat perfectly still, eyes tracking Carlo's movements.
I counted my own heartbeats. Tried to slow my breathing. Tried not to let the terror show on my face.
Please, Carlo. Please see reason. Please don't order his death. I’ll explain it all when it’s safe. In private.
Finally, Carlo stopped. Pulled out his phone. Hit a number on speaker.
My breath caught.
"Yes. I'm here." Silvio's voice filled the room.
Oh God. He's there right now. He could kill Quentin tonight.
"Don't make a move," Carlo said. "Fly back to New York on the jet after your cousin returns to her job."
Relief crashed through me so suddenly I felt dizzy. My explanation died on my lips. Now I had a chance to save him.
"You sure?" Silvio's voice carried doubt. Objection.
"Yes I’m sure. I've got you on speaker for the family. Anyone objects, make your case now. But I won't tolerate renegade actions or insubordination."
"I think it's a mistake." Silvio's words made my blood run cold. "He knows something's up. His guard is up, security's tightening. The longer we wait, the harder this gets."
No. Please, Silvio, shut up. Don't push this.
"I'm not satisfied he's guilty," Carlo said firmly. "I'm sending my sister back to confirm. She has one week. I'll make my final decision then."
One week.
Seven days.
Seven days to prove Quentin's innocence or watch him die.
"I'm on record with my objections," Silvio said. "But I'll obey. We'll talk face to face."
"Good."
The line went dead.
Carlo's gaze swept the room slowly, deliberately. He locked eyes with each person—siblings, cousins, aunt, uncles. Held the contact until they looked away or nodded.
Old school intimidation. Looking for tells. For guilt. For disloyalty.
I met his gaze when it reached me and didn't flinch. Couldn't flinch. Had to show strength even though inside I was crumbling.
Finally, he nodded. "I'm saying this once. If anyone is withholding information that could hurt this family, there will be hell to pay."
Murmurs of agreement around the table.
"Then it's settled." Carlo's gaze found mine again, and the weight of his stare made my spine straighten involuntarily.
"Julia returns to work Monday morning. You'll need a good excuse for your absence—come up with a believable story.
Work things out with Vanetti." He paused, and the silence stretched.
"You have one week. Either you prove beyond doubt he's an ally, or he's done.
I won't hold Silvio back if you fail us. "
The finality in his voice was absolute.
One week.
Prove Quentin's innocence or lose everything.
"I understand." My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry despite the wine.
One week to save his life. One week to prove what I knew in my heart—that he was innocent. That someone in this family had killed my father.
I'd have to tell Quentin everything. That my entire family believed he'd murdered Papa. That they'd given me seven days to prove otherwise. I'd have to convince him to work with me, to trust me despite everything I'd done.
But would he even listen? Now that he knew my secret, would he order my death the moment I walked through his door? Was I taking my life in my hands just going back to him?
It was a chance I had to take.
My feelings for him were too strong now. Too real. I couldn't keep lying. Couldn't keep playing this game.
But I couldn't tell Carlo that. He didn't care about my feelings or my methods. Only results.
And if I failed?
If I couldn't prove Quentin's innocence in seven days?
Silvio would finish the job. Quick, clean, professional.
And I'd have to watch the man I loved die.
Or die trying to stop it.
∞∞∞
The meeting dragged on. Territory disputes in New Jersey. Revenue streams in New York. Numbers and negotiations that should have mattered but felt distant, unreal.
I mostly tuned it out, my mind two thousand miles away with a man who probably hated me by now.
But I watched Carlo. Really watched him for the first time in months. The weight he carried, the decisions he made that rippled out to affect hundreds of families. People who depended on the income he generated, the deals he maintained, the territory he protected.
Lives in his hands.
One wrong choice and people died. Families starved. Empires crumbled.
He's doing his best. Filling Papa's shoes when no one could ever really fill them.
A wave of love and respect for my brother washed over me, followed immediately by guilt.
Because I was about to betray him. Or betray Quentin. One or the other. There was no path forward that didn't involve destroying someone I cared about.
When the official business finally ended—nearly two hours later—people began to drift toward the bar, the patio, forming smaller conversations.
Vinny materialized at my elbow with a fresh glass of wine. "You're probably dying for a drink by now, cugì."
"What I'm dying for is a pillow." Exhaustion hit me like a physical weight. "It's almost two in the morning. But—" I took the glass anyway. "I'll settle for this."
The wine hit my empty stomach like a warm wave. My head went pleasantly fuzzy almost immediately.
Mistake. Bad idea. Need food.
Vinny and I made small talk—forced, awkward—but my blood sugar was crashing hard. The room tilted slightly. Words became difficult.
"I need to eat something," I admitted.
"Let's get a slice. I'll drive." He reached for my elbow.
I jerked away, scowling. "I'm not your pet."
Hurt flashed across his face. "Sorry, Jules. I was just—"
"Vinny, that won't be necessary."
Aunt Filomena's hand settled on Vinny's shoulder with the weight of authority.
His expression shuttered immediately. "Goodnight, Jules. See you around."
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the one person who could see through every lie I'd ever told.