Chapter 33 #3
"It's risky," Stone said.
"Everything's risky," Quentin countered. "But at least this way, we control the when and where. We know she's coming. We just have to be ready."
Serenity reached back from the front seat, her hand finding mine. "You have the documents. Just like I saw. You survived. Just like I saw."
"What else did you see?" I asked desperately. "What happens next?"
Her eyes were distant. Troubled. "A wedding. Music. Dancing. But also—" She shook her head. "I can't see it clearly. There's too much interference. Too many possible futures."
"But we survive," Quentin pressed. "We make it through this."
"I saw flour," Serenity said softly. "And laughter. And love. But I don't know how you get from here to there. The path is... unclear."
"Then we make our own path," I said. "We take these documents to Carlo. We tell him what we found. And we offer him a solution—a wedding that draws out the killer."
"He might not go for it," Stone warned.
"He will," I said with more confidence than I felt. "Because Carlo wants answers just as badly as we do. And because—" I looked at the documents. "Because somewhere in these papers is the truth. We just need the killer to confirm it."
Quentin's hand tightened on mine.
The SUV raced through the city streets, carrying us toward—what?
A meeting with Carlo. A confrontation with my family. A wedding that might be the last thing we ever do.
But also toward justice. Truth. And maybe, if we were lucky and smart and survived—
Flour and laughter and love.
We just had to live long enough to get there.
∞∞∞
The SUV pulled up to Quentin's house. I could barely remember dropping off Margaret Chen and Isobel. One moment we'd been fleeing Il Giardino with sirens screaming behind us, the next we were here—suburban quiet, porch lights glowing warm against the darkness.
Safe.
Except I didn't feel safe. I felt like my skin was electrified, like any second someone would come around the corner with a gun.
"You're staying here tonight," Quentin said. Not a question.
I didn't argue.
Stone leaned forward from the front seat. "I'll have two men on the perimeter. No one's getting near this house."
"Thank you." Quentin's voice sounded rougher than usual.
"Get some sleep." Stone's gaze flicked between us. "Both of you. We'll regroup in the morning."
Serenity squeezed my shoulder from beside me. "You're okay. You're both okay."
But her eyes said she'd seen something else. Something she wasn't sharing yet.
We climbed out. The cool air bit through my ruined blouse—still spotted with drops of wine from when the table exploded. Seemed like a lifetime ago.
Quentin's hand settled at the small of my back as we walked to the door. Steady. Grounding. I wanted to lean into it but I wasn't sure my legs would hold if I stopped moving.
Inside, he locked the door. Checked the windows. Set the alarm. Professional. Methodical.
Then he turned to face me and I saw it—the careful control fracturing.
"You're bleeding." His voice cracked on the last word.
I looked down. A thin line of blood ran down my forearm where flying glass had caught me. I hadn't even felt it. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." He crossed to me in three strides. "Bathroom. Now."
I let him guide me down the hall, through his bedroom—masculine, neat, smelling like him—into an en suite with too much white marble.
He sat me on the counter and pulled out a first aid kit.
His hands shook as he cleaned the cut.
"Quentin—"
"Don't." He focused on my arm like it was the most important thing in the world. "Just—let me."
So I did.
I watched him work, this man who'd thrown himself between me and bullets tonight. Who'd fired back without hesitation. Who'd pulled me under that table and covered my body with his own.
The cut wasn't deep. He applied antibiotic ointment, wrapped it with gauze. Professional. Gentle.
When he finished, he didn't move away.
His thumb traced circles on my wrist. Right over my pulse.
"I almost lost you tonight." The words came out broken. "When that first shot hit the window, when they came through the door—" His eyes met mine. "Julia, I couldn't breathe. All I could think was that I'd gotten you killed. That I'd dragged you into this and you were going to die because of me."
"I dragged you into this," I corrected. "Or did you forget the part where I'm the mob princess who lied about her identity?"
"I don't care about that." His hands framed my face. "I don't care about any of it. I just need you alive."
My heart hammered. "I'm alive."
"You're alive," he repeated, like he needed to convince himself.
Then he was kissing me—desperate, shaking, tasting like fear and relief and something deeper. I kissed him back with everything I had, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
We'd almost died tonight.
But we hadn't.
We were here. Alive. Together.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he pressed his forehead to mine.
"Your turn," I said, pulling back enough to see his face. "Let me check you."
"I'm fine."
"Liar." I slid off the counter, forcing him to step back. "Shirt off."
"Julia—"
"Quentin." I met his eyes. "You covered me with your body. I heard the bullets hit the table. If any of them went through—"
His jaw tightened but he pulled off his bullet-proof vest, then his shirt.
I sucked in a breath.
A bruise was already blooming across his ribs—deep purple, angry. "Geeze, Quentin."
"It's just a bruise."
"From a bullet?"
"I guess.” He winced as I pressed gently around the edges. "Probably cracked a rib."
"Probably?" My hands were shaking now. Really shaking. "You need an X-ray."
"I need a drink." He caught my hands. "And so do you. Come on."
