Chapter 13
Julia
I changed my clothes four times.
Too formal. Too casual. Too much like I was trying too hard. Too much like I wasn't trying at all.
Finally settled on dark jeans, a soft cream sweater, minimal jewelry. Casual but put-together.
This is just dinner. Just cooking for your boss. Completely normal. Nothing weird about this at all.
Except everything about this was weird.
I packed ingredients in reusable bags—everything for chicken piccata, roasted vegetables, a simple salad. Classic Italian. Nothing too elaborate. Nothing that required hours of standing side-by-side in a kitchen trying not to notice how close we were standing.
Right. Because that's definitely not going to happen anyway.
The drive to his address took twenty minutes. He lived in the foothills, away from the city. Privacy. Security.
The house was modern, glass and steel, tucked into the mountainside with views of the city lights below.
Of course. Why wouldn't the successful businessman have a stunning house?
I parked in the driveway, grabbed the groceries, walked to the front door.
Rang the bell before I could chicken out.
Quentin answered immediately. Jeans. A dark henley that fit him in ways that made my mouth go dry. Barefoot.
Oh crap.
There was something about seeing him like this—casual, relaxed, in his own space—that felt more intimate than any moment in the office.
"Hi," he said. Smiled. But something in his eyes seemed... guarded. "You found it okay?"
"GPS is a wonderful invention." I held up the bags. "I come bearing ingredients."
"Come in." He stepped aside.
I walked into an open-concept space. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the valley. Sleek furniture. Art on the walls. A kitchen that was clearly designed by someone who actually cooked—or at least appreciated good design.
"This is beautiful," I said, setting my bags on the massive island.
"Thanks. I don't get to enjoy it as much as I should." He started unpacking groceries. "Work keeps me at the office most nights."
"Then we need to fix your work-life balance."
"Is that your professional opinion as my assistant?"
"It's my personal opinion as someone who cares about—" I caught myself. "About employee wellness."
Smooth, Julia. Real smooth.
But something flickered in his expression.
"Can I get you some wine?" he asked.
"Please."
He poured two glasses from a bottle that probably cost more than my rent. We both took sips, standing on opposite sides of the island.
The silence stretched.
"So," I said finally. "Should we start cooking?"
"We should."
But neither of us moved.
"Quentin, is everything okay? You seem... different."
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Like something's bothering you."
Like you're looking at me differently. Like you're trying to figure something out.
"Just a lot on my mind," he said. "Work stuff."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly." He took another drink. "But I do want to ask you something."
My stomach tightened. "Okay."
"How was your weekend?"
That was not the question I expected.
"Fine. Quiet. Caught up on some reading, ran a few errands. Why?"
“I need to show you something.” He opened the laptop sitting on his kitchen island. “Stone sent these to me. Do you have any idea who that is?” He tapped on the open tab and a photo of Silvio, sitting in his car across the street from my apartment popped up.
I nearly gasped, but held it back and leaned in closer. The photo was too grainy to tell who it was without already knowing. Yay for me. There were a couple more, all showing the same person.
“I have no idea who that is. Are you saying that person’s been following me?”
“There’s one more.” He scrolled to another photo that showed Silvio in profile. There was no mistaking who it was. “Now do you recognize him?”
My breath whooshed out. There was no use denying it. “Yes.” I met Quentin’s gaze. “Remember the reason I had to leave New York?” At his nod, I motioned to the photo. “That’s it.” I shoved a hand through my hair. “I had no idea he’d followed me here, or even knew where I was.”
Quentin set his phone down. Crossed his arms. “Do you know he’s part of the Russo crime family?”
I glanced away. “I didn’t at first. Why do you think I left New York?” I met his gaze. “Look. This isn’t your problem. I’ll take care of it—”
“Why is he following you? Are you in trouble?”
Crap. This was just getting worse and worse.
“It’s complicated.”
Quentin’s brows rose. “I’ve got all night.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Wait. Have you been spying on me?”
He didn’t budge. Didn’t even flinch. But his shoulders seemed to relax. “It’s standard procedure. Now. Tell me about Silvio Russo.”
Since I was making this up as I went, it wouldn’t hurt to tell him how I really felt.
“I met him through a mutual friend. He was charming and we had fun together. He was the life of the party. Did all the right things, said all the right words. It wasn’t until I’d been seeing him for several months that his true character came out. ”
I shook my head. “He was into horses and goaded me into a wager I shouldn’t have taken.” I shrugged. “You should know by now that I’m a little competitive.”
