Chapter 36
Julia
The flight to New York was four hours of watching Quentin work through contingency plans.
"If Carlo brings more than three people, we adjust positioning," he said somewhere over Kansas, reviewing notes on his tablet. "Stone takes the northwest corner. I stay close to you. Exit strategy stays the same."
"You know Carlo's not going to ambush us in a restaurant, right?" I said. "He gave his word."
"His word that he won't kill me. I'm taking him at his word—but I'm also not walking in blind." He glanced at me. "Hope for the best, plan for the worst. That's how you stay alive in this business."
Stone sat at the back of Quentin's jet, reading a thriller novel and occasionally glancing up to assess the situation. His version of support.
"What if he just… doesn't listen?" Quentin asked, setting down his tablet. "What if we show him the evidence and he decides it's not enough?"
"Then we pivot. We've got the courthouse marriage as backup—spousal privilege kicks in either way."
"Which only protects you from testifying against me. Doesn't stop him from having me killed."
"Would you prefer I sugarcoat the situation?"
"I'd prefer not to be in a situation where execution is on the table at all." He met my gaze, and I saw calculation there, not fear. "But since we are, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure we walk out of that restaurant alive."
"That's more like it," I said, relieved to see the strategic mind I'd fallen for instead of panic.
"Don't mistake preparation for fear," he said quietly. "I'm not afraid of your brother. I'm respecting the fact that he holds my life in his hands, and treating that reality with the seriousness it deserves."
My heart did that annoying fluttery thing. "You know, most men would be terrified right now."
"I've been shot at in a restaurant while eating pasta. Carlo can't be worse than that."
"He could be exactly as bad as that."
"Then at least I'll die well-fed." He laced his fingers through mine. "For what it's worth, falling for you was worth whatever happens next."
"Romance is not dead."
"Romance is strategic. There's a difference."
I laughed despite myself.
∞∞∞
The restaurant was classic Little Italy—old world charm, the smell of garlic and red wine, murals of the Italian countryside on the walls. The kind of place where deals were made and broken, where futures were decided over seven-course meals.
My stomach attempted gymnastics.
"You okay?" Quentin asked as we approached the entrance.
"Define okay. My palms are sweating, my heart is racing, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to throw up. But other than that, fantastic."
"That's my brave wife."
"Your wife with complicated feelings and a suspicious timeline."
"That's a mouthful."
"That's accurate."
Stone peeled off toward the bar without a word, positioning himself where he could see our private room's entrance. Close enough to help. Far enough to give the illusion of privacy.
The hostess recognized me immediately. Her eyes widened, then smoothed back to professional composure.
"Ms. Russo. Your brother is expecting you."
Your brother who might murder my husband.
"Thank you," I managed, ignoring the impulse to tell her it was Mrs. Vanetti now.
She led us through the main dining room. I felt people’s gazes following us. Some recognized me. Or recognized that something important was happening.
In our world, you learned to read the room. And this room was totally immersed in what was about to happen.
The hostess opened an ornate wooden door. "Enjoy your dinner."
Then we were inside.
Carlo sat at the head of a table set for three. He stood as we entered—a show of respect that somehow made this more terrifying, not less.
My brother looked tired. Or maybe that was just the weight of being don aging him faster than it should.
"Jules." He opened his arms.
I crossed to him, let him pull me into a tight hug.
"You okay?" he murmured in my ear.
"Terrified."
"Good. Means you're thinking straight." He released me, his gaze shifting to Quentin. "Vanetti."
"Carlo." Quentin extended his hand.
For a heartbeat—a lifetime—I thought Carlo might refuse.
Then he took it. Shook firmly.
"Thank you for seeing us," Quentin said.
"Thank Jules. I'm doing this for her, not you." Carlo gestured to the chairs across from him. "Sit. We have a lot to discuss."
We sat. A server materialized with wine, filling glasses before disappearing again.
Carlo lifted his glass. "To family. And to decisions that will either be brilliant or get us all killed."
