I waited. The neighbor's dog barked somewhere beyond the fence. A car passed on the street.
"My mother. She was killed when I was two," she said finally. Her voice was flat, careful. "A hit. Filomena raised me after that. My father started listing my name as Russell—thought it would keep me safe." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Didn't keep me out of his world, though. I spent my whole life trying to earn the Russo name back. Took this job to prove I could—"
Her voice cracked. She stopped.
I moved closer. Rested my arm along the back of the swing. Not touching her yet, but close enough that she'd know I was there.
"And I failed," she whispered. "I couldn't even do that right."
She let out a shaky breath. "I was supposed to kill you, Quentin. That was the job. Prove myself by—" She stopped, shook her head. "And instead, I married you in a courthouse."
"I can't say I'm sorry you failed."
She looked at me then, something almost like a laugh escaping. "No. I guess you wouldn't be."
"Since it brought you here," I continued, reaching for her hand.
She let me take it, and slowly—carefully—she leaned into my side. I wrapped my arm around her.
"Is that what we're calling it? A failure that worked out?"
"I'm calling it the best thing that could've happened." I pulled her closer. "To both of us."
Above us, the moon was almost full. Tomorrow we'd be on a plane to New York. Tomorrow we'd walk into her brother's world and ask for mercy we might not get. Tonight, the garden felt like the only safe place left.
“And now you’re married to me."
Something shifted in her expression. Softened. "My husband."
"My wife."
The words felt too big. Too strange. Too right.
She reached up and kissed me—gentle, testing, like she was asking a question. I kissed her back, and for a moment, the danger waiting in New York felt far away.
When we pulled apart, she stayed close, resting her head against my chest.
"We're really doing this," she breathed.
"Yeah," I said. "We really are."
Whether she meant the marriage or tomorrow's meeting, I didn't ask. Maybe they were the same thing.
Chapter 35
Julia
Just yesterday, I'd married Quentin with a borrowed ring in a courthouse that smelled like disinfectant. Now I was picking out diamonds. The whiplash made my head spin.
The jeweler—silver-haired, impeccably dressed, probably older than some of these diamonds—laid out a selection of rings on black velvet.
I stared at them like they might explode.
"Congratulations on your marriage," he said warmly. "Are we looking for wedding bands for both of you, or...?"
"Both," Quentin said. "And a diamond for my wife to wear as well."
My wife.The words hit differently this morning.
