Her voice drifted back from somewhere down the corridor: "You can say that again."
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitched. "I just did," I whispered to the empty office.
The silence pressed in on me. I stood, crossed to my office and the small bar cart I kept near the window. Poured two fingers of Macallan. Then three. Then four.
I downed half of it in one swallow, welcoming the burn.
Then I put the bottle away—drinking myself numb wouldn't solve anything—and sank into my chair. Leaned back. Laced my fingers behind my head and stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere in this mess was an answer. A truth I could hold onto.
Julia was either the woman I was falling in love with, or the woman sent to destroy me.
And I had no idea which.
But I was going to find out.
Even if the truth killed me.
Especiallyif the truth killed me.
Because I couldn't live like this—suspended between hope and devastation, trust and betrayal, love and death.
I closed my eyes and saw her face. The way she'd looked at me across that dinner table, tears streaming down her cheeks as she confessed.
I'm so sorry, Quentin.
Was she sorry for lying? Or sorry she'd fallen for the man she was supposed to kill?
"Where are you, Julia?" I whispered into the empty room. "And are you coming back to me? Or was I just a mark all along?"
The silence gave no answers.
Only the ticking of the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds until I'd have to make a choice I wasn't ready to make.
Trust her.
Or end her.
There was no middle ground.
Not in this life.
Not in this world.
Chapter 27
Julia
The family meeting wasn't scheduled until eleven tonight. Nearly twelve hours away. Twelve hours to sit here and imagine every possible outcome.
Carlo had summoned me Friday night to pull me away from Quentin. The timing, the urgency—it all pointed to one thing: Silvio was stepping in to finish what I couldn't.
Quentin was going to sleep with the fishes. Push up daisies. Take a dirt nap. Feed the worms. Get a one-way ticket to Uncle Paulie's upstate farm.
The euphemisms were endless, and I clung to them because they made death seem almost funny. Almost manageable. We joke about death because it's coming for all of us eventually, and humor is easier than terror.
Then a wave of relief crashed over me, immediately followed by crushing guilt.
