Chapter 27 #2
“What’s with the two goons carrying H&K’s like this is a compound in the Middle East and not in freaking Brooklyn?”
“Everyone is nervous.”
“Okay.” I shook my head. “We haven’t met here before except family get-togethers, right? This is the first family meeting in freaking Mill Basin. We’re in a nice neighborhood where nobody could possibly know we were—”
Vinny held up his hand. “If there’s a traitor, nowhere is safe. Act like you understand that and don’t be offended, it only makes you look suspicious.”
“Seriously?”
Vinny nodded, and I caught the deeper meaning. If someone in the family had made a deal with any of our enemies, then nowhere was safe and nobody was safe. Seeing as someone got to the Don, my father of all people, it was obvious that the danger was real.
Vinny walked beside me as we headed into the great room to greet those who were also early. Several cousins and uncles stood in a circle talking in low voices. They stopped talking and stared at me. “They look like they’ve seen a ghost,” I whispered to Vinny.
“Don’t let them get to you. I’ll get us some wine.”
He left me standing alone. Not for the first time, I was reminded that, besides my aunt, I was the only woman included in meetings like this. Most of it was due to my father’s insistence. But I wouldn’t have gotten this far without my aunt Filomena.
I’d done everything I could to fit in and prove myself capable.
Just as good as one of the boys, or better, if that was possible.
My crusade to be treated equally had backfired spectacularly because I’d fallen for my mark.
An amateur move. They knew it, and now, I was in trouble.
I saw pity in some of their eyes, but in others, cold calculation.
I could almost hear them thinking that it served me right for trying so hard to be one of them.
The last to turn toward me was Don Russo, my brother, Carlo.
"Julia."
Carlo stood in the center of the room, arms open but feet planted. Waiting.
My cue to come to him. Not the other way around.
The don doesn't come to you. You come to the don.
Even when the don is your brother.
My legs felt unsteady as I crossed the distance between us. Every instinct screamed that I was walking toward judgment, toward consequences I might not survive.
But this was Carlo. The brother who'd taught me to throw a punch when I was eight.
Who'd snuck me into R-rated movies Papa would've killed us for watching.
Who'd shown me the family ledgers when he was supposed to keep them secret, because he believed I deserved to understand the business even though I was a girl.
We embraced, and for a moment—just a moment—I let myself feel safe.
Then his mouth was at my ear, voice so low I almost missed it. "I've never doubted you, sister. And I don't now. But let me play the game that needs to be played, okay?"
My breath caught. Relief flooded through me so suddenly my knees nearly buckled.
He believes me. Thank God, he believes me.
I nodded against his shoulder, not trusting my voice.
He leaned in closer, his next words barely audible even this close. "I'm going to have to yell at you. Pretend you're under suspicion. Don't break character, Jules. Fight back, but stay respectful. This will end eventually."
The relief curdled into fresh anxiety. If Carlo had to pretend to suspect me, that meant someone in this room—someone at this meeting—actually did suspect me.
Or wanted me dead.
I pulled back and gave him the traditional two kisses, one on each cheek, my mind racing.
Who was watching? Who was Carlo performing for?
"It's great to see you too, Carlo." I kept my voice steady, neutral, giving nothing away.
His eyes held mine for half a second—a warning, a reassurance, a plea for trust all wrapped into one look.
Then his expression shuttered, going cold and distant.
The don's mask sliding into place.
Whatever was about to happen, I needed to be ready.
I needed to play my part perfectly.
Because apparently, my life depended on it.
"Julia Russo, come give your nonno a kiss."
My grandfather's voice—rough as gravel, but still strong—cut through the room.
Nicodemo Russo. Nonno. Ninety-one years old and somehow still breathing, still lucid enough to be dangerous. Whether the prospect of finding a traitor or planning a murder gave him this burst of energy, I couldn't say.
I crossed to him, my smile automatic, my heart heavy.
"Nonno, you look strong."
"Don't lie to an old man." He reached with both arms like a child wanting to be lifted, grinning through yellowed teeth. "I'm old and feeble. Any night might be my last."
The words should have been melodramatic. Instead, they hit like truth.
"Don't say that." I bent to hug him, his frame so frail beneath my hands I was afraid I'd break him. Quick air kisses, left and right. "You'll make it to a hundred and ten easily."
"Hell, girl, I'm ninety-one years old. Can't say I've got a right to any more after what I've done to my lungs and liver."
"Modern medicine is amazing, Nonno." I forced brightness into my voice, into my smile.
Fake. It's all fake. But he can't know. Can never know.
He was ninety-one and losing his mind to dementia and rage, but he was still family. Still the patriarch. Still someone whose opinion could get me killed.
"In my day, drinking and smoking weren't considered unhealthy. Started smoking at fourteen, I did."
"And drinking? Fifteen?" I played along, like I always did, pretending this was normal conversation.
He laughed—a horrible, phlegm-thick sound that dissolved into choking. I waited, hand hovering uselessly, while he hacked and gasped.
