Meglio avere il diavolo per nemico che una donna offesa.Better to have the devil as an enemy than an offended woman. Nonna had whispered that to me when I was young, her eyes hard as stone. She knew what our blood was capable of.
If someone close to me had done this? They'd learn exactly what fury looked like.
But Quentin's revelation kept circling back, refusing to let me settle into rage. That letter. My father's handwriting—I'd know it anywhere, that messy scrawl I'd watched him sign on birthdaycards and death warrants. Could it be forged? Maybe. But who would have planned for me to see it? Who could have known I'd recognize it?
The pieces were shifting, and I didn't like where they were landing.
Quentin was being framed. I felt it in my bones now, that sick certainty.
Which meant whoever wanted him dead had also wanted my father dead. The same hand had set both murders in motion.
Find the person framing Quentin, find my father's real killer.
Simple. Terrifying. And I was running out of time.
I sat in my car trying to think. What should I do?
The evidence from Papa's house burned in my mind. The security override. The cryptic "F" notation.
Someone in the family.
I needed to know who. And there was only one way to find out—carefully test the people who had access, who had motive, who might know something.
I pulled out my phone and stared at it.
Call Filomena. See how she reacts.
My finger hovered over her name. Part of me didn't want to make this call. Didn't want to suspect the woman who'd raised me, loved me, taught me everything I knew.
But I had to know.
I pressed dial.
"Jules, sweetheart!" Filomena's voice was warm, familiar. I could hear snippets of New York city traffic in the background. "I wasn't expecting to hear from you today. Everything all right?"
"I need to talk to you about something." I kept my voice steady, casual. "About Papa's case."
"Of course. What is it?"
"I've been going through Quentin's business records. Really digging deep." This was true, but not what I wanted to talkabout. I was laying groundwork. "And I'm not finding anything that connects him to Papa's death. No money trails, no suspicious meetings, nothing."
A pause. "That's because he's good at covering his tracks."
"Maybe." I let doubt creep into my voice. "Or maybe we're looking in the wrong direction."
"Julia." Her tone sharpened slightly. "We've been over this. I have sources—"
"I know, I know. You can't reveal them." I interrupted, watching my own face in the rearview mirror, searching for any hint that I was giving myself away. "But Zia, what if your sources are wrong? What if someone's feeding you bad information?"
"Why would they do that?"
"I don't know. That's what I'm trying to figure out." I took a breath. "Did Papa have any enemies in the family? Anyone who might benefit from his death?"
Another pause, longer this time. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm asking." I softened my tone. "You knew him better than anyone. You two were close. Was there anyone he was having problems with? Anyone he didn't trust?"
"Your father trusted family." Her voice was firm. "That's why this hurts so much. Quentin Vanetti was his partner, someone he'd worked with for years. And that snake betrayed him."
