Sneak Peek of Chapter 1 - The Mob Boss and the Assassin

Colleen Helme — Tue, 24 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Chapter 1

Julia

I exited the glass elevator, checking my reflection one last time. The suit was perfect—our family's tailor had worked overtime to get it ready before my flight from New York.

Julia Russell.

After my mother's murder—a Mafia hit when I was just two—my father insisted I use a different last name for protection. It had served me well, but there were times I’d wondered what it would be like to be Julia Russo. To claim my heritage and become who I was always meant to be.

Now was my chance to prove myself. To pass the test and take my rightful place in the family.

Everything I’d trained for rested in this one moment.

The receptionist smiled up at me. "You must be Ms. Russell?"

"That's me." I returned her smile, the one I'd practiced a thousand times. Confident. Trustworthy. Completely ordinary.

Not the daughter of a murdered mob boss ready to avenge his death.

"Mr. Vanetti will call for you shortly." She gestured to an antique sofa. "Please have a seat."

I sat, crossed my legs, and waited. Two stunning women stepped off the elevator, introducing themselves to the receptionist.

Competition.

Good. Let Vanetti interview them first. Let him think he has options.

By the time I walked out of here, there would only be one choice.

Me.

Both women appeared younger than me. That should work in my favor—though with powerful men, you never knew. Quentin Vanetti might prefer eye candy over brains, despite his reputation for being sharp.

I hoped he was as smart as people said.

"Lori Johnson, you're first." The receptionist pointed down the hall. "Second door on the right."

I watched her strut past in an off-the-rack suit and slightly gaudy heels. Not New York quality, but we weren't in New York. "Good luck."

"I don't need luck, honey."

Okay then.

"Never mind her." The second woman had better taste and apparently better manners. "I'm Susan. We've interviewed together before—she's too cocky for her own good."

"Julia."

Susan smiled. "First time interviewing?"

"Recently back in the job market." Not technically a lie. My previous position—working for my father—had ended rather abruptly when he’d been murdered. "Any advice?"

"Don't let them see weakness."

I almost laughed. My entire life had been training for that exact skill. Working with dangerous men like my late father, Big Sal Russo. Watching my brother Carlo step into his role as don. Learning when to speak and when to stay silent.

Staying cool under pressure? That was my specialty.

Which was why Carlo had given me this assignment instead of our cousin Silvio. Get close to Quentin Vanetti. Find out if he'd killed our father. And if he had...

Well. That's what I was here for.

"You're overthinking," Susan said, pulling me back to the present.

She had no idea.

Lori Johnson swept past us twenty minutes later, chin high like a thoroughbred who'd just won at Belmont. "Good luck, ladies."

The arrogance was palpable. I'd seen that attitude before—it always came back to bite you.

Susan caught my eye, and we shared a knowing look.

"Susan Chambers," the receptionist called.

I watched her walk down the hallway, soldier-like. Professional. I wondered briefly if she was more than she seemed. Anyone could be. But my cover was solid—years in the making. Quentin Vanetti wouldn't see me coming.

I waited, forcing myself to breathe normally. To look calm.

By the time they called my name, I'd reminded myself of everything that mattered: Carlo's trust. Filomena's faith in me. My father's memory.

And the absolute certainty that I wouldn't fail.

"Julia Russell?"

I stood, smoothed my suit, and smiled.

"You're up." Susan smiled like a circling shark. "I'm sure you'll knock 'em dead."

The irony wasn't lost on me. I gave her a nod and walked down the hallway, every step deliberate. Professional. Confident.

By the time I reached his door, I'd become Julia Russell completely.

Julia Russo would have to wait a little longer.

***

Quentin Vanetti wasn't what I expected.

The photos hadn't done him justice. Tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair that somehow made him look distinguished instead of old. Sharp suit. Confident posture. And those eyes—dark, assessing, the kind that saw too much.

My stomach did an unfortunate flip.

Oh no.

This was a problem.

He extended his hand. "Miss Russell."

"Mr. Vanetti." I took it, hoping my palm wasn't sweating. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

His grip was firm. Strong. Just enough pressure to establish exactly who was in charge without crossing into intimidation. My pulse kicked up in a way that had nothing to do with my mission.

Get it together.

"Please, have a seat." He gestured to the chair across from his desk.

We both sat. He picked up a folder—my fake résumé—and flipped it open.

"Impressive background," he said, scanning the pages.

"Thank you." I made eye contact, then shifted my gaze to the bridge of his nose. A technique I'd learned from corporate headhunters who made six figures placing candidates. Direct enough to seem confident, not so direct that it became a challenge. "I believe I'm a strong match for this position. I understand the value of discretion."

"Do you?" He closed the folder, leaned back slightly. "Tell me."

I launched into my carefully constructed story. Former positions at international corporations—all real companies, all raided by various government agencies, all verifiable by anyone without CIA-level clearance. The beauty of my cover was simple: I'd been employed by these companies during their scandals but had never been charged. Never even questioned.