When he recovered, his watery gaze locked on me.
And for just a second, I saw something there that made my blood run cold. Not my grandfather. Not the man who'd bounced me on his knee and taught me to play poker when I was six.
Death. I was looking at death wearing my grandfather's face.
"Girl," he rasped, "no respectable boy worth a damn wasn't stealing booze at eleven or twelve. I was an altar boy at seven years old. Seven. Stealing communion wine for the older boys. Didn't take my first drink till I was eleven—though I was sampling at nine."
"You grew up fast back then." My throat tightened.
"Back then, men were men." His voice dripped with venom and phlegm. He looked at me with disgust—whether aimed at me or the world, I couldn't tell. "Not like that rat bastard, Quentin Vanetti."
My heart stopped.
"If he's not dead before me—" Nonno's gnarled finger jabbed the air. "I swear on your Nonna’s grave, I'm coming back to curse the lot of you. Family or not."
The words landed like physical blows.
Quentin. He's talking about Quentin.
I kept my face neutral, my smile fixed, even as something inside me shattered.
"This generation?" He was building momentum now, rage giving him strength. "Rotten. Spoiled. Soft. No backbone. No honor—"
The tirade dissolved into violent coughing.
I stood there, frozen, watching the man who'd taught me to ride a bike curse the man I loved. Demand his death. Promise to haunt us all if we failed to kill him.
And I had to stand here. Smile. Nod. Agree.
I'm sorry, Nonno. I'm so sorry you'll never understand.
"That's enough, Mr. Nico." His nurse—a man who looked nearly as ancient as my grandfather—wheeled him toward the patio doors. "I'm taking you outside for some fresh air."
The nurse paused, looking back at me with something like pity. "Don't take anything he says too seriously. He's on strong painkillers."
But my grandfather wasn't done. He managed to turn his head, pinning me with those death-dark eyes one more time.
"I mean it about that snake, Vanetti. I'm not joking, girl."
The wheelchair disappeared through the doors, leaving me standing alone in the suddenly too-quiet room.
My hands were shaking. I clasped them together, digging my nails into my palms until the pain cleared my head.
Rat bastard. Snake. Kill him. Curse you all.
Those were the words my dying grandfather used for the man I'd fallen in love with.
The man I'd been sent to murder.
The man I couldn't kill, no matter what it cost me.
A laugh bubbled up—bitter, slightly hysterical. I swallowed it down before it could escape.
This was my family. These were the people I'd sworn loyalty to. The people I'd kill for, die for, who'd raised me and loved me and taught me everything I knew about honor and respect and duty.
And they wanted me to destroy the only person who'd ever made me feel truly seen.
I pressed my fingers to my temples, willing my racing heart to slow.
Hold it together, Julia. You're not done yet. The meeting hasn't even started.
But damn, I was so tired of pretending.
Tired of lying.
Tired of being torn between two impossible choices.
Behind me, I heard footsteps. Someone else arriving for the meeting.
I straightened my spine, smoothed my expression, and turned around.
The mask sliding back into place.
Because this was the game. And I had no choice but to keep playing.
Even if it killed me.
I exhaled slowly, trying to release the tension coiled in my shoulders. Vinny reached me, extending a wine glass. His half-smile looked predatory. Wrong. "Your wine."
"Did you press the grapes yourself or just fly to France?" I took the glass, desperate for something to do with my hands, something to focus on besides the panic clawing at my throat. I sipped. "Well, whatever. You took forever, but it was worth it."
The wine tasted like ashes. Everything tasted like ashes.
"I ran into someone at the bar." Vinny's expression was odd—searching, suspicious. He shook his head slightly, eyebrows raised. "The wine meets your approval?"
I nodded, taking another small sip, studying his face.
Something was off. That look troubled me almost as much as Nonno's venomous outburst. As much as the guards who'd frisked me on the way in like I was a stranger. As much as the tension radiating from every person in this room.
They're all watching me. Waiting for me to slip up.
It was barely ten-thirty. At least another hour before the meeting officially started. Another hour of this performance, this tightrope walk between loyalty and love.
I took another half-sip of wine, pretending to savor it.
Can't get tipsy. Can't let my guard down. One wrong word and this all falls apart.
I'd need every bit of clarity, every ounce of control to survive tonight.
My gaze swept the room casually, cataloging faces, positions. Then the exits—two doors, three windows, one leading to the patio where Nonno was getting his "fresh air."
Just in case.
I didn't think the meeting would end in violence. Carlo had promised to protect me, and I believed him.
But I'd been wrong about so many things lately.
Wrong about Quentin being a killer.
Wrong about my ability to complete this assignment.
Wrong about my own heart.
So I noted the exits anyway. Measured the distance to each one. Calculated which family members stood between me and escape.
This is what my life has become. Planning escape routes at family meetings. Afraid of my own blood.
I took another sip of wine I couldn't taste and prepared myself for the longest night of my life.
A night that would either prove my loyalty.
Or end it forever.