Chapter 3
Julia
I'd insisted on those sheets.
A woman has to have standards, after all.
But the moment we began our descent, my stress levels crept up. Family meetings did this to me—especially ones involving assassination plots and hostile takeovers. Even the silk sheets couldn't prepare me for what was coming.
I had exactly one hour to get from the airport to Queens.
The late-night meeting was scheduled for eleven, which meant I needed to be there at ten.
Spots for meetings like this were selected at the last minute. Tonight, a suburban house in Howard Beach, Queens. One of my cousins' places. To be honest, I'd forgotten which one. The extended Russo family could fill a small stadium.
Those of us on the payroll were both admired and feared.
The car service dropped me at exactly ten o'clock.
"Go on through, Donna Julia." A heavily armed soldato standing in the shadows of the porte-cochère spoke with a slight accent. The car parked beside him was a customized purple and yellow Ferrari Portofino that was as tacky as it was outlandish and belonged to my cousin.
My cousin Vinny.
Now I remembered. Not Ralph Macchio, but they did look alike. My cousin had bad taste and poor judgment.
"Julia!" Vinny embraced me and delivered two air kisses as if we'd not seen each other for a decade. We'd played together as kids, so my annoyance with him was always short-lived.
"How's life, Vin?"
"You know." He shut the door and put his hand on the small of my back. I hate that. I'm not his girlfriend or his little sister, but I ignored it. The things you do for family. "I'm single again. You want to head to Omertà after?"
"Do I look twenty-four to you?"
"Yes!" He smiled, removed his hand from my back, and pointed towards the kitchen. "Wine?"
"Wine, yes. Clubbing, hard no."
"Julia, you hurt me."
"You'll do just fine." We entered the kitchen through a side door.
The room was expansive—designed for a restaurant, not a home.
Hell, the mansion had enough stone to tear down and rebuild into a castle.
The range alone had burners to fry eggs for an entire football team while simultaneously grilling slabs of bacon on the side.
He poured from an open bottle of Chianti. At least he remembered my preference. Or maybe it was just a coincidence. "Is Don Nonno here yet?"
"Taste it." He pointed to the glass he'd just poured. "It retails for sixty bucks but tastes like it costs a hundred."
I sipped and nodded. "Yup, tastes exactly like a hundred-dollar bottle of wine you picked up for sixty, Vin. Now, where's our grandfather?"
"In the den." Vinny put his hand on my back again and I swatted it away.
I was capable of walking without help, thank you very much. "He's asleep?"
"He comes and goes. If he calls you Stella mia or Dolcezza, just ignore him."
I spoke in a whisper. "I'm not looking forward to the funeral once he's gone."
"Nobody is." He put his index finger to his lips. "Now be quiet about it."
Funerals and weddings were dangerous in our line of work. Respect and tradition meant everyone had to show up, and everyone knew it. Rival families. The feds. State police. Tabloids and shock television vultures. And God only knew who else.
Nicodemo "Nico" Russo's funeral was going to require more security than any in recent memory.
My aunt's voice broke my train of thought. "Julia! Come here. You look gorgeous. How was your flight?"
Deciding I could plan funeral safety measures later, I embraced my aunt Filomena and we chatted briefly about my trip before she reminded me that I'd need to repeat everything once the meeting started.
"Enjoy your wine, dear."
I sipped and observed the room.
Over the next twenty minutes, it filled with family members.
Two of my uncles, Dominic and Angelo, made a point to talk to me separately.
Almost like I was a member of the family now.
This assignment had given me the appearance of respect.
But in the end, I knew I had to earn it. Just like the rest of them.
Most, maybe all, were loyal, hardworking, and respectable.
But if life taught me anything, it was this: never get too comfortable.
∞∞∞
Four hours later, I was exhausted.
Carlo had been standing up for me all night. I appreciated that. His voice had started sounding like Papa's when he'd been angry. "Julia has a month."
Carlo Russo had been prematurely thrust into heading our family, but it wasn't like he hadn't been trained for it.
Eldest sons started getting lectured on this responsibility around thirteen, if not before.
Our papa was no exception—I knew because I used to eavesdrop.
A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do in a man's world.
"I don't like this." Silvio Marcello Russo didn't want to let go. He sounded angry as well.
You don't want to be around when a large Italian family on the brink of a gangster war starts arguing in the middle of the night. Trust me.
Silvio felt it was his right to avenge his uncle for a variety of reasons. Some reasons were better than others. A few were pure jealousy and pride. "She hasn’t participated in this side of the family business before. How you do know she’s got what it takes for the job?"
He'd spit the last part out with hatred. Truth was, Silvio—known on the street as "Silk"—wasn't well liked by most of the family. He had a temper. More than a few soldiers had ended up in jail, or worse, because of his imprudence.
Silk had a signature kill: he strangled his victims with the plastic bags from dry cleaners. You know the ones—they say, "Warning!!! Don't put over your mouth and nose" in big letters.
I had to tolerate Silvio because he was Filomena's only son.
“That’s the point, Silvio. As Julia Russell my cover is perfect.
Vanetti will never see me coming. Besides, it’s not just the hit we’re talking about here.
I need to get close. Find out his secrets.
You think you could do that?” I was tired of this argument, but I had to continue to defend my position.
"I won’t fail. Your own mother taught me everything I know. "
"She's right, Silvio." Filomena tried to bridge the gap between the two of us. It seems she'd been trying for years without much success. "The decision is made. If she fails—God forbid—then you're next in line. Carlo cannot be any more clear. Let's move on."
"Fine." Silvio glanced at me, scowled, then turned to our wheelchair-bound grandfather. He was fast asleep. "We’d better discuss plans for him. It could happen any day now."
Carlo stood. "I've arranged everything in advance with Saint Dymphna's for the funeral, as he wished.
