Chapter 38
Quentin
I hadn't spoken to Bianca Vanetti in twelve years.
That didn’t mean I hadn’t kept track of her. If she even suspected how much I knew about her life, she’d probably never speak to me again. But she was my only sister, and, estranged or not, that meant taking drastic steps to make sure she was safe.
I stared at the number on my screen for a full minute before dialing.
"Hello?" Her voice sounded older. More guarded. Like she'd built walls I wasn't sure I could climb.
"Bia. It's me." I'd called her Bia—BEE-ah—since we were kids. The last time we spoke, she was angry at me for bringing up the past. "Can we talk?"
Silence lingered. Not the comfortable kind.
"Quin?" The way she said my name sent warning signals through my brain. Surprise, yes. But also something else. Relief? Fear? "Is everything okay? Did something happen?"
"Everything's fine. I just—" I stopped. Started again. "I wanted to tell you something. Something good."
"Good." She repeated the word like she'd forgotten what it meant. "Okay. What is it?"
"I've found someone special. We're getting married. I'd like you to be there."
Another silence. Longer this time. I could hear her breathing—fast, shallow, like she'd just run up the stairs.
"You're getting married?" Her voice cracked. "That's—that's wonderful, Quin. Really. When?"
"In less than three weeks. On the rooftop of the St. Regis."
"In New York?" The question came out sharp. Too sharp.
"Yeah."
When our grandparents were killed in a mob hit in New York, our father took us west to get away from the danger and the memories.
We stopped in the middle of the country and set up business.
As soon as she was old enough, Bianca headed to Los Angeles.
Hollywood. The movie business. She'd sworn she'd never go back to New York. Not for anything.
"I know it's a lot to ask," I said carefully. "But it would mean everything to me if you came. If you met Julia."
"Julia." She was quiet for a moment. "What's her last name?"
The question caught me off guard. "Russo. Julia Russo. From New York, actually. Why?"
"Just curious." But her tone had shifted. Calculating. "Russo. That's Italian, obviously. Is she—I mean, what does she do?"
"She's my executive assistant. Smart, capable, beautiful." I paused. "Why all the questions, Bia?"
"I'm just trying to get to know my future sister-in-law." A forced laugh. "You can't blame me for being curious after you drop a bomb like this."
"It's not a bomb. It's a wedding invitation."
"Right. Sorry. I'm just—" She stopped. I heard something in the background. A voice? "I'm just surprised, that's all."
"Who's there with you?"
"What? No one. Just the TV." Too quick. "Look, Quin, about the wedding. You said New York. The St. Regis. That's—that's a big venue. Fancy. I'm assuming this isn't just a small family thing?"
"Her family's pretty involved. Traditional Italian family, if you know what I mean. We're doing it right. Big ceremony, reception, the whole thing."
"Her family." Another pause. "Are they—I mean, what kind of family are we talking about here?"
My protective instincts kicked in. "Bia, what's going on? Why are you asking all these questions?"
"I'm not—I'm just trying to understand what I'd be walking into. You know I left that world behind, Quin. I don't want to be part of—" She huffed out a breath. "If you're still a criminal, I’m not sure I want to be part of that." The words came out cold. Rehearsed.
Her words hurt. "Can you simply treat me as an older brother for a minute? I've found someone I love. We're getting married. I'd like my sister to be there." I waited, then added quietly, "I've missed you, Bia."
I heard her breath catch. "I've missed you too."
"Then come. Please. I know New York has bad memories. But this would be a good memory. A new start. You could meet Julia. See that I'm happy. That I'm trying to build something legitimate."
"Legitimate?" She said it like a question. "Is she part of that? The legitimate part?"
"Julia's the best thing that's ever happened to me. She makes me want to be better."
Another long pause. "Will there be—I mean, at the wedding. Will there be security?"
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. "Security?"
"I just mean—you said it's a big wedding. Traditional Italian families. I assume there's going to be, you know, protection. People watching. Making sure everything goes smoothly."
"I’ll have the best security money can provide. My man’s thorough. Why?"
"No reason. Just—you know how I am. Anxious about New York crowds." She laughed, but it sounded hollow. "I'm just being paranoid. LA does that to you. Everyone's always looking over their shoulder. And New York—you know what happened there."