We all drank. The wine was excellent. It tasted like anxiety.
Carlo set down his glass, fixing us with a stare that probably made grown men confess to crimes they'd only thought about committing.
"So. You're married."
"Yes," I said.
"After barely a month of knowing each other."
"About that."
"While you were supposed to be investigating whether he killed our father."
"Yes."
"Makes perfect sense. No notes."
I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic. With Carlo, it was always hard to tell.
"I know how this looks," I started.
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like my sister fell for her assignment and decided to marry him instead of figuring out if he's a murderer. That's what it looks like from here."
"He's not a murderer."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually. I have documents that point elsewhere. That’s part of why we needed this meeting. And of course, to get your blessing.”
"I've seen the paperwork you already sent," Carlo acknowledged. "Now you have more? Is it actual proof? Can you tell me who did this?"
"No," I admitted. "It's not definitive, but we've narrowed it down to a few people. That's why we need the wedding."
Carlo's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"
Quentin leaned forward. "With respect, Carlo, let us explain. Then you can tell us we're insane."
"Already leaning in that direction, but go ahead."
"Julia and I are married. That's already done." Quentin's voice was steady, confident in a way that made me fall a little more in love with him. "But we're proposing a small, traditional event. Here in New York. A family affair."
"And?"
"And someone’s been trying to kill us both. They failed. But they'll try again."
Carlo's expression hardened. "You're using the wedding as bait."
"We're using it to draw out whoever wants us dead," I said. "Someone with resources and connections. We think—" I hesitated.
"You think it's someone in the family," Carlo finished. His tone was ice.
"We think so. But a small family wedding celebration with everyone present—it forces their hand."
"So you want to make yourselves targets at your own wedding." Carlo shook his head. "That's your plan?"
"Our plan is to control the circumstances," Quentin said. "We'll have security—my team and yours. Watching everything. If someone tries something, we'll be ready."
"Or they'll successfully kill you and we'll have a massacre at a wedding," Carlo pointed out. "That's not great for family image."
"The family image can survive a little massacre," I said. "We've had worse at weddings."
Carlo rubbed his temples. "Let's focus on the current potential disaster instead of reminiscing about past disasters?"
"Right. Sorry."
Carlo met my gaze like he was seeing me for the first time. "Explain the marriage part. The legal angle."
Quentin took over. "Spousal privilege. Julia can't be compelled to testify against me, I can't testify against her. If either family tries legal pressure, we're protected."
"It also sends a message," I added. "That we're united. That attacking one means attacking both."
"So it's strategic." Carlo’s voice sounded flat.
The word hung in the air like an accusation.
"It started that way," Quentin said carefully. "But—"
"But we caught feelings," I finished, trying to keep my tone light. "Inconvenient, poorly-timed feelings."
"You said you loved him?" Carlo studied me, looking for the lie.
My chest expanded. "Yes."
"Even though—"
"Even though," I interrupted. "Yes. I love him."
Carlo turned to Quentin. "And you? You love my sister?"
"Yes. Didn't plan to. Fought it as long as I could. But yes."
"Even though she was sent to kill you?"
"Especially because she chose not to."
Carlo sat back, considering. The silence stretched so long that I started mentally composing my obituary.
Finally: "Here's what's going to happen. I'm planning this wedding. Not you. Me. It'll be big, traditional, exactly what people expect for a Russo-Vanetti union."
“Big?”
“Yes. Jules—big. Thanks to Silvio, I know all about the shooting at the restaurant. The restaurant owned by the Morettis. If anything would have happened to you, it would have started a war between our families. So I think this goes deeper than you know, and if we’re going to do this right they have to be invited. So—yes. It’s going to be big.”
I nodded, hope flaring in my chest. "Does that mean—"
"It means I'm watching. Every guest, every vendor, every person within fifty feet of you. My people and Vanetti's people, working together." His gaze hardened. "And if someone makes a move, we'll be ready."
