The phone rang three times before a familiar voice answered. "Quentin? Is that you?"
"Uncle Riccardo. It's been too long."
"It has." He sounded pleased. "What's the occasion?"
"I'm getting married. In New York. About three weeks from now. I'd like you there. You, Emilio, and Gina."
Silence. Then: "Married? Quentin, that's wonderful. Of course we'll be there. Who's the lucky woman?"
"Her name is Julia. Julia Russo."
Another pause. "Russo? As in—"
"Yes. That Russo family."
"Well." Uncle Riccardo laughed. "Your father would've had a heart attack. Or maybe he'd be proud. Hard to say with him."
"I'm hoping for proud."
"Send me the details. We'll be there. And Quentin? I'm happy for you. Really happy."
After we hung up, I felt lighter somehow. Like pieces of my family—the legitimate, normal pieces—were coming back together.
Now I just needed to survive the rehearsal dinner.
The irony wasn't lost on me. While I was trying to reconnect with my sister and my family in New York, Julia would be confronting the aunt who'd betrayed her family in the worst possible way. One family coming together, another falling apart.
But maybe that's how it worked. You built the family you needed from the pieces that remained. Julia had chosen me despite everything—despite the lies, the danger, the impossible circumstances. Bianca was choosing to trust me again, even if she was scared. And somewhere in the chaos of mob politics and family vendettas, we were creating something real.
At that point, everything would change. Either Julia's suspicions would be proven, or we'd discover we'd been chasing shadows. Either way, our lives would never be the same.
I just hoped we'd still be standing when the dust settled.
Chapter 39
Julia
The private dining room at La Stella was perfect for the rehearsal dinner. Warm lighting, exposed brick, a table set for thirty with enough wine glasses to stock a small bar.
Both families together. Russos and Vanettis. An uneasy peace held together by tomorrow's wedding.
Carlo sat at the head—the don's seat—with me and Quentin to his right. Filomena was halfway down, Silvio beside her. Stone and Serenity sat near them. Silvio gave Serenity a curt nod—they'd already had their awkward introduction at Quentin's office, complete with his refusal to let her read him. Tonight, at least, she was just another guest.
On the Vanetti side, Quentin's uncle Riccardo sat with quiet dignity, his children and their spouses flanking him. Emilio and Gina had inherited their father's sharp features and dark eyes, but there was something softer about them—something that came from building businesses with contracts instead of connections, with lawyers instead of enforcers.
"Your family seems nice," I whispered to Quentin.
"They are. They're what my part of the Vanetti family could have been if my father hadn't continued the business." His jaw tightened. "They're what I might have been."
"But then you wouldn't be you."
"And I wouldn't have met you." He squeezed my hand. "So maybe things worked out the way they were supposed to."
The meal was spectacular. Course after course of perfect Italian food. But I could barely taste any of it.
We'd set the trap three weeks ago. Carlo had asked Filomena to pay for tonight's dinner using the family account. If she used the authorization code—the one I'd found hidden in Papa's copy ofThe Count of Monte Cristo—I'd get an alert.
For three weeks, my phone had been silent. No alert. No confirmation that the payment had processed. Part of me had started to worry the monitoring had failed, that somehow we'd missed it.