He nodded, uncrossing his arms and leaning against the counter. More relaxed. “Let me guess. He covered your losses.”
“You got it. It was almost like he’d planned it, so he could be the hero and rescue me, you know? But it didn’t take long before he was holding it over my head. When I realized what was going on, I may have turned the tables.”
Quentin’s brows rose.
I grinned. “Yeah. He didn’t like getting a taste of his own medicine. Unfortunately, it didn’t end there. He started harassing me. Threatening me. I took out a restraining order, but it didn’t do much good. I knew the only way to stop him was to beat him at his own game.”
“So what did you do?”
“I followed him. Took photos of him in—compromising situations. I threatened to send them to his family if he didn’t leave me alone. For the last six months, I haven’t seen him, but maybe he’s been following me all along.”
“It looks like it.” He rubbed his forehead. “Julia. I have to be honest. Either you’re telling me the truth, or—it’s all an elaborate lie.” He stopped. Started again. "I need to know if I can trust you."
There it was.
The truth we'd been dancing around.
"You can't," I said.
His expression shuttered. "What?"
"You can't trust me. Not completely. Not yet." I set down my wine glass. "I've been here a week, Quentin. One week. Trust takes time. You said so yourself."
"That's different—"
"How? How is it different?" I stepped closer. "You want me to be trustworthy but you won't trust me. You want honesty but you're testing me. You invited me here for dinner but you're interrogating me instead."
"I'm not—"
"You are. And I get it. I do. You're careful. You have to be. In your business, in your world, trust is dangerous." My voice softened. "But if you can't trust me at all, even a little, then what am I doing here?"
Silence.
"I don't know," he said finally.
"Neither do I."
We stood there, close enough to touch, neither of us moving.
"I want to trust you," Quentin said quietly. "I'm just... I'm not sure I can."
"Then we have a problem."
"Yeah. We do."
The tension was suffocating. I should leave. Should grab my bags and walk out and call Carlo and tell him this whole thing was blown.
Instead, I reached for the groceries.
"I'm going to cook," I announced. "You're going to sit there and drink your wine and decide whether you want me to leave or stay. But I'm not going to stand here and defend myself when I haven't done anything wrong."
Except lie about your entire identity and infiltrate his company to investigate him for murder.
I pulled out the chicken, started prepping.
Quentin didn't move. Just watched me work.
After a long moment: "I want you to stay."
I didn't look up. "You sure?"
"No. But I want you to stay anyway."
"Okay then."
I kept cooking. He kept watching.
And slowly—very slowly—the tension began to shift.
I butterflied the chicken with precision. Seasoned it with confidence. Moved around his kitchen like I'd been there before.
"Where'd you learn to cook?" he asked.
"My grandmother and then mostly my aunt. She..." I paused, choosing words. "She's the one who raised me. After my mom died."
"Your aunt? I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." I started the pan heating. "Anyway, she believed everyone should know how to cook properly. Said it was a life skill that made you self-sufficient."
"Smart woman."
"She is." A small smile. "Terrifying sometimes. But smart."
"Terrifying how?"
"Just... she has high standards. Expects a lot. Doesn't tolerate excuses or weakness." I added butter to the pan. "But she also taught me everything I know about being strong. About standing up for myself. About not letting anyone make me feel small."
I heard the love in my voice. Hoped he did too.
And felt guilty for it. Because Aunt Filomena was manipulating me. Pushing me to find proof that might not exist. Pressuring me to see Quentin as guilty when the evidence said otherwise.
But she doesn't know that. She believes what she's been told.
By Silvio.
The thought came unbidden. Unwelcome.
What if Silvio lied to her? What if he's been lying to all of us?
"You okay?" Quentin asked.
I realized I'd stopped moving. "Yeah. Just... thinking."
"About?"
"About family. About how complicated it is." I placed chicken in the pan. The sizzle filled the kitchen. "About how the people we love can hurt us without meaning to."
"Or hurt us while meaning to?"
I met his eyes. "Sometimes that too."
We looked at each other.
And I saw it—the same conflict I felt. The same struggle between what we should do and what we wanted to do.
"This is a bad idea," I said quietly.
"What is?"
"This. Us. Whatever's happening here."
"Probably."
"You're my boss."
"I know."
"I'm..." Investigating you. Lying to you. Falling for you. "I'm keeping secrets."
"Aren't we all?"
Fair point.