"You're distracted. Which is dangerous given what we're planning." He looked at the others. "Can you give us a minute?"
Matteo, Luca, and Stefan filed out. Stefan shot me a sympathetic look on his way past.
When the door closed, Sandro leaned back in his chair.
"Julian?"
I didn't bother denying it. "Yes. I'm handling it."
"You're clearly not. You look like hell. You're repeating yourself in meetings. Yesterday you missed a security flag that should've been obvious." Sandro's voice was matter-of-fact, not judgmental. "Whatever's happening with Julian, you need to resolve it. One way or another. This limbo you're in isn't sustainable."
"There's nothing to resolve. It was a mistake. I'm maintaining distance."
"How's that working out for you?"
I didn't answer.
Sandro sighed. "Look, I'm not telling you what to do. But I am telling you that this—" he gestured at me "—isn't working. Figure out what you want. Make a decision. Then commit to it. Because right now you're neither moving forward nor maintaining boundaries. You're just torturing yourself."
He wasn't wrong.
***
Winston Bianchi's people had been asking questions.
Our contacts reported conversations happening in Chicago. Winston's associates reaching out to their New York connections. Carefully worded inquiries about whether anyonehad seen a young man matching Julian's description. Whether the Vitales had taken in any new guests recently.
Nothing direct. Nothing that would confirm Winston knew where Julian was. But the net was tightening.
Sandro assigned me to work with Julian on organizing the evidence we'd use to expose Winston. It made tactical sense—I knew security, Julian knew his father's operations, together we could build a case that would destroy Winston's credibility without leaving obvious traces back to us.
It was also torture.
We worked in my office. Julian sat across the desk from me with stacks of documents he'd stolen from his father. We went through everything methodically. Emails proving Winston's cooperation with Agent Rebecca Watson. Financial records showing payments made to federal informants. Meeting notes detailing intelligence shared about rival families.
It was damning. Comprehensive. Exactly what we needed.
And I could barely focus on any of it.
Because Julian was right there. Close enough to touch. Wearing jeans and a dark green henley that brought out his eyes. Hair falling across his forehead when he bent over documents. Bottom lip caught between his teeth when he concentrated.
He was careful not to touch me. Never let our hands brush when reaching for the same file. Never leaned too close when pointing something out. Maintained perfect professional distance.
But I was hyperaware of every movement anyway.
The way he tapped his pen against his lips when thinking. The way he shifted in his chair, drawing my eyes to the long line of his throat. The way he looked up at me through dark lashes when asking questions.
He knew exactly what he was doing. And he wasn't pushing. Just existing in my space and letting me torture myself.
It was working.
On the second day of working together, Julian leaned over the desk to point out something in a document. His shoulder came within inches of mine. I could smell soap and something uniquely Julian—clean and warm and dangerously appealing.
"There." His finger traced a line in the email. "That's where my father admits to providing intelligence about the Castellano family's drug operations. If we leak this to the Castellanos, they'll want Winston's head."
I forced myself to focus on the document instead of how close he was. "We need corroboration. Other evidence that backs this up."
"I have it." Julian straightened. Moved back to his side of the desk. "Bank records showing payments from federal accounts to shell companies Winston controls. The amounts match the dates of intelligence sharing. It proves the relationship is financial, not just informational."
