Chapter 10
Julia
I only changed my outfit twice this time.
Looking in the mirror, I had to admit—I looked good. Midnight-navy Theory suit. Minimalist blazer. Cartier Tank watch and simple Tiffany earrings. Structured Céline tote that screamed "professional" without being showy.
Perfect.
I'd slipped an antique lipstick case into the interior pocket.
Rose-gold with delicate filigree. Inside: a thumb drive disguised as the lipstick tube.
If anyone found it, I had a cover story ready.
Identity theft is the worst—I keep all my passwords and bank info on this, never leave home without it.
The drive currently held nothing incriminating. Just Julia Russell's fake life. But eventually, it would hold Quentin's secrets.
If I could bring myself to steal them.
There were no weapons on my person or in my bag, no extra cell phone, nothing that could identify me beyond my alias, Julia Russell. By the time Quentin realized I was Julia Russo, avenging her father, he’d be past the point of no return.
I slipped on Stuart Weitzman pumps—85mm heels—and gave myself one final look.
One-hundred-percent businesswoman with just the right amount of sexy.
I was going to kill it.
Literally.
∞∞∞
On the drive to Vitality Ventures, my nerves struck like lightning.
Unexpected shakes. Anxiety in the pit of my stomach. Fear that made me second-guess everything.
What am I doing?
I'd never killed anyone. I was a numbers girl. I bought racehorses and shopped in Paris. I owned rental properties managed through Airbnb.
What made me think I could execute a man?
Breathe. Count down. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Better.
You're a champion. You'll seize the day.
Aunt Filomena's words from last night echoed: "You're going to do great. I've trained you myself. Release the self-doubt. A month from now, you're back in New York with respect on your name."
She hadn't said "blood on your shoes."
Small mercies.
I parked in the structure, checked my reflection one last time, and headed for the elevator.
Never let them see you coming.
∞∞∞
The receptionist was on the phone when I entered. She hung up, looked at me.
Up and down.
I must look even better than I thought.
"Good morning, Julia. Mr. Vanetti is expecting you." She gestured down the hall. "His door's open. Just walk right in."
I made my way down the corridor, heart hammering. Lightly tapped on Quentin's open door.
"Come in."
I stepped inside.
Quentin looked up from his desk and his entire expression changed. Eyes widened slightly. A smile that started slow, then spread across his face like sunrise.
"Good morning," he said, standing.
And just like that, my carefully constructed composure cracked.
He wore a charcoal suit with a silver-gray tie that made his gray eyes look stormy. Dangerous. The kind of dangerous that made my stomach flip and my mission seem vastly more complicated.
"Good morning, Mr. Vanetti." I forced my voice steady. Professional. "I'm pleased to start."
"I'm pleased to have you." He came around the desk. Closer. "You look..." He caught himself. "Ready."
My eyes narrowed. That’s not what he was going to say.
"Thank you."
We stood there for a beat too long. Close enough that I wanted to lean into him.
He cleared his throat. Stepped back. "I'll introduce you to Barbara shortly. She'll show you the ropes, and help you get familiar with procedures. Don't hesitate to ask her anything. The only bad question is one that goes unasked."
"I understand."
"I want you to be comfortable with the position before she officially retires."
I chose my first question carefully. "Is there anything I shouldn't discuss with her? Business-wise, I mean. The Agency made it clear there are... sensitive topics."
"Good question." His smile sent butterflies through my stomach. "The answer is no. Barbara knows all my secrets."
All of them?
"She and I share a history," he continued. "There are things only we know about. Those will be off-limits, but you won't know enough to ask about them anyway. If you accidentally cross a line, she'll redirect you. No harm, no foul."
I wondered what secrets they shared. What skeletons lived in their combined closets.
My heart sank, knowing that I'd have to tell Carlo where Barbara was retiring. He’d want to send someone to—
I swallowed. No. I couldn’t think about that right now.
"You already have questions?" Quentin was watching me.
"No. Just reflecting on how much there is to learn." I smiled. "I'm ready to absorb it all."
"Like a sponge?"
"I was going to say like a lambskin chamois on a freshly washed BMW, but sure, sponge works."
He laughed. Actually laughed. "That's oddly specific."
"I like cars."
"I noticed. That Mercedes you drive—"
"You noticed my car?"
"I notice things." His gaze held mine. "Shall we start the tour?"
∞∞∞
He led me through the offices—conference rooms, the IT center with banks of computers and cameras everywhere, break rooms, storage areas.
"Security is tight," I observed.
"Has to be. In my business, information is everything." He stopped at a steel door at the end of a hallway. "You'll be given access to this room. Personal code plus facial recognition."
He punched in numbers. A camera in the corner blinked. The door clicked open.
Inside was a concrete-reinforced vault. Filing cabinets lined one wall. Computers on another. Paper shredders and chemical containers at the far end.
"This room serves dual purposes," Quentin explained.
"Safe room if needed, but primarily, this is where I keep everything important.
Physical copies of deals, acquisitions, financials.
Dossiers on friends, enemies, law enforcement contacts.
Bearer bonds, property titles, vehicle registrations.
" He paused. "Even the title to a Cessna 172. "
"A small plane?"
"That I can pilot, yes. Escape plan. If I ever need to disappear, I have contingencies."
"Contingencies on contingencies."
"Exactly." He gestured to the shredders and acid containers. "If this room is ever compromised, procedure is to destroy everything. Shred, then acid, then—" he pointed to a panel on the ceiling, "—incinerate. Twenty seconds to get out once you start the sequence."
