Chapter 30
Julia
Quentin's house felt different than I remembered.
Bigger. Colder. More fortress than home.
Or maybe that was just the three people staring at me like I was a bomb that might explode at any moment.
Stone stood by the window, arms crossed, expression carved from granite. Serenity perched on the edge of the couch, her usual warmth replaced by careful neutrality. And Forrest—the cyber security specialist I'd only met briefly—was setting up laptops on the dining table, not looking at me at all.
"Coffee?" Quentin's voice cut through the tension. "This is going to be a long night."
"Please." I set my bag down carefully, hyperaware that any sudden movement might trigger Stone's protective instincts.
Quentin disappeared into the kitchen. I stood there awkwardly, not sure if I should sit or wait to be invited.
"You can sit, Julia." Serenity's voice was gentle but not exactly warm. "We're all on the same team now. Apparently."
The "apparently" hung in the air like a question mark.
I sank into an armchair. "I know you don't trust me."
"Damn right we don't." Stone moved from the window, positioning himself where he could see both me and the door. "You lied about everything. Came here to kill him. Had spy equipment in your desk."
"I wasn't planning—"
"Save it." He held up a hand. "I don't care what you were planning.
I care about what happens now. You say someone's trying to kill both of you.
That you have one week to find Big Sal's real killer.
Fine. We work the problem. But understand this—" He leaned forward, and I saw the soldier beneath the security chief.
"The second I think you're playing him, the second I think this is a setup, I will end you. Personally. Are we clear?"
"Crystal."
"Good."
Quentin returned with coffee, and we all sat down around the table. He set a mug in front of me. Our fingers brushed, and I noticed Stone's gaze track the movement.
"Let's get to work." Quentin pulled up a chair, opening his laptop. "Julia, start from the beginning. Tell us exactly what happened at the family meeting."
I wrapped my hands around the mug, grateful for the warmth. "Carlo called me back Friday night. Made me fly to New York immediately. He gathered the whole family—my cousins, aunt, uncles, even my grandfather."
"The grandfather who wants Quentin dead?" Serenity asked.
"Yes. Don Nonno. He's ninety-one, has cancer and dementia, but he's still the patriarch. His opinion carries weight." I took a sip of coffee. "The meeting was about determining if Quentin actually killed my father. Carlo gave me a chance to present my case."
"And?" Forrest looked up from his laptop for the first time.
"I told them everything I'd found. The business deals between you and my father that were still profitable. The fact that Papa's death cost Quentin millions."
"How'd they react?" Quentin asked.
"Carlo believed me. Or—at least, he's open to the possibility. He gave me one week to find concrete proof." I set down the coffee. "But my aunt Filomena—she's convinced you're guilty. She has sources she won't reveal, even to Carlo. She pushed hard for immediate action."
"Meaning killing me," Quentin said flatly.
"Yes." I met his gaze. "She wanted Silvio to finish the job then and there. Carlo overruled her. Barely."
Stone pulled out a notebook. "Tell me about Filomena. Background, position in the family, why she'd want Quentin dead specifically."
"She's my father's older sister. They were close. She took on an important role for the family." I licked my lips. "She became the family enforcer. The one who handles discipline, training, strategy. She trained me, actually. Everything I know about this life, she taught me."
"Convenient," Stone muttered.
I ignored him. "She's fiercely protective of family. When my father died, she was devastated. Now she’s certain that Quentin killed him, and nothing will stop her from seeking revenge."
"But why is she so certain?" Serenity leaned forward. "You said she has sources she won't reveal. What sources?"
"She wouldn’t tell us. Not even Carlo. She says revealing her sources would compromise her intelligence network."
Quentin and Stone exchanged a glance.
"That's convenient," Quentin said. "Almost like she doesn't have proof at all."
"Or like she's hiding something," Stone added.
I closed my eyes. Needed to share what I’d found at my father’s house, but it was hard to say the words out loud. She’d been like a mother to me. Taught me so much. Was this how it ended?
"I think—" Quentin stood, walking to the window. "I think the person who killed your father and framed me for it had access to information about both our families. A person who knew enough about our business dealings to make it look plausible."
"An insider," I whispered.
"An insider," he confirmed.
The room went quiet.
“Something you need to say?” Stone’s low voice cut through my misgivings.
