Chapter 32
Julia
After Isobel left, Quentin stayed in his office. I wanted to know what she’d said, but decided to give him some space. He had just told me he loved me, so I needed to have a little more confidence in him.
Serenity came in and I was eager to show her the rosary beads. “I have the beads. Are you ready to try reading them?”
“Sure. Let’s go in the conference room.”
We stepped down the hall to a room and Serenity took off her gloves. I handed her the beads and she inhaled sharply before tensing. Her eyes closed and her brows drew together like she was in pain.
A few seconds later, she gasped. Her eyes flew open and the beads fell from her hands.
“What happened? What did you see?”
“A restaurant. You and Quentin having dinner. And then. Gunfire. Blood. Someone screaming.”
“Oh no. We’d better tell Quentin.”
Still shaken, Serenity nodded, and we hurried to Quentin’s office. Stone was there and they stopped talking as soon as we entered.
I pointed at the rosary beads. “Serenity saw something.”
We sat down in front of Quentin’s desk and Serenity explained what she saw. “Blood, gunfire. It was awful. I think you both survive, but it’s close.”
“So we’re okay if we don’t go to that restaurant?” Quentin asked. “Do you know which one it was?”
“Not exactly. But there’s more. I saw you holding documents. Couldn't read what they were, but you were both alive and you had something important. Whatever happens at that restaurant—if you survive it—you'll have what you need to prove Filomena's guilt."
“That’s huge.” I shook my head. “Then maybe we have to go to the restaurant and take the risk.”
“At least we know it’s in the future,” Serenity said. “That helps.”
Stone met Quentin’s gaze and motioned his head toward me. “You should tell her.”
Quentin sighed. “Yeah. Will you two give us a minute?”
After they left, he came to my side and pulled me to his couch. “This isn’t how I wanted to do it, but… Isobel had an idea. I think it’s a good one, but I’m not sure how you’ll feel about it.”
The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine. “What?”
“She thinks we should get married.”
"What?!" I nearly choked on air. Heat flooded my face—shock, anger, hurt, all tangled together.
His hand found mine, squeezed desperately.
"Listen. I—I'm messing this up." He took a breath.
"I have real feelings for you. Strong feelings, but we've barely known each other a month, so I get it, but under the circumstances, I think it’s a good idea.” His voice softened, "When I propose for real, it won't be like this.
There will be a ring. And romance. And it'll be because we both want it, not because a lawyer suggested it. "
My heart pounded. "Then what are you talking about?"
Marriage. He said marriage. But not real marriage? What the hell is happening right now?
Over the next hour, Quentin explained Isobel's proposal. A legal marriage—on paper—that would give me certain protections. Spousal privilege. Legal standing. A shield against both our families if things went sideways.
I asked questions. He answered them. My initial shock began giving way to reluctant understanding.
The plan had a certain cold, practical elegance to it.
But it hurts. Because I want him to propose. For real. Because he loves me. Not because his lawyer thinks it's tactically sound.
"So what do you think?" Quentin dipped his head.
“It all makes sense. It’s just… not exactly how I thought getting married would look.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think Isobel will find the proof we need?”
He nodded. “She might. Then you wouldn’t have to marry me.”
I cupped his cheek. “Maybe I want to. Just not under these circumstances.”
He turned his face to kiss my hand. “Yeah… it makes sense to me. Let’s wait and see what happens.”
Quentin stood, offering me his hand. "Come on. It’s time to go home. Let me walk you out."
I took it, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine. We walked to my desk where I gathered my things. Then down the hallway in comfortable silence, his thumb absently stroking the back of my hand.
At the elevator, he turned to face me, his free hand coming up to cup my cheek. "We're going to figure this out."
"The marriage thing or the someone-trying-to-kill-us thing?"
"Both." His lips quirked. "Maybe not in that order."
"Priorities are important."
"Exactly." He leaned in, pressing his forehead to mine. "Get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow's going to be intense."
"You too." I tilted my face, and he met me halfway—a soft, lingering kiss that promised more when we had time. When we weren't racing against visions and deadlines and bullets.
When we pulled apart, I was breathless. "Goodnight, Quentin."
"Goodnight, Julia."
The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside, watching him until the doors slid shut between us.
I exited the elevator and made my way to the parking lot doors. Footsteps came from behind me.