I studied the setup, impressed despite myself. "No reconstructing ash."
"That's the idea." He touched my elbow lightly. "Come on. Let's find Barbara."
That small touch sent electricity up my arm.
This is bad. This is very bad.
∞∞∞
The kitchen was surprisingly large, equipped like a small restaurant.
"Coffee?" Quentin gestured to an elaborate machine.
"Please. I thought you'd never ask."
"The machine makes everything, but I usually just use the Nespresso." He pointed to a drawer. "Pods are in there."
I found them—Kona, Italian roasts, French blends. "You like the Italian?"
"How'd you know?"
"Lucky guess." I loaded three pods, grabbed three mugs Barbara had set out.
"He takes it black," Barbara said, appearing in the doorway. Smiling. Warm. "And the Hawaiian blend is my favorite."
"Got it." I handed them each a mug, kept the third for myself.
We sat around the small table. Barbara launched into job basics—schedules, procedures, vendor management, travel arrangements.
She was kind. Patient. The type of person who probably baked cookies for her grandkids.
She's retiring to Maui, I remembered from my research. Carlo will send someone to—
Guilt hit like a punch.
This sweet woman who was explaining expense reports and calendar systems was going to be visited by my family. Questioned. Maybe worse.
Because she knew Quentin's secrets.
I can't think about that. Can't change it.
But the guilt sat heavy on my chest anyway.
"You okay?" Barbara was watching me.
"Yes. Sorry. Just trying to absorb everything."
"Don't worry. You'll pick it up fast." She patted my hand. "I have a good feeling about you."
The guilt intensified.
∞∞∞
A knock sounded on the doorframe.
Stone stood there. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.
"Quentin, do you have a minute?"
"Of course." Quentin stood. "Julia, why don't you and Barbara continue? I'll find you in a bit."
After they left, Barbara leaned forward conspiratorially. "Don't let Stone intimidate you. He's suspicious of everyone."
"Even you?"
"Especially me. Took him two years to trust me." She smiled. "But once you prove yourself, he's as loyal as they come."
Prove myself. Right.
In Quentin's office—which I gathered Stone had pulled him to—I imagined the conversation:
"She's from New York."
"I know."
"The Russos are from New York."
"Coincidence."
"You don't believe in coincidences."
I was right to be nervous.
Stone didn't trust me. Probably never would.
Which meant I'd have to be perfect. Flawless.
No mistakes.
∞∞∞
By lunchtime, my head was spinning with information.
"I have a lunch meeting," Quentin said, appearing in the doorway where Barbara and I were reviewing filing systems. "There's a food court a few blocks away if you want to grab something. Take your time. We'll continue when I get back."
I nodded, trying not to feel jealous that he was having lunch with someone else.
Someone else. You're his employee. Not his... anything.
But watching him leave, I realized I wanted to be.
Dangerous. So dangerous.
∞∞∞
That afternoon, we worked side-by-side for hours. Reviewing contracts, vendor relationships, schedules.
Every time he leaned close to point something out on the computer, I caught his scent. Every time our hands accidentally brushed reaching for the same document, electricity sparked.
He felt it too. I could tell by the way he'd pause. Glance at me. Look away.
This attraction was mutual.
And impossible.
Around 6 p.m., I hit a wall.
"You're done," Quentin said, closing the laptop. "I don't want to break my new employee on day one."
He pulled leftover Chinese food from a mini-fridge hidden in his bookcase, popped it in a hidden microwave.
"That's a clever setup," I observed.
"Didn't think a minifridge would look professional next to this antique desk." He knocked on the wood. "Paid a fortune for this. They don't make them like this anymore."
"You're going to live on leftover Chinese food?"
"I work late. Hate interrupting my train of thought."
I gathered my notes, stood. Started for the door.
Then turned back.
"Thank you again for hiring me, Mr. Vanetti. I'll do everything I can to exceed your expectations."
"I believe you will."
The words came out before I could stop them. "You know, you really should eat better. I could cook you something homemade sometime. Something actually nutritious."
His expression shifted. Surprise. Pleasure. Something warmer.
"I'd like that," he said softly.
What did I just do?
"Good night, Mr. Vanetti."
"Good night, Julia."
In the elevator, descending to the parking garage, reality crashed down.
I just offered to cook for him. To cook. For my target.
The man I was supposed to get close to. Potentially kill.
The man whose smile made my heart race. Whose proximity made me forget why I was really here. Who looked at me like I was someone worth knowing, not just an employee.
What am I doing?
My phone buzzed. Text from Silvio: How'd it go today?
I typed back: Fine. Learning the systems.
Find anything useful?
Not yet. Give me time.
You've got three weeks left.
As if I could forget.
I sat in my car, hands on the steering wheel, and let myself acknowledge the truth I'd been avoiding all day:
I didn't want Quentin to be guilty.
I didn't want to find proof he'd killed my father.
And I definitely didn't want to be the one to execute him.
But Carlo had given me one month. Silvio was waiting in the wings, sharpening knives and resenting every day I had that he didn't.
Three weeks.
Three weeks to find the truth.
Three weeks to figure out if Quentin Vanetti was a murderer or an innocent man caught in my family's crosshairs.
Three weeks before everything fell apart.
I started the car, pulled out of the garage, and tried not to think about storm-gray eyes and a smile that made me want to cook him dinner.
Tried not to think about how cooking someone dinner was the opposite of killing them.
Tried not to acknowledge that somewhere between the polygraph and today, something had shifted.
I was supposed to be hunting Quentin Vanetti.
Instead, I was falling for him.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.