I looked at Quentin—studied him—tried to memorize his face. The way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. The strong line of his jaw. The mouth that had kissed me breathless just hours ago.
"If I die tonight," I said quietly, "know that I died happy."
His brow furrowed. "Nobody's dying tonight."
"You haven't heard what I have to say yet."
My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the table, took a breath, and forced the words out before I lost my nerve.
"I'm not who you think I am."
He went very still.
"My real name isn't Julia Russell." The confession tore out of me. "It's Julia Russo. Big Sal's daughter." My voice cracked. "I'm so sorry, Quentin. I deceived you. I lied to you from the very first moment. But I didn't know you then. I didn't—I couldn't have known—"
The silence stretched between us like a chasm.
"Your family thinks I killed your father." His voice was flat, emotionless. Dangerous. "I suspected as much when Carlo refused to take my calls."
"Yes." The word came out as barely a whisper. "My aunt Filomena was certain. She had a source, proof—everything pointed to you. It was confirmed, double-checked. There was no doubt in anyone's mind." Tears burned behind my eyes. "We all believed you murdered my father to take his territory."
"And now?" Each word was carefully measured, controlled. "What do you believe now?"
"Now I know you didn't do it." A tear escaped, trailing down my cheek. "You couldn't have. I've seen who you are, Quentin. How you treat people, how you run your business, how you honor your commitments. You're not a man who'd kill a valuable partner." My voice broke. "You're being framed. And I—” I managed to meet his gaze. “I'm so sorry."
He leaned back, physically pulling away from me, his jaw tight. "This is a lot to process."
"I know. I know it is, and you have every right to—"
"What was your role?" His eyes were hard now, chips of ice. "You set me up with that gunman, didn't you? I was supposed to die that night?"
"No!" Panic flooded through me. "No, Quentin, I swear. That assassin tried to killme. You saw the bullet hole in my windshield—it missed my head by inches. I had no idea you were following me. You weren't the target until you intervened."
"Then whatwasyour role?" Each word cut like a blade. "Besides spying on me? Setting me up for someone else's bullet?"
The shame was crushing, suffocating. I couldn't meet his eyes.
"Julia." His voice dropped dangerously low. "What were you sent here to do?"
"I was supposed to kill you myself." The confession ripped out of me in a whisper. "I'm the hitter. I was the assassin they sent."
Silence.
When I finally forced myself to look up, his face had gone blank. Completely shut down. The warmth I'd seen in his eyes all evening had vanished, replaced by the cold calculation of a mob boss assessing a threat.
“They sent a woman to kill me.” His voice was devoid of emotion.
"Technically a hitwoman," I tried weakly, desperately searching for any crack in his armor. Any sign the man I'd laughed with over dinner was still there.
Nothing.
"Your family put you in danger to kill me.” He shook his head slowly, like he didn't recognize the world anymore. "Your father wouldn't have approved." The words came out hard, almost accusatory. "For any reason."
"I know." Fresh tears spilled over. "You're absolutely right. He'd be furious with me. Disappointed. Ashamed." I wiped at my face with shaking hands. "But it's hard—navigating this world as a woman. Maybe you wouldn't understand that."
He lifted his wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid like blood. Studying it. Not looking at me. "It still isn't right."
The words landed like a death sentence.
