Chapter 28 #3
The way he'd held me in the dark and whispered that he was falling for me.
I miss him. It's been two days and I miss him so much I can barely breathe.
I needed to call him. Had to call him. Needed to hear his voice, know he was alive, start figuring out how to fix this impossible mess.
But first—coffee.
Yes, I knew drinking coffee late in the day was terrible. Yes, I'd regret it tonight. But I wasn't going to sleep anyway. My mind wouldn't let me. The anxiety, the deadline, the fear—it would all keep me awake no matter what I did.
I shuffled to the kitchen, every step an effort. I pressed my palms against the counter, staring at the coffee maker without really seeing it.
Love.
The word echoed in my mind.
Was it love?
Yes. Heaven help me, yes. I love him.
I'd tried to deny it. Tried to tell myself it was just attraction, just loneliness, just the thrill of the forbidden.
But I'd been lying to myself.
I loved Quentin Vanetti.
Loved his laugh. His stories. The way he looked at me. The way he challenged me. The way he made me feel safe and seen and valued.
I loved him.
And in seven days, I might have to watch him die.
Or die trying to save him.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the coffee grounds into the filter.
What am I going to say to him? How do I explain disappearing? How do I ask him to trust me after everything?
I didn't have answers. Didn't have a plan.
All I had was seven days and a desperate, impossible hope that somehow, some way, I could find the truth before time ran out.
The coffee machine gurgled and hissed, filling the kitchen with the bitter smell of too-strong brew.
I poured a cup with trembling hands, not bothering with cream or sugar.
Stood there in my dirty pajamas, in my lonely apartment, drinking scalding coffee that burned all the way down.
And tried to figure out how to save the man I loved from my own family.
Seven days.
The clock was already ticking.
After draining my coffee cup—scalding, bitter, perfect—I picked up my phone.
Stared at it for a full minute.
Just call him. You have to call him.
My finger hovered over his contact. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat.
What if he doesn't answer? What if he's still blocking me? What if he hates me now?
I pressed call before I could lose my nerve.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Please pick up. Please.
"You're alive."
His voice hit me like a physical blow. Relief and pain and longing all tangled together until I couldn't breathe.
"Yes." My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, tried again. "Yes, Quentin. We have a lot to talk about."
"We do." His tone was unreadable. Careful. Guarded.
Not warm. Not cold. Just... controlled.
My chest constricted.
"Can you come over tonight?" The words tumbled out too fast. Desperate. "I promise to explain everything. Please. I can explain—"
"Yes. I'll be at your place at eight."
The line went dead.
I stood there, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to silence.
Did that just happen? Is he coming? Does he want to hear me out or—
My thoughts spiraled.
I didn't know whether to smile with joy or break down sobbing. His voice had given nothing away. No anger. No forgiveness. Just flat acceptance of a meeting.
He could be coming to hear my explanation. Or he could be coming to end me.
The thought sent ice through my veins.
No. Quentin wouldn't—
Wouldn't he? You lied to him. Came into his life under false pretenses. Admitted you were sent to assassinate him. Then vanished without explanation.
I sank onto the couch, phone sliding from my numb fingers.
There were two men demanding my allegiance right now.
Quentin and Carlo.
One was family. Blood. The don who had every right—every obligation—to demand absolute loyalty. Who'd raised me, protected me, given me purpose and a place in this world.
The other had stolen my heart so completely I couldn't imagine existing without him.
I can't betray Quentin. Even if it costs me everything. Even if it costs me my life.
The realization settled over me like a shroud.
I'd already made my choice, hadn't I? The moment I'd fallen in love with him. Maybe even before that—the moment I'd realized he was innocent.
I'd chosen him.
And that choice would destroy me one way or another.
I forced myself to move. Made a small bowl of Special K on autopilot, each spoonful tasteless and difficult to swallow. Refilled my coffee even though my hands were shaking too badly to hold the mug steady.
Too much on my mind. Too many thoughts spiraling out of control.
Netflix. The cure-all for overthinking.
I clicked on something—a documentary about a missing child. Distraught parents. A mother with a sketchy story about kidnappers. A father who seemed too calm. Detectives baffled. Serial killer theories. Conspiracy theories.
A mystery that had never been solved.
Perfect. Just like my life.
I liked mysteries because they reminded me that nothing was ever simple. Black and white were rare. The world lived in shades of gray—endless, infinite shades where right and wrong blurred together until you couldn't tell which was which anymore.
Tonight would be the perfect example.
Anything was possible.
Quentin could walk through that door and tell me he loved me, that he understood, that we'd figure this out together. Please, God, let it be that.
Or he could kill me. Put a bullet in my head and bury me somewhere no one would ever find me. I'd deserve it, wouldn't I?
Or—maybe worst of all—he could pretend. Act like everything was fine while gathering evidence, building a case, planning his revenge. Leave me in the dark, never knowing where I stood until it was too late.
I can't live like that. Can't spend every moment wondering if this is the day he decides I'm too dangerous to let live.
I paused the documentary, suddenly unable to focus on other people's mysteries when my own was consuming me.
A decision crystallized.
I would be honest with Quentin tonight. Completely, brutally honest. No more lies. No more deception.
Business requires me to lie. The thought came with bitter clarity. To deceive rivals, trick police, conceal information. Someday it will require me to kill.
I'd accepted all of that. Been trained for it. Embraced it, even.
But there was one thing my job had never required.
One line I'd never been asked to cross.
Lying to myself.
If you lied to yourself, you were lost. Adrift in a world where you couldn't trust a single soul—because if you couldn't trust yourself, who could you turn to?
If you betrayed yourself, why should anyone else care about betraying you?
My father had taught me that. In one of our last conversations before he died.
"Jules, you can lie to everyone else if you have to. But never, ever lie to yourself. That's where madness lives. In the space between what you know is true and what you pretend to believe."
I'd thought I understood then.
I hadn't. Not really.
Not until now. Not until I was forced to choose between duty and love. Between family and self. Between the life I'd been raised to live and the life I desperately wanted.
I will not lie to myself anymore.
The promise felt sacred. Binding.
I love Quentin Vanetti. I cannot kill him. I will not kill him. Even if my family orders it. Even if refusing destroys me.
That was the truth.
The only truth that mattered.
Tonight, when Quentin arrived, I would tell him everything. The whole truth. Every ugly detail.
And then I would face the consequences.
Whatever they were.
I glanced at the clock. Six-fifteen.
Less than two hours until he arrived.
Less than two hours to prepare for the most important conversation of my life.
I stood, legs unsteady, and headed to my closet. I’d start by wearing something that made me look good, but vulnerable. Then to the bathroom for makeup and hair.
If tonight was going to be my last night—one way or another—I was going to face it looking my best. Honest. True to myself.
Even if the truth destroyed everything I'd ever known.
Especially then.