Chapter 28 #2
"I'd like a little chat, Julia." Filomena's hand closed around my arm—not rough, but firm. Inescapable. "We'll stop for food. Your choice. Then I'll drop you at the airport."
My stomach knotted.
This is it. Whatever she's been holding back all night, I'm about to hear it.
"Of course, Aunt Filomena." I set down the unfinished wine with shaking hands and followed her out of the house to her car.
Her driver opened the rear door. She gestured for me to enter first. I did, sinking into leather that smelled like cigars, old money, and power.
Through the open door, I heard her giving instructions. "We're taking Julia to JFK, but find something open first. Real pizza. A proper slice. If you're hungry, get a pie."
"I'll have to head downtown, ma'am."
"I've got nowhere to be, and we have business to discuss. Put up the partition and don't interrupt until you have food."
"Yes, ma'am."
The door closed. The partition slid up. We were sealed in together.
Alone.
The thirty-minute drive to Downtown Brooklyn passed in near silence. Filomena stared out the window. I stared at my hands, counting heartbeats, trying to prepare for whatever was coming.
We arrived just before three. The pizza place was perfect—the kind you only find in Brooklyn, where the crust is thin and crispy and the grease runs down your wrists.
I ate mechanically, barely tasting it, my stomach cramping with anxiety despite the food.
"I needed that." I wiped my face, forced a smile. "Thank you."
"I didn't want to talk until you had something in your stomach." Filomena studied me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "Feeling better?"
"Yes. Thank you." I searched her face for clues. Was this going to be gentle guidance? Harsh discipline? A warning?
Her expression gave nothing away.
"So what's on your mind that couldn't be said at the meeting?"
She smiled—soft, almost maternal—and my blood ran cold. Did she know I’d been snooping? Found something that implicated her? I swallowed. I'd seen her smile like this right before she delivered bad news. Right before she'd told me things I didn't want to hear but needed to know.
"You know I love you, Jules. This week is going to be hard, but you need to grow up and finish the job." Her voice was gentle. Implacable. "Quentin must die."
The pizza turned to lead in my stomach.
"But he's innocent."
"No." The gentleness vanished, replaced by steel. "You've allowed your feelings for him to compromise your judgment."
My stomach dropped. "What?"
"Don't play innocent with me, Julia." She leaned forward, and I saw it then—the ruthlessness that made her dangerous. That made her survive in this world. "Silvio told me everything."
Heat flooded my face. "That's not—I was getting close to him. Building trust. That's what you taught me—"
"I taught you to be smart. Professional." Her voice cut like a blade. "Not to fall into bed with your target."
Crushing shame cut through me.
"Maybe I was just sleeping with him to gain his trust," I tried desperately. "That's tradecraft, isn't it? Using whatever tools—"
Filomena's expression turned pitying. Disappointed.
"Don't forget who you're talking to. Are you really asking me to believe you'd take a man to bed like a prostitute, just to extract information?
" She shook her head. "I know you, Julia.
I've known you since you were born. Stolen candy.
Breaking curfew. Taking your father's car for joyrides with Vinny.
" Her voice softened slightly. "And I know when you're lying to yourself. "
I hung my head, unable to meet her gaze.
"You love him," she said flatly. "Don't you?"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't lie. Not to her.
"And he'd kill you in a heartbeat if he knew who you really were," Filomena continued. "Quentin Vanetti murdered your father, Julia. And you've compromised everything—your mission, your family, yourself—for a man who would put a bullet in your head without hesitation."
I choked—actually choked—on the words I needed to say. "He didn't kill Papa."
"You're wrong."
"I've seen the evidence, Aunt Filomena. The business deals. The timeline. He had no reason to kill Papa—every reason to keep him alive. Papa's death cost Quentin millions."
"You're missing the bigger picture."
"What picture?" Frustration bled into my voice. I wanted to accuse her of killing my father, but I couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe I could get her to confess? "What am I missing? Please. Is there something I need to know?"
She was quiet for a long moment, studying me.
"Did you tell him? Does he know who you are?"
My body betrayed me. The flinch. The catch in my breath.
Filomena's eyes widened. "You told him."
No. No, no, no.
"Yes." The word escaped before I could stop it. "I told him everything. At dinner. And then—"My voice broke. "Then Carlo texted and Silvio pulled me out before I could explain. Before I could—"
"Before you could what? Beg him to believe you?" Filomena's voice was harsh. "Julia, he probably thinks you're playing him. Or worse—he knows you're a threat and he's planning how to eliminate you."
