Because I'm falling for her. Because she feels real. Because I don't want her to be guilty. Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not bored with life.
"Because I need to know the truth," I said instead.
Stone shook his head. "You're playing with fire."
"Probably. But I'd rather burn than spend the rest of my life wondering." I rubbed my chin. “Julia said she’d handle Silvio, but I have a better idea. Next time our men spot him, I want him followed. Find out where he’s staying. Convince him that it would be in his best interests to have a chat.”
“Good idea.”
After Stone left, I sat alone in the conference room.
Thought about Julia. About Silvio. About Reid's warning.
About the fact that I was letting my heart overrule my head.
This is going to end badly.
But I couldn't seem to stop.
Chapter 15
Julia
By eleven, I'd caught up on emails, organized Quentin's schedule for the week, and started reviewing quarterly reports.
All while trying not to think about the man twenty feet away.
Trying not to remember last night.
Trying not to notice every time he looked up at me.
I needed to focus. Needed to start the real investigation.
Carlo wanted results. He wouldn't wait forever. And Silvio was pushing for a quick conclusion—pushing for me to find evidence of guilt, or failing that, for Carlo to make his decision without it.
I needed to find the truth before Carlo lost patience.
I pulled up a new document on my computer. Started building a timeline.
Big Sal's last two weeks. His meetings, his travel, his business dealings.
If Quentin had killed him, there would be evidence. A meeting. A confrontation. Something.
I started with what I knew: Big Sal died three months ago in New York. Shot in the privacy of his own home. No witnesses—conveniently. Carlo assumed Quentin because of territorial disputes and Aunt Filomena’s sources.
But what if we'd assumed wrong?
I pulled up Quentin's calendar from three months ago. Checked his travel records since I now had access as his assistant.
The week Big Sal died, Quentin had been in... Los Angeles. Business meetings. Confirmed by hotel records, restaurant receipts, photos from a fundraising event.
He couldn't have been in New York.
Unless he flew in, killed Papa, flew back.
I checked flight records. Private jet logs.
Nothing. No flights to New York that week.
