Quentin, here beside me. His warmth against my back, his arms wrapped around me as we sank into these ridiculously soft sheets. His breath warm on my neck as he whispered things that made me smile in the darkness. We'd be planning brunch—arguing over whether to order the Eggs Benedict or the Butter-Poached Lobster Gnocchi, agreeing we'd get both and the Crème Brûlée too, consequences be damned.
We'd kiss slowly, savoring each other. Make love. Fall asleep tangled together, peaceful. Safe.
It was such a beautiful fantasy.
My throat tightened. I pressed my face into the pillow, eyes burning.
Because that's all it was. A fantasy. A lie I told myself to get through the night.
The reality? If a rival assassin didn't get to Quentin first, I would. I'd put a bullet in him, watch the life drain from those stormy eyes, and return home to my family's approval.
And if I couldn't pull the trigger? Silvio would. Gladly.
Either way, Quentin Vanetti was a dead man.
And I was the fool for falling in love with him anyway.
I drifted off close to five—exhausted, conflicted, wanting what I couldn't have.
Love would have to wait. Story of my life.
But death? Death was already on its way.
Chapter 19
Julia
Late night or not, I woke at eleven, mind already racing.
I had a one-thirty reservation—made it when I checked in—but eating alone held zero appeal. Besides, I needed to keep investigating.
I sent Chiara Moretti-Bianchi a message inviting her to join me.
She returned my message almost immediately.I’d love to see you.
Astor Court at 1:30.
Chiara and I went way back, elementary school, in fact. She was part of the Moretti family, and I was a Russo in everything but the name, so we had a lot in common. We’d gone to prep school together and even ended up at the same university. Our paths diverged after she started having children, and I started managing the family’s rental properties.
She met me at Astor Court as the pianist was starting a new set. We were seated and served coffee. We chit-chatted for a few minutes before surveying the buffet. I ordered eggs Benedict, and Chiara followed suit.
“You’ve always copied me.” I smiled, not meaning it maliciously.
She grinned. “You’ve got good taste.”
“Except when it comes to men and having children.”
“True.” She reached across the table and took my hand. “I love being a mom, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes I’m jealous of your freedom. You can go where you want, when you want. You can book lunch at the last minute and eat brunch without having to wipe a snotty nose or take a four-year-old to the bathroom six times.”
“You ever regret becoming a minivan-driving-soccer-mom?” I asked between bites of eggs Benedict.
“No.” She shook her head. “Like I said, I love being a mom. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’m just saying we all have our burdens. You know what’s crazy? Anthony’s mom wanted the kids today for some photo shoot at her house. I think she’s got a fantasy that her grandkids will all be models or land roles on Broadway. Anthony knows there’s some friction between us, so he actually suggested—before you’d messaged me—that I take the day for myself.”
“That’s unusual?”
“Honey, I haven’t had a day off from the kids in eighteen months. Not since my friend, Sofia, got married.”
“He’s good with the kids?”
