"Julia—"
"That's the deal, Quentin."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then nodded. "Together."
∞∞∞
Il Giardino was located in a historic building downtown, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs. The kind of place that looked charming and intimate—unless you knew it was owned by the Moretti family.
Then it just looked dangerous.
Stone had arrived first, positioning himself near the bar with clear sightlines to our private room. Forrest was outside, monitoring entrances. Serenity waited in the SUV, ready to move if things went south.
And they would go south. We all knew it.
Quentin's hand found mine as we walked through the restaurant. "Stay close."
"I will."
The private dining room was in the back, just like Serenity had described in her vision. Small. One door in, one door out. Windows overlooking an alley.
Tactical nightmare.
But we were here for the proof. For the documents that would save both our lives.
Isobel was already seated, her briefcase on the table. But she wasn't alone.
A woman sat beside her—mid-forties, severe gray suit, fingers wrapped around a wine glass like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Dark circles under her eyes. The hunted look of someone who knew too much.
"Quentin. Julia." Isobel stood. "This is Margaret Chen. She handles financial matters for several New York families. She has information that's... relevant to our situation."
My heart stopped.Financial matters. For the families.
Margaret didn't stand. Didn't offer to shake hands. Just stared at us with hollow eyes.
"Ms. Chen has agreed to share certain documentation with us," Isobel continued, her lawyer voice crisp and professional. "Documentation that may help us identify who was behind Big Sal Russo's death."
We sat. Quentin positioned himself so he could see both the door and the window. I sat beside him, across from Margaret and Isobel.
Margaret took a long drink of wine. Set the glass down with shaking hands.
"I keep records." She spoke quietly. "Of everything. It's how I've survived this long in this world. Every transaction. Every conversation. Every—" Her voice cracked. "Every suspicious payment I've processed."
"Why come forward now?" I asked.
"Because I have children." She met my gaze. "And I don't want them growing up wondering if their mother was complicit in murder. Your father was—" She swallowed hard. "I processed payments for him sometimes. Legitimate business. He was always respectful. Professional. When I heard what happened—"
"What did you find?" Quentin leaned forward.
She pulled a manila envelope from her purse, slid it across the table.
Isobel opened it. Inside were bank statements, transfer records, account information.
"Three days before Big Sal died," Margaret continued, "there was a transfer from a Russo family account. Two hundred thousand dollars to a numbered account in the Caymans."
"Which Russo family account?" I asked, my heart pounding.
"That's the problem. It's a shared account—accessible by senior family members. Your father had access. Your aunt Filomena had access. Two of your uncles, Dominic and Angelo.Your brother, Carlo, and your cousin Silvio." She pulled out a highlighted statement. "I can't tell you definitively who authorized the transfer. But I can tell you the authorization code matches patterns I've seen before."
