Chapter 37
Julia
All the save-the-date cards I'd received over the years usually came about a year before the wedding. Invitations typically arrive six to twelve weeks before the date.
So people have time to plan, and are less likely to have scheduling conflicts.
But since we had to do this fast, I had to blame someone for having the wedding so quickly. That meant Quentin would have to be the fall guy. I’d make it up to him later.
"Quentin gave me three weeks!" I practically shouted into the phone. "Well, three weeks for the real wedding. We already did the courthouse thing two days ago."
Chiara Moretti-Bianchi laughed. "Wait, you're already married?"
"Legally, yes. But you know how it is—we wanted to make it official for practical reasons, but we need a real wedding. For the families. For tradition."
"So you eloped and now you're having a do-over in three weeks?" She paused. "Are you pregnant?"
"No!" I fumed. "I'm not pregnant. It's just—we're in love—and there were some legal and business reasons to get married quickly. But we want to do it right. You know, Church, families, the whole thing."
"Very romantic."
I couldn't tell Chiara the real reason behind the ludicrous schedule.
She was still a Moretti—and while I trusted her and believed our friendship was genuine—there were bigger issues at play.
Life and death issues. Namely, that her family may have tried to kill me.
So, I had to withhold as much about the secret as I could without outright lying to her.
I hoped—long term—we could remain besties.
"I guess you'd better send out invitations soon?" Chiara asked.
She sounded sincere but I wanted to see her face. "Can we switch to video?"
"I'm a mess."
"I don't care."
"Hold on."
I could hear the sounds of things being thrown.
"I'm back. Sorry. Clothes. Toys. The room's a mess. You're sure you're not pregnant?" She appeared made-up in the video, as if in the ten seconds she was throwing things around the house, she'd also put on makeup, and had pulled her hair into a bun.
"I'm not. The courthouse wedding was just paperwork—we barely had witnesses. This one is the real thing. The one that counts."
"You don't have to explain." She smiled and wiggled her eyebrows. "Lots of couples do the legal stuff first these days. It's actually pretty smart. And now you get to have the big celebration without worrying about the boring parts. It's cute and romantic. Okay, how can I help?"
I summoned my courage for the big ask that was coming. "Will you be my matron-of-honor?"
"Of course!"
Her answer sent a wave of relief through me. "Great, thank you. I'm going to owe you big time when this is done. I need to make a list—"
"Let me make the list. I'll cut and paste from Emma's wedding. And Elena's. I've got this, I've been a bride's maid six times, you know?" Chiara raised her arms in a this-will-be-a-breeze gesture of confidence.
"No?" I tried to remember all the weddings, but drew a blank after Emma and Elena. "Six?"
"And matron-of-honor twice. That's eight weddings. This'll be a piece of cake."
"You ever plan a wedding in three weeks?" I asked.
"This will be my first, love." She held up an index finger. "But trust me. I can get this done."
"Chiara, you're amazing."
“You got that right. I’ve got to check the oven so I don’t burn dinner.
” She moved the camera closer to her face and whispered.
“I know there’s something you’re not telling me, but I trust you.
I’ll do all I can to help. Check your email in a couple of hours and let’s work out a way to divide and conquer. Ciao!”
I stared at the blank screen. There was something innocent and kind about Chiara and I hated keeping my wedding secrets from her. But I’d promised Quentin.
She’s a good friend and she’ll understand.
What scared me were the potential ramifications of a Moretti play on Quentin’s life and business that could have been hidden from her to shield her from exposing those plans to me.
It wasn’t a secret she and I were long-term friends.
I wouldn’t hold it past her family’s leaders to use that to their advantage.
Families.
A place where secrets, lies, and betrayal cost you ten times the pain.
∞∞∞
With that accomplished, I strode into the conference room we were using as a command center, looking through all the evidence for that smoking gun we needed to prove Quentin’s innocence.
We had less than three weeks, and no time to squander.
Quentin stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the city.
Stone was reviewing security plans for New York.
Forrest had three laptops open, tracking financial transactions.
Serenity sat quietly in the corner, occasionally offering insights that made my skin crawl with how accurate they were.
