If Carlo had ordered both our deaths—mine and Quentin's—they wouldn't have bothered with a cross-country flight. I'd be at the bottom of a lake right now, or buried in a forest where hikers would find my bones in twenty years.
The fact that I was breathing meant I had a chance.
But the guilt... I closed my eyes tightly. Held back a sob. The guilt was suffocating.
Because somewhere between taking this assignment and boarding that plane, I'd fallen completely, irrevocably in love with Quentin Vanetti.
The man I'd been sent to kill.
The man who might die because I'd failed my family.
Please let him be okay. Please don't let Silvio be back there finishing the job.
Carlo had sent me straight from the plane to a room at the TWA Hotel—whether for my convenience or to keep me under surveillance, I wasn't sure. Probably both. It seemed safe to assume my own family wasn't going to kill me here. If they wanted me dead, I'd already be dead.
Small comfort.
I'd showered until the water ran cold, then collapsed onto the bed and turned on Netflix without really seeing it. Some true crime documentary about cults and murder. Perfect. Just what my anxiety needed.
I'd passed out somewhere around episode two.
When I woke—afternoon, not morning—I felt worse than before. Groggy, disoriented, my dreams a tangled mess of love triangles and briefcases full of blood money. Note to self: set the TV timer before passing out.
I lived in a world of crime. Grew up around it, worked in it, accepted it as normal. But even in our world with its shades of gray, some things were unforgivable. Lines you didn't cross.
I had to believe Carlo saw that. If he was thinking clearly, he wouldn't order my execution. Sure, he might censure me, punish me, strip me of responsibilities—but I hadn't betrayed the family. Maybe he saw what I saw—that we were being deceived. That Quentin could be innocent. And if Quentin was innocent, then loving him wasn't a crime.
Right?
In fact—if we could solve who really killed my father—my relationship with Quentin could expand our territories and profits. Exactly what Papa had wanted. What Carlo was trying to achieve.
Keep telling yourself that, Julia. Maybe you'll believe it by tonight.
My stomach growled, pulling me from the spiral of anxiety.
The TWA Hotel didn't have room service. And even if it did, it would probably be terrible anyway. Not that I could go out—Carlo had made it crystal clear I was to stay invisible until the car picked me up.
Which meant food delivery.
I scrolled through apps with shaking hands. Grubhub. Uber Eats. DoorDash. Too many choices. My brain couldn't process decisions right now. Everything felt impossibly hard.
Finally, I just picked something. White clam pasta. Salad. Whatever.
I needed to move. Needed to do something other than sit here drowning in what-ifs.
I wandered the hallways looking for vending machines, trying not to think about Quentin. About whether he'd tried to call. Whether he hated me now. Whether he thought I'd played him all along.
Did you get my texts? Do you know I didn't want to leave? Do you understand I had no choice?
I bought two Diet Cokes. Then a Snickers. Then Wise Onion & Garlic chips. Halfway back to my room, I turned around and grabbed Zapp's Cajun Dill Gator-Tators too.
The ice machine was down another corridor. I filled the bucket mechanically, the sound of ice tumbling oddly soothing. Normal. Mundane.
This is what being middle class is like, right? Getting your own ice?
The thought made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.
I was such a spoiled brat. Here I was, complaining about fetching ice, when I might not live to see tomorrow.
