Page 114 of The Wrong Man

I can’t remember. The thought of food makes me nauseous anyway. How can I eat when Dylan is out there, probably terrified, probably hurt, probably thinking I’ve abandoned him?

“We’re missing something,” I say instead of answering. “There has to be an angle we haven’t considered. Someone who knows Declan’s operations, someone who might know where he’d go to ground.”

“We’ve shaken every tree we have. Nicolo’s people have been working around the clock. Dario’s put out feelers with every contact in the city.” Carlo sighs. “Short of asking the Irish directly, I don’t know what else we can do.”

The Irish. Dylan’s people.

An idea begins to form. Stupid, dangerous, possibly suicidal. But I’m desperate enough to try anything.

“Dylan’s aunt,” I say slowly. “Moira. She raised him after his parents sent him away. She might know something about Declan’s operations. Or know someone who does.”

Carlo stares at me. “You want to approach Dylan’s family? The family who will almost certainly want to kill you for what you’ve done?”

“Yes.”

“That’s insane.”

“Probably.” I meet his eyes. “But I’m out of options, Carlo. And Dylan...” My voice catches. I hate how weak I sound. “Dylan trusts her. He loves her. If there’s anyone in his world who might help, it’s her.”

Carlo is quiet for a long moment. Then he nods slowly.

“Alright. But I’m coming with you. And we’re bringing backup.”

“No.” I shake my head. “If I show up with a squad of armed mafia, she’ll never trust me. I need to go alone.”

“Dante...”

“I know the risks. But this is Dylan we’re talking about.” I take a breath. “I’d walk into hell for him, Carlo. Facing one angry Irish woman is nothing compared to that. Even if she has mobsters at her beck and call.”

Carlo doesn’t look happy about it, but he doesn’t argue further. He knows me well enough to recognize when my mind is made up.

“At least let me drive you,” he says. “I’ll wait in the car. If things go wrong, you’ll have backup nearby.”

It’s a reasonable compromise. I nod.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Moira O’Shea lives in a small terraced house in Peckham. It’s tidy, well-maintained, with flower boxes in the windows and a welcome mat by the door. The kind of house that speaks of a quiet, ordinary life.

I wonder how much of that is real, and how much is carefully constructed camouflage.

Dylan told me his aunt left “that life” years ago. But people don’t just walk away from the world we inhabit. They carry it with them, hidden beneath the surface, ready to emerge when circumstances demand.

I knock on the door.

For a long moment, nothing happens. Then I hear footsteps, and the door opens to reveal a woman in her sixties with silver-streaked hair and sharp hazel eyes that remind me painfully of Dylan.

She takes one look at me and her expression hardens.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

“Ms. O’Shea.” I keep my voice calm, unthreatening. “My name is Dante. I’m a friend of Dylan’s.”

The change is immediate. Her eyes widen, then narrow with suspicion. One hand moves slightly, and I notice for the first time that she’s positioned herself to slam the door in my face if needed. Smart. Careful. The instincts of someone who’s survived dangerous situations before.

“Dylan?” Her voice is sharp. “You know where Dylan is? Is he alright? We’ve been worried sick, he disappeared weeks ago, the police have been useless...”

“He’s alive.” The words come out rougher than I intended. “But he’s in danger. I need your help to get him back.”