"Walk me through it again," I said, spreading Margaret Chen's documents across the table. "The authorization code. The one used for all twelve suspicious transfers, including the payment to Lucchese."
Forrest pulled up a spreadsheet. "Same code pattern every time. It's not a standard family account—it's restricted access. Only four people had it."
"Filomena, Dominic, Silvio, and my father." I traced my finger down the list of transactions. "But Papa's dead. So one of the other three used his code to hire his killer."
"We need more than financial patterns," Stone said. "We need proof. Something definitive."
"The code itself would be proof," Forrest pointed out. "If we could see the actual authorization number, we could potentially trace it to who entered it. But these offshore accounts don't keep that level of detail in accessible records."
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the photos I'd taken at Papa's house. The notebook. The security panel. The—
I stopped.
The slip of paper from The Count of Monte Cristo.
"What is it?" Quentin moved closer, reading my expression.
I zoomed in on the photo. Ten digits. I'd assumed it was a phone number. But...
"Forrest." My voice came out strange. "What's the format for offshore account authorization codes? The restricted access ones?"
He rattled off the pattern without looking up. "Ten digits. First three indicate the account type, next four are the user identifier, last three are the security sequence. Why?"
My hands started shaking.
"Julia?" Quentin's hand on my shoulder. "What is it?"
I turned the phone toward Forrest. "Is this a phone number or an authorization code?"
He studied it for a long moment. Then his eyes widened. "That's... that could be a code. The format matches." He started typing rapidly. "If I run this through the financial databases, cross-reference with the Russo family accounts..."
The room went silent except for his keyboard clicking.
"Holy shit," he breathed. "That's it. That's the authorization code. The one used for all twelve transfers, including the two hundred thousand to Lucchese."
The room tilted. I gripped the edge of the table.
"Your father had the code," Stone said slowly, working it through. "He hid it in a book."
"Not just any book." My voice sounded distant. "The Count of Monte Cristo. A story about betrayal and revenge."
"He knew," Quentin said quietly. "He suspected someone was using the account. That's why he wrote it down, hid it. He was documenting it."
"Or he was trying to tell me something." I sank into a chair. "He knew I loved that book. Knew I'd read it eventually, maybe even after he was gone. He was leaving me a clue."
"The meeting," Serenity said softly from the corner. Everyone turned to look at her. "In his notebook. 'F—9 p.m. Tuesday. Wine. Talk.' He was confronting them. About the money."
"And they had already planned to kill him," I whispered.
Forrest was still typing. "Okay, so we have the code. We know it was used to pay for the hit. But we still don't know which of the three suspects actually entered it."
"Because they all have access," Stone said. "Filomena, Dominic, Silvio. Any of them could have used it."
"So how do we prove who?" I asked, though part of me already knew. Had known since I found that slip of paper. Since Filomena had run Papa's security. Since she'd pushed so hard to blame Quentin.
"We make them use it again," Quentin said.
Everyone glanced his way.
"We set a trap. Create a situation where one of them has to access that account. Then we watch to see who enters the code."
"The wedding," I said slowly, pieces clicking into place. "Carlo's planning it. He could ask one of them to handle a payment. Something big enough to require the restricted account."
"How about the rehearsal dinner?" Stone suggested. "Big expense. Family obligation. Whoever Carlo asks would consider it an honor."
"And if they use that code..." Forrest grinned. "I can set up monitoring. Real-time alerts. The second someone processes a transaction with that authorization code, we'll know exactly who it is."
I stared at my phone, at the number my father had hidden for me to find. My throat tightened.
"Carlo should arrange it," Quentin said. "The rehearsal dinner. Carlo handles it as part of the wedding planning—"
"It's expected," I finished. "Natural."
"Can you set up the monitoring without the transaction happening yet?" Quentin asked Forrest.
"I can monitor the account starting now. The second anyone uses that authorization code for any transaction, Julia gets an alert." He was already pulling up screens. "I'll have it live within the hour."
I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over Carlo's name.
"If you tell him your suspicions, he might confront her immediately," Stone warned.