"No, he's not like that—"
"You don't know what he's like!" She leaned forward, gripping my arm. "You've been with him for a month and you still don't know the real Quentin Vanetti. The man who killed your father in cold blood."
"He didn't—"
“He did." Her grip tightened. "And now that he knows who you are? Julia, you can't go back there. It's too dangerous."
My chest constricted. "I have to. Carlo gave me one week—"
"Forget what Carlo said. The situation has changed. You've been compromised." She released my arm. "I'm going to recommend he send Silvio instead."
"Recommend all you want." I met her eyes, forcing steel into my voice. "But Carlo is the don. He gives the orders. Not you."
Her eyes flashed. "Don't be stupid, Julia."
"I'm not being stupid. I'm following orders." I straightened my spine. "Carlo gave me seven days. Until he tells me otherwise, that's what I'm doing."
"Even if it gets you killed?"
"Even then." My voice didn't waver. "I'll do whatever Carlo commands. If he pulls me from the assignment, fine. If he sends Silvio, fine. But until he does—I'm seeing this through."
Filomena studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
"You really think you can go back there?" she asked quietly. "Walk through Quentin's door after confessing everything? After running away?"
"I don't know." The honesty hurt. "But I'm going to try."
"And if he kills you?"
"Then I die following Carlo's orders. Like a good soldier." I swallowed hard. "Isn't that what you taught me?"
Something flickered across her face—pain, maybe, or regret.
"That's not what I want for you," she said softly.
"I know." My voice gentled. "But it's not your choice. It's Carlo's."
The silence stretched between us.
Finally, Filomena nodded. "You're right. It's his decision." She looked out the window. "But Julia? Even if Quentin doesn't kill you the moment you walk through his door—you won't be able to kill him. Will you?"
The question hung in the air.
"Will you?" she repeated.
"He's innocent," I whispered.
"That's not what I asked."
I couldn't answer. Because we both knew the truth.
Even if Quentin was guilty—which he wasn't—I couldn't pull the trigger.
Not anymore.
"That's what I thought." Filomena's expression was sad. Resigned. "When Carlo finds out, it won't end well for you."
"I know."
"And you're still going back?"
"Yes."
She shook her head slowly. "Then God help you, bambina. Because I can't."
∞∞∞
I flew back Sunday morning on autopilot—numb, exhausted, hollowed out.
The few hours of restless sleep at the JFK hotel had left me worse than if I hadn't slept at all. Every muscle ached. My eyes burned. My thoughts moved through thick fog.
I knew better than to try sleeping on the plane. I'd only wake up feeling worse, more disoriented. Besides, the anxiety would have kept me awake anyway—heart racing, mind spinning through worst-case scenarios I couldn't stop.
Seven days. Seven days to prove he's innocent. Seven days before Silvio comes for him.
As soon as I got home, I went straight to bed. Didn't unpack. Didn't change. Just fell face-first into the mattress and crashed hard, like someone had cut my strings.
When I finally dragged myself back to consciousness late Sunday afternoon, I felt like I'd been hit by a garbage truck. Then backed over. Twice.
Everything hurt. My head pounded. My feet throbbed. My body was stiff and sore, and I smelled like airplane and stress sweat and desperation.
I didn't want to move. Didn't want to face reality.
But I couldn't sleep anymore either. My mind was too loud, too full of Carlo's ultimatum and Filomena's cold instructions and Nonno's venomous curses.
Kill him. He must die. Rat bastard. Snake.
I forced myself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom like a zombie.
One look in the mirror and I groaned. "Crap."
Dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Hair a tangled mess. Skin pale and drawn.
I looked like death.
Fitting.
I turned on the shower, and the memories hit me like a physical blow.
Quentin. Here. In this bathroom. His hands on my skin. His mouth on mine. Water cascading over us as we—
I gripped the edge of the sink, breath coming short and sharp.
Stop. Don't think about it. You can't think about it.
But I couldn't stop.
The shower. The bed. Those kisses. His laugh. The way he'd looked at me like I was precious, like I mattered, like I was more than just Big Sal's daughter or Carlo's weapon.
He'd made me feel seen.
And I'd lied to him about everything.
Why does he have to be so perfect? The thought came with a surge of irrational anger. Why couldn't he have been cruel or boring or awful?
But he wasn't. He was handsome, yes—devastatingly so—but it was so much more than that. His demeanor. His wit. His charm. The way he could tell story after story like he'd lived a hundred lives. The way he talked to me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.