He led me back through the bedroom into the living room. Modern, comfortable, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights. Normally I'd appreciate the view. Tonight, all those windows felt like targets.
Quentin must have seen it on my face because he crossed to the wall and pressed a button. Heavy blackout shades descended with a soft whir.
"Better?"
"Better."
He moved to a bar cart in the corner, pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Poured two generous glasses.
His hands shook so badly the bottle rattled against the rim.
I crossed to him, steadied his hand with mine. "Here."
Together, we poured. Together, we lifted the glasses.
"To survival," he said quietly.
"To not dying horribly in an Italian restaurant."
"Very specific."
"I'm a specific person."
A ghost of a smile. We drank.
The whiskey burned going down, warm and grounding. I took another sip. Then another.
Quentin sank onto the couch like his strings had been cut. I sat beside him—close but not touching. Still processing. Still shaking.
"Three people tried to kill us tonight," I said to the silence.
"Three that we know of. Maybe more outside if Stone and Forrest hadn't been there."
"Margaret was terrified. Did you see her face?"
"She was brave to come forward." He stared into his glass. "She has kids. She risked everything."
"Isobel was so calm. Like this was just another Tuesday."
"That's Isobel. She once negotiated a contract while someone was actively trying to break into the conference room." He took another drink. "But her hands were shaking when we got in the SUV. I saw it."
We fell quiet. Outside, I could hear the city—distant traffic, a siren, life continuing like we hadn't just survived an assassination attempt.
"I keep thinking about the first shooter," I said. "The one I—" My voice caught. "The one I shot."
Quentin's hand found mine. "You did what you had to do."
"I know." And I did know. “But I’ve decided I don’t like shooting people. So I guess that means I’m a failure."
He chuckled. "Good." His thumb traced circles on my palm. "The day you like it is the day you've become someone you don't want to be."
I looked at him—really looked at him. This man who'd jumped in front of bullets for me. Who'd held me while I shook in the SUV. Who was sitting here bruised and probably concussed, more worried about my emotional state than his cracked rib.
"The wedding," I said suddenly.
His gaze met mine. "What about it?"
"When Isobel first suggested it—the strategic marriage for legal protection—I thought it was crazy."
"It is crazy."
"But tonight, when those men came through the door, when I thought—" I had to swallow past the lump in my throat. "All I could think was that I hadn't told you. That we'd been pretending this was just strategy and I'd never actually said—"
"Julia." His voice was soft. Careful.
"I want it to be real." The words tumbled out. "Not just paperwork. Not just spousal privilege. Real. I want to marry you because I—" Why was this so hard? "Because I love you. Because tonight made me realize life's too short to pretend this is just an arrangement."
Quentin set down his glass. Turned to face me fully.
"I proposed to you in my office because my lawyer suggested it," he said. "I stood there explaining legal protections and immunity while my heart was screaming something completely different."
"What was it screaming?"
"That I wanted you. That watching you walk into danger every day was killing me.
That the thought of you testifying against me wasn't about legal exposure—it was about losing you.
" He took my face in his hands. "I love you, Julia Russo.
I loved you before I knew your real name.
I loved you when I found out you'd lied.
I loved you when your brother threatened to kill me.
And I loved you tonight when I thought I might die. "
My vision blurred. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"The bar was clearly low."
"Shut up and kiss me."
He did.
This kiss was different from the desperate one in the bathroom. Slower. Deeper. A promise instead of a reaction.
When we finally broke apart, I was crying. Not sad tears—something else. Relief. Joy. The overwhelming feeling of rightness.
"So we're doing this?" I asked. "For real?"
"For real." He wiped my tears with his thumbs. "We'll still need the legal protection. Still need to prove your aunt ordered the hit. Still need to survive whatever comes next."
"But we'll be married because we want to be. Not because we have to be."
"Exactly." He pulled me against his chest, careful of his ribs. "We should probably tell Stone in the morning."
"He's going to be insufferable."
"Completely insufferable. He'll say he saw it coming."
"He probably did." I yawned against his shirt. The adrenaline was finally crashing, exhaustion hitting like a freight train. "I can't keep my eyes open."
"Bedroom's through there." He started to stand.
We made it to his bed—barely. Didn't bother with pajamas, just kicked off shoes and collapsed fully clothed on top of the covers.
Quentin pulled me close, one arm around my waist, my head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady under my ear. Alive.
"Jules?" His voice was already heavy with sleep.
"Mm?"
"Tomorrow, we tell Stone we want a real wedding."
"Tomorrow," I agreed. "Tonight we just—"
"Survive."
"Yeah."
His hand found mine in the dark. Laced our fingers together.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I love you too."
And despite everything—the danger, the violence, the uncertainty of what came next—I felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Safe.
Not because we were out of danger. We weren't. Tomorrow we'd still be hunted. Still be racing against Carlo's deadline. Still be trying to prove Filomena guilty before she killed us both.
But tonight, in the dark, with Quentin's arms around me and his heartbeat steady against my cheek, I let myself believe we'd survive this.