“Yes.” I swallowed. “The last time I went back to New York, I stopped by my father’s house. Carlo had it locked up after his death. In his office, I found something that points to an inside job.”
Quentin stepped to my side, his eyes softening. Sitting down, he took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “What was it?”
The understanding and sympathy in his eyes gave me the courage to continue.
“I found a notebook in my father’s desk. I took photos. I’ll show you.” Pulling out my phone, I brought up the photos. I showed him all of them. The notebook about the meeting. The entry about the escalating situation.
“The F could mean my aunt Filomena, or Frankie, one of his captains, or his construction manager, Federico. The other entry means he was dealing with a conflict of some kind that he needed to resolve, but that could be anything.”
“There’s also this.” I swiped to the numbers on the piece of paper. “I found this note in my father’s book. The Count of Monte Cristo. I have no idea what it means.”
“Could be an account number.” Forrest rubbed his chin.
“Then there’s this.” I pulled up the photos of the security system. “See that? The light’s red, but it should be green. That means the system was manually disarmed from inside the house.”
“An inside job.” Quentin nodded.
“And Aunt Filomena ran security for my father. She’d know every system, every protocol.”
Stone met my gaze. “Motive?”
"That's what I don't understand." I shook my head. "She loved my father. They were incredibly close. Why would she kill him?"
"Money?" Forrest suggested. "Power?"
"She's already wealthy. And she's past the age of wanting to run the family." I sighed. "It doesn't fit."
"Maybe it wasn't about money or power." Serenity was quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed. "Maybe it was personal."
"Personal how?"
"I don't know. But people don't kill family without a reason. There's something we're missing."
Quentin returned to the table. "Let's work through the other suspects first. Rule them out systematically. Julia, you mentioned at dinner that you didn't think the Morettis were involved."
"I don't. I have a friend—Chiara Moretti. We've known each other since prep school. If there was a war brewing, she'd know. She'd warn me."
"Unless she's playing you," Stone said.
"She's not." I said it with more confidence than I felt. "We're close. Real friends. She wouldn't lie to me about something this serious."
"Friends lie to friends all the time," Stone countered. "Especially in our world."
He wasn't wrong. But I knew Chiara. At least, I thought I did.
"What about Calle Sombra 13?" Quentin asked. "The Mexican organization?"
"Even less likely." I pulled out my phone, scrolling through notes. "I reviewed their financials while I was in New York. A war with us would destroy them. They're not strong enough to take on the Russo family."
"So that leaves an insider." Quentin leaned back. "Someone in your family who wanted Big Sal dead, who framed me to start a war between our families, and who's now trying to kill both of us to keep the truth hidden."
"Filomena," Stone said. "It has to be."
"But why?" I pressed my hands to my temples. "Why would she kill her own brother?"
"We'll figure out why." Quentin's voice was firm. "First, we need to prove she did it. What do we have?"
Forrest pulled up a timeline on his screen. "Big Sal was killed three months ago. Tuesday night, approximately 10:45 p.m. Shot three times—chest, chest, head. Professional hit."
"Execution style," I whispered.
"Yeah." Forrest continued. "Ballistics showed the gun was a 9mm Beretta. Never recovered. No shell casings at the scene—the shooter collected them."
"Professional," Stone confirmed. "Someone with training."
"Silvio's weapon of choice is a 9mm," I said quietly. "But his signature method is plastic bags, not guns. Guns are too loud, too obvious for him."
"Could he have changed his MO for this?" Serenity asked.
"Maybe. But it doesn't feel right." I tried to think like my cousin, like the killer I knew he was. "Silvio's methodical. Careful. If he'd done this, there wouldn't have been any evidence at all. No witnesses, no forensics, nothing."
"Three bullets isn't careful," Quentin agreed. "It's angry. Personal."
The pieces started clicking together in my mind. "Whoever did this wanted my father dead badly enough to risk exposure. Badly enough to frame someone for it. Badly enough to—"
I stopped.
"To what?" Quentin prompted.
"To sacrifice family relationships." I looked up at him. "Framing you meant risking war between our families. It meant putting me in danger by sending me here. It meant—it meant potentially destroying everything my father built."
"Unless that was the point," Stone said slowly. "What if this isn't about killing Big Sal? What if it's about destroying both families?"
The room went silent.
"That's—" I couldn't finish the thought. "That would be insane."