"Yes. But this is different." But was it? Was I putting her in danger? "I promise you’ll be safe."
"I know." Her voice softened. "I'm just surprised, that's all. My big brother getting married. It's a lot to process."
"So you'll come?"
Silence. I could practically hear her thinking. Weighing. Calculating something I couldn't see.
"What's her name again?" she asked.
"Julia. Julia Russo."
"And her family—they're okay with you? With your background?"
"They know who I am. What I've been. They're willing to give me a chance."
"That's—" She stopped. Started again. "That's really good, Quin. I'm happy for you. Really."
"But you're not coming."
"I didn't say that." She took a shaky breath. "Send me the details. The invitation. I'll—I'll think about it. Seriously think about it."
"That's all I'm asking."
"Can you send me your address too? In Salt Lake? Just in case I—in case I need to reach you before the wedding."
"Of course. But Bia, you have my number now. You can call me anytime."
"I know. I just—it would make me feel better. Having your address. Knowing where you are."
Something was definitely wrong. But pushing her would only make her retreat.
"I'll text you everything after we hang up," I said. "Address, wedding details, hotel information. And Bia? If you need anything—anything at all—you call me. Day or night. Understood?"
"Understood." Her voice was small. Young. Like the little sister who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms. "Thank you, Quin."
"For what?"
"For still wanting me there. After everything. After I left and didn't call and—" Her voice broke. "Thank you."
"You're my baby sister. That doesn't change."
"Even if I've made mistakes?"
"Everyone makes mistakes. The question is what we do about them."
"What if the mistakes are really bad? What if—" She stopped herself. "Never mind. Forget I said that."
"Bianca—"
"I have to go. Someone's at the door. But I'll think about the wedding. I promise. Really think about it."
"You do that. And Bia?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you. No matter what."
Silence. Then, barely a whisper: "I love you too, big brother."
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, every instinct screaming that something was wrong. Bianca asking about security. About Julia's family. About my address. Acting like she was gathering information for some purpose I couldn't see.
And that moment when she'd asked about mistakes. About things being "really bad."
I pulled up Stone's number, then stopped.
What would I even say? My sister called and acted weird? Asked too many questions? Maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe she was just anxious about coming back to New York.
Or maybe she was in trouble and too scared to ask for help directly.
I sent her the information I'd promised—address, wedding details, hotel confirmation. Added a note at the end:
The offer stands. Anytime, day or night. If you need me, I'm here.
I didn't expect her to respond.
After I finished up with Bianca, I scrolled through my contacts, stopping at a number I hadn't called in over a year.
Uncle Riccardo.
My father's brother who'd stayed in New York when we’d moved west. Who'd chosen to leave the business entirely and build something legitimate.
The phone rang three times before a familiar voice answered. "Quentin? Is that you?"
"Uncle Riccardo. It's been too long."
"It has." He sounded pleased. "What's the occasion?"
"I'm getting married. In New York. About three weeks from now. I'd like you there. You, Emilio, and Gina."
Silence. Then: "Married? Quentin, that's wonderful. Of course we'll be there. Who's the lucky woman?"
"Her name is Julia. Julia Russo."
Another pause. "Russo? As in—"
"Yes. That Russo family."
"Well." Uncle Riccardo laughed. "Your father would've had a heart attack. Or maybe he'd be proud. Hard to say with him."
"I'm hoping for proud."
"Send me the details. We'll be there. And Quentin? I'm happy for you. Really happy."
After we hung up, I felt lighter somehow. Like pieces of my family—the legitimate, normal pieces—were coming back together.
Now I just needed to survive the rehearsal dinner.
The irony wasn't lost on me. While I was trying to reconnect with my sister and my family in New York, Julia would be confronting the aunt who'd betrayed her family in the worst possible way. One family coming together, another falling apart.
But maybe that's how it worked. You built the family you needed from the pieces that remained.
Julia had chosen me despite everything—despite the lies, the danger, the impossible circumstances.
Bianca was choosing to trust me again, even if she was scared.
And somewhere in the chaos of mob politics and family vendettas, we were creating something real.
At that point, everything would change. Either Julia's suspicions would be proven, or we'd discover we'd been chasing shadows. Either way, our lives would never be the same.
I just hoped we'd still be standing when the dust settled.