"Because we need to talk. All three of us." She grabbed my hand. "Carlo I… I told Quentin everything. The deadline. All of it. We’ve been working together and we found something. Documents, evidence, a money trail that leads back to Papa's killer. But we need more time to verify exactly who it is."
Silence. “You told him? That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“I know. But it’s the only way I could save him… save us.”
A pause. I could practically hear him processing this breach of protocol. Julia squeezed my hand even harder.
"It doesn’t change anything. You still have four days."
She swallowed. "We need more time than that. And we need to meet—in person. There are things we can't discuss over the phone."
"I'll consider it."
Julia glanced at me. I nodded. Taking both my hands in hers, she continued. "There’s something else. Quentin and I are getting married."
The silence stretched so long I thought the call had dropped.
"You're what?"
"Getting married. Today, actually. Courthouse ceremony for legal protection. But we want to do a real wedding too. In New York. With the family."
"Have you lost your mind?" Carlo's voice was ice. "He's still under investigation for Papa's murder. You're going to marry him?"
"He didn't do it, Carlo. I know he didn't. And when we meet, I'll prove it to you."
"Julia—"
"I love him." Her voice was steady, strong. Her gaze locked on mine. "I know you don't want to hear that. I know you think I'm being stupid or naive or blinded by feelings. But I love him, and I'm marrying him, and I need you to trust me. Just like I've always trusted you."
More silence. I could hear him breathing. Thinking.
"Vanetti." Carlo's voice filled the room. "You understand what you're asking of me?"
I stepped closer to the phone. "Yes. I understand perfectly."
"You’re really going to marry my sister, who I sent to exact vengeance for the murder of our father?"
"Yes."
He sighed. "Bold move."
"I prefer 'optimistic.'"
Despite everything, I heard Carlo snort. "You have balls, I'll give you that. Stupid balls, but balls."
"Thank you?" I met Julia’s gaze and shrugged.
"Here's the deal. You both come to New York. We'll meet for dinner. Private room, public restaurant. You tell me your plan, I decide if I'm helping or stopping it."
“When?” Julia asked.
"Tomorrow. The restaurant. Bocelli's. Private room. Seven p.m."
"Will you guarantee safe passage for Quentin?”
A pause. “Of course. But Julia…" Carlo's voice softened slightly. "If you're wrong about him—if he had anything to do with Papa's death—"
"He didn't."
