Page 110 of The Wrong Man

The words land like a slap. He is right. Of course he is right. If Declan feels cornered, there is no telling what he might do.

I force myself to take a breath. To think clearly, strategically, like the professional I am supposed to be.

“We need to find out where Declan is holding him,” I say. “We need intelligence, surveillance, a plan. I can’t just...”

“I know.” Carlo’s voice is gentle. “I know, Dante. We will figure this out. Together.”

Together. The word feels foreign. I have spent my entire career as a lone wolf, trusting no one, relying only on myself. I help others, they don’t help me. I don’t need it. But Carlo is right. I can’t do this alone. Not this time. Not when the stakes are this high.

“Call everyone,” I say. “Dario, anyone who owes me a favor. I want every resource we have focused on finding Declan O’Shea.”

“Done. I’ll have people at your flat within the hour.”

I hang up and stand in the middle of my destroyed bedroom, surrounded by the wreckage of the life I was trying to build with Dylan.

The last time I saw him, I was peeking through the tiny gap by the door hinges. He was curled up in bed, still trembling from his panic attack. Still haunted by the trauma I inflicted on him. And I walked away without a word because I was too much of a coward to face what I had done.

He probably thinks I don’t care. Probably thinks I was relieved to leave, to escape the awkwardness and the guilt and the messy complications of what we have become to each other.

He is wrong. He is so wrong it makes my chest ache.

I love him. I love Dylan O’Shea with a ferocity that terrifies me. I love his rambling and his baking and his freckles and his soft accent. I love the way he looks at me like I might be worth saving. I love every broken, beautiful piece of him.

And I am going to get him back.

I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care who I have to hurt or what lines I have to cross. I will tear this city apart brick by brick until I find him.

And when I get my hands on Declan O’Shea, I will show him exactly what happens to people who touch what is mine.

Hold on, Dylan. Wherever you are, whatever is happening, hold on.

I am coming for you.

The next hour passes in a blur of phone calls and arrivals.

Carlo is the first to show up, Ginni trailing behind him with wide eyes that take in the destruction with something that looks almost like professional appreciation. Then Nicolo, grim faced and still on his phone coordinating with his contacts. Even Dario sends word that he is available, that whatever I need, the family will provide. I didn’t let him down when Molly was taken by the Russians. He won’t let me down now.

Because this is what we do. When one of ours is threatened, we close ranks. We become a single unit, focused and deadly, capable of things that would make ordinary people weep.

Dylan is not technically one of ours, not yet. He is a civilian, an innocent, someone who should never have been dragged into this world. But no one questions it. No one asks why we are mobilizing for a baker from Borough Market who has no connection to our business.

They know. They can see it on my face, hear it in my voice. Dylan matters. Dylan is mine. And that makes him family.

“We need to find out where Declan is staying,” Nicolo says, spreading a map of London across my damaged coffee table. “He arrived three days ago, which means he has had time to set up somewhere. Property rental, hotel, maybe a contact who owed him a favor.”

“Somewhere that makes him feel important,” I say. “Declan has an ego. He will want to feel like a king, even while he is hiding.”

“That narrows it down.” Nicolo makes a note. “I have people checking high-end rentals in the city. If he used his real name, we’ll find him within hours.”

“And if he didn’t?”

“Then it takes longer. But we’ll still find him.”

Carlo puts a hand on my shoulder. “We will get Dylan back, Dante. Whatever it takes.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. The cold dread that filled me when I first saw the broken door has not faded. It has grown, spreading through my chest like ice water.

Dylan is out there somewhere. Scared, probably. Hurt, possibly. In the hands of a man who has tormented him since childhood.