Page 109 of The Wrong Man

This morning, I left him. Walked out without a word because I didn’t know what to say. He was curled up in this bed, still shaken from his panic attack, and I left him alone because I am a coward. Because I could not face what I had done to him, the trauma I had caused, the way he flinched from me when the flashback took hold.

I should have stayed. Should have held him, talked to him, told him everything I have been too afraid to say. Instead, I took the easy way out. Let work be my excuse, let distance be my shield.

And now he is gone.

The guilt is suffocating. It wraps around my chest and squeezes until I cannot breathe. All those days of trying to keep him safe, of buying him gifts and watching him bake and falling so deeply in love that I do not recognize myself anymore. All of it meaningless because when it mattered most, I was not here.

I force myself to stand. To move. To do something other than drown in regret.

I start searching the flat more carefully. Looking for clues, evidence, anything that might tell me who took Dylan and where they went. I check the security camera I installed in the hallway, but it has been disabled. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. Professionals, or at least people with enough experience to cover their tracks.

But I already knew that. It’s not like amateurs would have been able to track me down. However, on the other hand, professionals should know fucking better than to mess with me.

My phone rings. Nicolo.

“Carlo called me,” he says without preamble. “What do you need?”

His offer is sure, confident. No hesitation. It does something to my heart. I like the kid, but I had no idea he liked me back.

“Information. Someone grabbed Dylan from my flat. I need to know who,” I say calmly, keeping things professional.

“Give me an hour. I will shake every tree we have and see what falls out.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” His voice softens slightly. “We’ll find him, Dante. Whoever took him, they will regret it.”

I end the call. It seems Liam told his fiance about my little request for medical advice. Seems he also shared his suspicions about my feelings.

I sigh heavily. It doesn’t matter, I realize with some surprise. I don’t care if the whole world knows I’m soft for Dylan O’Shea.

I go back to searching with renewed vigor. The living room yields nothing useful. The kitchen is untouched, which suggests the attackers came straight for the bedroom. They knew where Dylan would be. Knew the layout of the flat.

My phone buzzes again. A text from one of my lower-level contacts, someone who keeps an ear to the ground in the less savory parts of the city.

Word on the street is Declan O’Shea has been spotted in London. Arrived three days ago. Keeping a low profile.

Declan O’Shea.

Dylan’s twin brother. The man who started all of this by stealing that fucking tiara, the man who let his own brother take the fall for his crimes. The man who, according to Dylan, has never given a damn about anyone but himself.

Why would Declan take Dylan now? After all these days of silence, why would he suddenly swoop in and grab his brother?

Unless it’s not about brotherly love at all. Unless it’s about something else entirely. Leverage, maybe. Or reputation. Or simply because Dylan knows too much about Declan’s business, and Declan wants to make sure that information stays buried.

I call Carlo again.

“Declan O’Shea,” I say when he picks up. “Dylan’s brother. He has been in London for three days.”

“You think he is the one who took Dylan?”

“I think it’s too much of a coincidence to be anything else.”

Carlo is quiet for a moment. “We’ll need to be careful.”

“I don’t care about careful.” My voice comes out harder than I intended. “Dylan is out there, taken by a man who has hated him since childhood. Every minute we waste on careful is a minute Dylan spends in that monster’s hands.”

“I understand. But if we move too fast, we could get him killed.”