"Carlo's smarter than that." I met his gaze. "He's the Don now. He understands we need proof the family can't deny." I paused. "And he deserves to help catch his father's killer."
Quentin studied my face, then nodded. "We're all here if you need us."
I stepped into the hallway, took a breath, and dialed.
Carlo answered on the second ring. "Jules. Everything okay?"
"I figured it out," I said quietly. "I know how to prove who killed Papa."
Silence. Then: "I'm listening."
I explained it all. The code in the book. The authorization pattern Margaret had found. The trap we could set.
"You're already planning the rehearsal dinner, right?" I asked.
"I've been looking at venues. Haven't booked anything yet."
"Good. Book something nice—traditional Italian, private room. Then ask Filomena to handle the payment. Make it seem like an honor, like you're trusting her with something important for my wedding."
"How do I explain which account to use?"
"Tell her to use 'the family account.' The special one Papa set up for big family occasions. If she has the authorization code, she'll know exactly which one you mean. If she doesn't..." I swallowed hard. "She'll ask for clarification."
"And if she uses it, you'll know."
"Forrest's setting up monitoring now. The second someone processes a transaction with that code, I get an alert with all the details—who, when, how much."
Carlo was quiet for a long moment. I could almost hear him thinking, weighing variables.
"You really think it's her," he said finally. Not a question.
"I hope I'm wrong." My voice broke. "But everything points to her. The security override from inside the house. The way she pushed to blame Quentin without ever showing her evidence. That meeting Papa had the night he died with someone whose name started with F."
"If it's her..." His voice went hard. "If our aunt killed our father..."
"Then she'll face family justice," I said. "But we need proof. Real proof. Not suspicions. And I’d really like to know why. Why would she do this? It makes no sense."
"I agree. Papa never mentioned a word of trouble to me.
If he would have, maybe I could have done something to save him.
" I heard him exhale slowly. "Okay. I'll book the venue this week.
Make it natural—shop around, compare menus, like a Don planning his sister's wedding would.
Then I'll call Filomena and ask for her approval.
Tell her that if it meets her high standards to book it and handle the payment. Tell her it would mean a lot to you."
"That's perfect. Asking her like that doesn’t seem suspicious."
"Jules?" His voice softened. "You sure you want to know? Once we have proof, there's no going back."
I closed my eyes, thought of Papa hiding that number in my favorite book. Leaving me breadcrumbs because he knew—he'd known someone close to him was stealing, maybe worse.
"I need to know," I said. "For Papa. For Quentin. For all of us."
"Then we'll know soon enough." He paused. "I'll let you know the minute she agrees. Try to enjoy the wedding planning between now and then."
"Yeah," I whispered. "I'll try."
"And Jules? Whatever we find out—I’ll handle it. I’m the don. It’s my burden to carry, not yours."
Tears pricked my eyes. "Thank you."
I ended the call and stood there for a moment, staring at nothing.
Walking back into the conference room, everyone glanced at me.
"It's set," I said quietly. "Carlo's booking the venue this week, then he'll ask Filomena to handle the payment. We should know within two weeks."
"I've got the monitoring live," Forrest said. "Your phone's set up. Any transaction on that account using the authorization code, you'll get an immediate alert."
"Good." I sank into a chair, suddenly exhausted. "Now we wait."
Quentin pulled another chair close, took my hand. "You okay?"
"No." I looked at our joined hands, the engagement ring catching the light. "But I will be. Once we know the truth."
"What if it's not Filomena?" Serenity asked gently. "What if it's Dominic or Silvio?"
"Then at least we'll know." But even as I said it, I knew. In my gut, in my bones, I knew who it would be.
The woman who'd taught me to cook. Who'd taught me to stand up for myself in a room full of men. Who'd held me at Papa's funeral and promised everything would be okay.
The woman who'd killed him.
I looked around the conference room at the people who'd become my chosen family—Quentin, Stone, Serenity, Forrest. The team that had helped me find the truth even when it hurt.
"Thank you," I said to all of them. "For helping me. For believing in us. For... everything."
"That's what family does," Serenity said softly.
Not family by blood. Family by choice.
Maybe that was the better kind after all.