"Then trust me. Finish your assignment. Do what needs to be done."
"Okay." The word felt like glass in my throat.
"I love you, Jules. Everything I do, everything I've ever done, is to protect this family. To protect you."
"I love you too."
I hung up before she could say anything else.
My hands were shaking.
She'd refused to reveal her source or any evidence. She'd deflected every question about potential family involvement.
And she'd pushed—hard—for me to kill Quentin without proof.
I stared at my phone, at Filomena's contact photo. Her smiling face, arm around my shoulders at my college graduation.
Either she's protecting her source and genuinely believes Quentin is guilty... Or she's the one who's been playing me all along.
I didn't know which possibility terrified me more.
But I knew one thing: I couldn't trust anyone in my family until I figured out the truth.
Not even the woman who'd raised me.
Especiallynot her.
I needed to concentrate, so I silenced both my phones. I tossed them into the glove box, but not before connecting the music app via Bluetooth to the car's stereo system.
The Crimson Rooster happened to be on my route home. I made an impulsive decision to pull in—not for the food, exactly. More for the few minutes of mindless waiting. Time to think without driving.
Without making decisions.
I rolled into the drive-through, barely looking at the menu. "Small fries, a Diet Coke and..." I hesitated. "You know what? Add an order of your Hell's Whisper Wings with the sauce."
I wasn't even that hungry. But I needed something. Anything to feel normal for five minutes. The sauce had a reputation—Nashville hot with a kick that would probably destroy my palate for the next meal. Whatever. I'd eat one wing and toss the rest.
The wait time was long—Crimson Rooster was always busy. I sat in line, music playing, trying to sort through the mess in my head.
Someone in the family had betrayed us. Someone close. The pieces were shifting, and I didn't like where they were landing.
Several minutes later, I pulled onto the street with my order. I grabbed a fry—hot, salty, perfectly greasy. I popped one in my mouth as I pulled onto the street, savoring the deep-fried perfection. Chasing it down with a sip of soda.
My mind drifted to brunch with Chiara Moretti. Had she been honest with me? My instincts said yes, but—
Blue sedan. Three cars back.
I'd seen that car before. My hand froze halfway to the fries.
Was someone following me? I knew it wasn’t Silvio. He’d promised to keep his distance.
I took a left on Second Avenue instead of my usual right, watching the rearview. The sedan turned too. Crap. No point leading them straight to my apartment, though if they'd been tailing me for any length of time, they already knew where I lived.
Which was why I kept a Glock at home. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in the car. I wasn't licensed to carry in this state, and criminals got busted during traffic stops all the time. Half the guys I knew who were locked up had been pulled over first—busted tail light, cracked windshield, driving five over, driving five under, rolling through a yellow. Cops could stop you for anything, and I wasn't about to hand them probable cause with an illegal firearm.
I grabbed another fry, chewing mechanically while I strategized. The blue sedan held steady, five cars back now. Single driver from what I could tell.
Option one: Pull into a strip mall, finish my meal, force them to pass or reveal themselves. Problem—I'd still have no idea who they were or what they wanted.