Because I'd never actually worked there.

But proving that would be nearly impossible.

I kept my voice steady, my answers smooth. Everything I'd practiced. Everything I knew from working for years in my father’s various business endeavors. I hadn’t become my father’s research and investment analyst for nothing.

"Interesting." He studied me with that unreadable expression. "Tell me about your personal life."

I paused, uncertain if he wanted substance or small talk. Settled on middle ground. "I'm involved in thoroughbred racing. Own percentages in a few horses with some friends and family."

"Racing?" His eyebrows rose slightly. "Any big winners?"

"A few." I kept it vague. Horse ownership could be verified, and while our syndicate membership was anonymous and banked offshore, even that discovery would raise red flags. "Nothing retirement-worthy. I like horses and numbers, so the track scratches both itches."

"So you're a gambler." He ran his fingers through his hair—a casual gesture that shouldn't have been attractive but somehow was. "If I hire you, will I get calls from Atlantic City about why you're not coming in?"

"No." I resisted the urge to make a joke. Kept it professional. "I avoid those types of risks. Though I'll admit to overspending on shoes and handbags." I lifted my Birkin slightly. "Do you like it?"

"It matches your shoes." He said it without looking down.

My heart stuttered. He'd already noticed. Of course he had.

"You're observant."

"I notice things." He opened my folder again, scanned it in silence that stretched just long enough to make me nervous. Then he closed it, leaned back, hands behind his head. Relaxed. In control. "Tell me about the last time you watched one of your horses race. I want details."

The request caught me off guard. "Details?"

"The experience. What it felt like."

"Okay." My pulse kicked up. This wasn't standard interview territory. "Before the bell, there's this stillness. Anticipation in the crowd. Everyone holding their breath. Anything can happen next."

"Go on."

"Our horse was number four. Jockey in pink and white silks. The trainer was holding second place in wins for the meet. The jockey was fifth—better than expected for someone barely out of rookie stage, but our trainer wanted to establish a relationship with him early." I was talking faster now, getting into it. "I was hopeful. It was a maiden race—"

"None of the horses have won yet." His smile was quick, genuine.

"Right. Sorry, I didn't mean to explain—"

"I know racing. Continue."

"It was six furlongs." I found myself leaning forward slightly. "I held my breath through the first half, I think."

A small laugh escaped me—nervous, genuine.

"I like your laugh."

Heat flooded my face. "Thank you."

His gaze held mine a beat too long. Something flickered there—amusement, maybe. Or interest.

I smoothed my skirt, needing something to do with my hands.

"The horse," I continued, forcing my brain back on track. "Beautiful colt. Sleek, black, one white sock on his left hind leg."

"Socks." He winked.

The wink should have been cheesy. Somehow it wasn't.

"Yes. We called him Socks." I swallowed. This was supposed to be a serious interview—spreadsheets and scheduling and job responsibilities. But Quentin Vanetti was maybe a decade older than me, tall and fit with intelligent eyes that seemed to see straight through my careful professional mask. "I thought he was special the moment I saw him."

"The horse?" The question came with the slightest edge of amusement.

My face went hot. "Yes. Of course the horse."

Was he reading my mind?

"He'd placed in his first three outings," I said quickly. "Once second, but fourth and fifth the other times. So this race was important."

"How'd he look coming down the stretch?"

"He was fourth going into the turn." I could see it now, feel that electric anticipation. "Our jockey moved him like a cab driver in rush hour—found gaps that shouldn't have existed. Third place, then second. The crowd was screaming. I was screaming." I smiled at the memory. "He won by a nose. I could barely talk the next morning."

"Sounds incredible."

I nodded, still caught in the memory. In how alive I'd felt watching it happen.

"This job is mostly anticlimactic." His voice shifted—playful edge gone, replaced by something sharper. His gaze locked onto mine with sudden intensity. "Can you handle important routines that include boring paperwork, phone calls, planning, and scheduling?"

The shift threw me. "Yes, sir."

"You're sure? Because that story—" he gestured vaguely, "—that was passion. Excitement. This job is the opposite of excitement most days."

"I understand what the position requires." I pulled myself together, called up every lesson Filomena had drilled into me about staying cool under pressure. "Attention to detail. Focus. Discretion. The ability to respond calmly to emergencies and adapt quickly when plans change."

"Good." His eyes narrowed, studying me with cold precision. Like he was deciding whether I was useful or disposable. "Do you know what the most important part of this job is?"

I met his gaze. Kept my voice steady. "Loyalty."

"That's one hundred percent correct."

A horrible, inconvenient realization settled in my chest.

Quentin Vanetti was attractive. Intelligent. Magnetic in a way I hadn't anticipated. And it was going to be a lot harder than I thought to kill this man.

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Paperback Book Giveaway!

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Enter here for a chance to win one of two signed paperback books of THE MOB BOSS AND THE ASSASSIN!

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