"Julia, wait!"
I turned to find Serenity hurrying toward me, already tugging off her gloves.
"Serenity? Everything okay?"
"Yes. I just—" She stopped in front of me, slightly breathless. "I need to see something. May I?"
She held out her bare hand.
I didn't hesitate, placing mine in hers.
Her fingers closed around mine, warm and gentle. Her eyes drifted shut, brows drawing together in concentration. For a long moment, she was perfectly still.
Then her face softened. The corner of her mouth lifted into a small, genuine smile.
When her eyes opened, they were bright—almost shining.
"What did you see?" I asked, my heart pounding.
"You and Quentin." Her voice was warm, certain.
"Not the restaurant—I already told you about that.
This was different. Further out." She squeezed my hand.
"I saw light. Warmth. The two of you laughing together—real laughter, the kind that comes from your belly.
You were cooking something, and he was teasing you about the mess you'd made, and you threw flour at him. "
Despite everything, I felt myself smile. "That sounds... domestic."
"It was beautiful." Serenity's expression turned serious. "Julia, I can't promise you the future. I don't see everything, and what I do see doesn't always come to pass exactly as I envision it. But I can tell you what I felt."
"And what did you feel?"
"Love. Real, deep, lasting love." She squeezed my hand again. "The kind that survives the hard things. The scary things. You're going to face a lot in the coming days—more than just the restaurant. But you'll make it through. Together."
My throat tightened. "You promise?"
"I promise that what I saw was real. The path to get there might be rough, but you will find your way to each other. You already are."
I blinked back tears. "Thank you. For telling me. For—" My voice cracked. "For giving me hope."
"You don't need me for hope." Serenity released my hand, but not before patting it gently. "You already have it. You just needed someone to remind you it's okay to believe in it."
She pulled her gloves back on, gave me one more encouraging smile, and headed back toward the elevator.
I stood there for a moment, hand still tingling from her touch, heart feeling lighter than it had in days.
We were going to make it. Through the shootout. Through the danger. Through the complicated mess of feelings and families and mob politics.
Quentin and I were going to find our way to each other.
Really find each other.
I walked to my car with that thought warming me against the cool night air. Slid behind the wheel. Started the engine.
And for the first time since leaving New York, I felt like I could breathe.
Tomorrow might bring the restaurant. Danger. Fear. Maybe blood.
But beyond that?
There was flour and laughter and love.
There was us.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
∞∞∞
The drive home felt longer than usual.
Maybe because I was alone with my thoughts for the first time all day. Or maybe because those thoughts kept circling back to the same impossible questions.
Was I really considering marrying Quentin Vanetti?
A man I'd known for less than two months?
A man I'd lied to?
A man who somehow still looked at me like I mattered despite everything?
I turned onto my street, the familiar buildings a welcome sight after the chaos of the day. My apartment complex looked peaceful—almost boring compared to the violence Serenity had seen in her vision.
The restaurant. Gunfire and blood and barely surviving.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
We'll be okay. Serenity said we survive. She saw us laughing. Throwing flour.
I parked in my usual spot, grabbed my bag, and headed upstairs. Each step felt heavy, exhaustion settling into my bones now that the adrenaline had finally worn off.
Inside my apartment, I went through the motions. Locked the door. Checked the windows—a habit I'd developed since the first attack. Changed into comfortable clothes. Washed my face. Brushed my teeth.
Normal, mundane actions that felt surreal given everything hanging over my head.
I climbed into bed, stared at the ceiling, and willed sleep to come.
It didn't.
My mind kept replaying the day. Isobel's matter-of-fact explanation of marriage as a strategic move. The flash of hurt in Quentin's eyes when he said it wasn't how he wanted to propose. The warmth of his hand in mine. That kiss by the elevator.
Serenity's vision of us laughing together.
Love. Real, deep, lasting love.
Could that be real? Or was I just desperate to believe in something good in the middle of all this chaos?
I rolled onto my side, pulled the covers up to my chin, squeezed my eyes shut.
Still couldn't sleep.
The clock on my nightstand read 11:47.
I grabbed my phone, unlocked it, stared at Quentin's contact.
Don't be ridiculous. He's probably asleep. You can't just call him because you're having feelings and existential dread about tomorrow.
I set the phone back down.
Lasted maybe thirty seconds before picking it up again.