No surprises there, which presents the problem that all enemies will know what to expect.
The plot at Saint John's next to his Rosalia.
She's with the angels now. Waiting." He bowed quietly for a moment.
Our nonna's death hit Carlo the hardest.
"Nonna kept him happy." My eyes filled with tears, and I wiped them from my face. It wouldn't have been acceptable for Carlo, but this was one area I felt I could play my woman-card and not be seen as weak. "He hasn't been the same since."
"His dying wish is to see that bastard pay." My cousin's face turned red when he spoke. "I should be the assassin."
Filomena held up her hand. "Enough. If Julia drops the ball, son, you'll be in the game."
Carlo shook his head. "I'd like to remind everyone it's not mere revenge we're after.
Like Julia said, this family is a business.
You all know the stakes. Killing Quentin isn't the end game here.
Taking over his territory is just as important.
And that's why we're giving Julia a month.
You have my respect, Silvio, but if you bring this up again tonight… "
Nothing was scarier than an incomplete sentence spoken by a powerful and resourceful don. If you don't sign this contract. If you don't stop dating my sister. If you don't keep your mouth shut…
Silvio glared. But kept his tongue in his mouth.
Carlo wasn't our father, but he'd been groomed and trained to sit at the head of the table. Like a medieval prince. I'd listened closely to enough of their conversations, I knew many of the lessons by heart.
What I didn't hear directly, I got later when I debriefed Carlo after I was able to get him alone. He knew I knew what he knew.
And he knew that I knew he knew, so there were many late-night phone calls during the crisis caused by our father's demise. Our family didn't realize how many decisions had been passed down by me that Carlo took credit for implementing.
But I knew.
And he knew.
That gave me power.
∞∞∞
Dawn broke over Queens, pale light filtering through Vinny's gaudy curtains.
I hadn't slept. Couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Carlo's face. Heard his voice.
"Julia has a month."
One month to prove Quentin Vanetti killed our father.
One month to get close enough to execute him if he had.
One month to prove myself.
No pressure.
"You still up?" Vinny shuffled into the living room, hair sticking up at odd angles.
"Couldn't sleep."
"The meeting?" He dropped onto the couch beside me. "Silvio's always been an ass. Don't let him get to you."
"I'm not." I was. "I just need coffee."
"Use my espresso machine. It makes everything—cappuccinos, mochas, affogatos—"
"I just want plain coffee, Vin."
"Fine. But if you're using the machine anyway, make me an affogato?"
"Do I look like a barista?"
"Come on, Jules. Just one—"
"Only if you let me drive your Ferrari to the airport."
"Never mind."
I smiled despite everything. This was normal. Safe. The kind of family banter that had nothing to do with assassination assignments or impossible deadlines.
"I'll take you," he said after a moment. "The limo's impersonal."
"It's fine. I need the time to think."
"About Vanetti?"
My stomach flipped at the name. "About the job. The mission. Everything."
"You'll figure it out. You always do." He stood, squeezed my shoulder. "Get some rest on the plane. You look like hell."
"Thanks, Vin. Really feeling the family love."
"Anytime."
∞∞∞
The limo arrived at ten. I'd managed maybe an hour of sleep on Vinny's couch, enough to feel more exhausted than if I hadn't slept at all.
The drive to the airport was predictably awful—New York traffic on a Sunday morning somehow still managed to be hellish. I turned on the car's TV, hoping for distraction.
News. Always news in this city.
A bombing in Brooklyn. An unsolved murder in the Bronx. A restaurant fire in Manhattan that authorities were calling "suspicious."
I wondered idly how many of those stories connected to families I knew. Probably more than the news anchors realized.
Then a celebrity gossip segment. Some Hollywood actor caught cheating on his wife of twenty-four years. The wife looked devastated in the paparazzi photos. The actor looked smug.
"Idiot," I muttered, changing the channel.
Why did powerful men always think they could get away with anything?
My mind drifted—unwelcome, unbidden—to Quentin Vanetti.
Standing in that parking garage. The way he'd looked at me. Like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.
Had he wanted to ask me out? Or was I imagining things, seeing attraction where there was only professional courtesy?
Stop it.
But I couldn't.
The more I replayed our interview, the more attractive he became. Not just the broad shoulders or the salt-and-pepper hair or that smile that had made my stomach flip.
His intelligence. The way he'd tested me with that horse story, clearly evaluating whether my passion was genuine. The attention to detail—noticing my shoes matched my bag without looking down.
Character mattered more than looks.
Though the looks didn't hurt.
This is dangerous.
I was supposed to investigate him. Potentially kill him. Not daydream about what it would feel like if he kissed me. If he held me. If those strong hands—
Stop.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to erase the image.
This was a fantasy. An impossible, dangerous fantasy born from one professional interaction and too little sleep.
Quentin Vanetti was my assignment. My mission. Possibly my victim.
Not my... anything else.
Even if some traitorous part of me wished things were different. Wished I'd met him under other circumstances. Wished I wasn't the daughter of a murdered mob boss sent to determine if he was the killer.
Wished this attraction that had hit me like a freight train could actually go somewhere.
But it couldn't.
I had one month.
Thirty days to get the job, get close, find the truth.
And if he was guilty? Then this attraction, this stupid, inconvenient pull I felt toward him, would have to die along with him.
The limo pulled up to the private terminal. I grabbed my bag, tipped the driver, and headed toward the family jet.
Back to Salt Lake City.
Back to Quentin Vanetti.
Back to a mission that was already more complicated than it should be.
One month, I reminded myself. Stay focused. Stay professional. Do not fall for the man you might have to kill.
Simple.
Except nothing about this felt simple anymore.
And I had a terrible feeling it was only going to get more complicated from here.