"Thank you," I breathed. "Carlo, thank you—"
"Don't thank me yet." He leaned forward. "Because here's the condition. You've got until the wedding to prove Vanetti's innocent. Not just show me evidence he might be innocent—actually prove it. Find the real killer. Give me a name."
My stomach dropped. "And if we can't?"
"Then afterward—" He looked at Quentin with cold calculation. "We revisit the question of justice. And spousal privilege won't save you."
"Understood," Quentin said, his face set in stone.
"And Jules?" Carlo's expression softened slightly. "If you're wrong about him—if he betrays you—I'll handle it. You won't have to. That's my gift to you."
He said it so casually. Like executing Quentin would be a favor, not the end of my world. I straightened, holding his stare. "I'm not wrong. You'll see."
"I hope so." He stood, and we all stood with him. "Because I want you to be happy. But not at the expense of justice for our father."
He came around the table and pulled me into a fierce hug.
"I love you," he murmured. "Even when you make decisions that give me gray hair."
"I love you too."
He released me, extending his hand to Quentin again. This handshake lasted longer.
"Hurt her, you die. Betray this family, you die. Prove yourself innocent and make my sister happy, you'll have my full support. We clear?"
"Crystal."
"Good." Carlo clapped him on the shoulder—too hard to be friendly, not hard enough to be hostile. "Now let's eat. You two must be starving. Plus, we have a wedding to plan."
∞∞∞
Three hours later, after more pasta than should be legal and discussions about venues, guest lists, and color schemes, we emerged into the New York night.
Stone materialized from the shadows. "Still alive. Good start."
"He's helping," I said, slightly dazed. "Carlo's actually helping."
"Which means he's all in on the trap," Stone observed. "We'll need his resources."
We walked toward the car Carlo had arranged for us. The city pulsed around us—sirens, voices, the endless energy of New York at night.
"You okay?" Quentin asked.
"No. Carlo's going to throw me a beautiful wedding while we use it to catch a killer. And if we fail—" My voice cracked.
"We won't fail."
"But if we do, he'll kill you." I stopped walking, turned to face him. "This is insane, Quentin."
"Completely." He cupped my face in his hands. "But it's our only play."
"Is it worth it? Are we worth all this?"
"Ask me again after the wedding. When we're both alive."
"And if we're not?"
"Then at least we tried." He pressed his forehead to mine. "At least we had this. Whatever this is."
"Love," I whispered. "It's love. Complicated, dangerous, possibly fatal love."
"Yeah." A small smile. "That."
Stone cleared his throat loudly. "Hate to interrupt the romantic moment in the middle of Little Italy where anyone could be watching, but we should move."
He was right.
We got in the car.
As we pulled away, I looked back at the restaurant. Through the window, I could see Carlo talking on his phone, deep in conversation.
Planning my wedding.
Setting a trap.
Trying to protect me while my investigation could destroy the family.
The guilt was crushing.
But so was the hope.
Maybe—just maybe—we'd pull this off. Catch the killer, prove Quentin's innocence, get our happy ending.
Please. Let this work. Let me not lose Quentin. Let me not lose Carlo. Let me somehow keep everyone I love alive.
The car merged into traffic.
"You know what?" I said suddenly.
"What?" Quentin asked.
"Our New York wedding vows are going to be really weird."
"How so?"
"Well, we're already married. So what do we even say? 'I still take you to be my husband'?"
"No. It’s more like this: 'I continue to take you, for better or worse, especially the worse since we're using our wedding as bait for murderers.'"
I chuckled. "That's romantic."
"That's realistic."
"Same thing in our world."
"Sadly accurate."
Stone snorted from the front seat. "You two are perfect for each other. Both completely insane."
"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to us," I told him.
"Don't get used to it."
But he was smiling.
And despite everything—the danger, the lies, the very real possibility of dying at our own wedding reception—I smiled too.
Because maybe love was worth the risk.
Maybe we'd find a way through this.
Maybe—just maybe—we'd get our happy ending.
Even if we had to catch a killer to do it.