“Okay, who starred inCasinoand what were the real-life characters they played?”
“De Niro played Sam Rothstein. Joe Pesci played Nicky Santoro. Sharon Stone played a character based on Geri McGee and James Woods was playing Lester Diamond.”
He shook his head. “You must kill it at trivia night.”
“When the topic is gangster films, sure.” I tilted my head and sent him a smile. “I’m pretty good with thoroughbred racehorse trivia, mafia films, and eighties music. But I’m terrible at sports and geography.”
Our server approached quietly and cautiously, like we’d been discussing state secrets. “Excuse me, sir. Your table is ready.”
∞∞∞
Dinner was phenomenal.
But somewhere between courses, the evening transformed into something more. The banter about gangster movies and trivia faded away, replaced by something deeper, more intimate.
Quentin shared stories about his travels—museums he'd fallen in love with, art that had moved him, cities that had changed him. His eyes lit up when he talked about a Caravaggio he'd seen in Rome, the way the light seemed to glow from within the canvas.
I listened, drawn in, and then found myself sharing things I rarely told anyone. How my grandmother had taught me to crochet, her patient hands guiding mine. How I still took Sundaywalks and thought of her—the way she'd point to trees, birds, buildings, teaching me their Italian names.
Nonna.The word caught in my throat.
I stopped myself abruptly. Too much. I was saying too much, getting too close to memories that would lead him straight to the truth about who I really was.
And just like that, reality crashed back in. My family expected me to kill this man. The man whose laugh made my heart race. The man I was falling for.
I couldn't do it. The realization hit me like a physical blow.I can't kill him.
Panic clawed at my throat. Think, Julia.Think.If I didn't complete the assignment, someone else would. Silvio, probably. Carlo would send another assassin, someone who wouldn't hesitate, someone who wouldn't know Quentin the way I did.
I couldn't just refuse. Not without proof. Not without explaining everything—and explaining meant confessing I'd gotten emotionally involved with the target. They'd pull me immediately and send someone else to finish the job.
No. I had to prove Quentin's innocence. That he didn't kill my father.
I was certain of it now—as certain as I'd ever been of anything. All my efforts to find real evidence this past week had failed. But it was working inside Vitality Ventures that had actually convinced me. The way he ran his business, treated his people, honored his word. This wasn't a man who'd order a hit on a partner, especially not one as valuable as my father had been.
Quentin was being framed. And I was running out of time to prove it.
"What are you thinking?" Quentin asked softly.
My throat closed. This was it. The moment everything either came together or fell apart.
I had to tell him. Had to come clean before this went any further, before I fell any deeper, before the lies became so tangled I'd never escape them. But telling him meant risking everything—his trust, his safety, maybe even his life if he reacted badly.
And there was still my family. Carlo. The hit he'd ordered. The ticking clock I couldn't stop.
"It's complicated," I managed.
"Those are usually the best stories."
If only he knew. "Can we order dessert first?" My voice sounded strange, too bright. "I think better with elevated blood sugar."
Something shifted in his expression—concern, maybe wariness. "This must be serious." He signaled the server. "Coffee too?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.Yeah, it's going to be a long night. If you don't kill me first.
The Crostata di Ricotta e Limone arrived, beautiful and perfect. I forced myself to eat slowly, savoring each bite like it might be my last meal. The lemon was bright, the ricotta silky. I chased it with coffee, buying time, delaying the inevitable.
Finally, the plate was empty. No more excuses.
