Page 129 of The Wrong Man

“Let’s go home,” he says softly.

Home. The word settles into my chest like a warm ember. I don’t know exactly where home is anymore. The flat near the bakery? Dante’s place? Somewhere else entirely?

But I think, maybe, home isn’t a place at all. Maybe it’s the person whose hand is holding mine.

I nod, letting him lead me away.

I don’t look back.

Chapter thirty-eight

Dante

The drive across London feels endless.

Dylan is pressed against my side in the back of Carlo’s car, his head on my shoulder, his hand gripping mine like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. I understand the feeling. Every few minutes I find myself looking at him, touching him, reassuring myself that he’s real and here and safe.

We can’t go back to my flat. The location has been compromised, and even if it hadn’t, I’m not sure I could stand to be there. Not after finding it destroyed, finding Dylan gone. Not while knowing all the terrible things I did to Dylan within its walls. The memories would be suffocating, for both of us.

Instead, I give Carlo an address near Mayfair. One of Dario’s properties, a penthouse that’s been sitting empty for months. Dario offered it to me weeks ago, said I could use it whenever I needed.

Carlo pulls up outside a gleaming tower of glass and steel. Dylan lifts his head, blinking at the building in confusion.

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere safe.” I help him out of the car, keeping one hand on the small of his back. “Somewhere new.”

Carlo catches my eye as we head toward the entrance. “I’ll handle the rest of the cleanup,” he says quietly. “Take care of him.”

I nod my thanks. Carlo has been a better friend than I deserve through all of this. I won’t forget it.

The lift takes us to the top floor. Dylan is quiet, leaning against me, exhaustion written in every line of his body. When the doors open directly into the penthouse, he makes a soft sound of surprise.

The apartment is beautiful. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city. Modern furniture in warm neutrals. A kitchen that gleams with high-end appliances. It’s nothing like my old place with its ugly orange sofa and cramped rooms. This is the kind of home I never imagined having.

I accumulated enough money to afford something like this, even several somethings like this, years ago. But I never bothered. Told myself I wasn’t interested. I understand now, that perhaps I didn’t feel I deserved nice things.

“Dante...” Dylan turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is...”

“It’s one of my boss’s properties. He’s not using it.” I watch Dylan’s face, suddenly nervous. “If you like it, I’ll buy it. For us.”

Dylan stares at me. “You want to buy a penthouse? For us?”

“I want to give you a home. A real one. Somewhere that’s ours, that doesn’t have...” I trail off, but Dylan understands. Somewhere that doesn’t have memories of captivity and torture and all the ways I hurt him.

“It’s beautiful,” Dylan says softly. “It’s really beautiful.”

“Is that a yes?”

He crosses the room and wraps his arms around my neck. “It’s a yes. It’s absolutely a yes.”

I hold him close, breathing him in. He smells like dust and sweat and something antiseptic from Liam’s medical check, but underneath all that, he smells like Dylan. Like home.

He pulls away from me and takes a single step back. “Holy Mary! I bet the shower in this place is amazing! And sweet Jesus, do I need a shower!”

He spins away and races off. I hear him exclaim with delight when he finds the waterfall shower. Then I hear the water start to run, followed by another squeal of delight as presumably he steps under the spray. Apparently, excitement has burned away all of his exhaustion.

I grin to myself and drift over to the window to admire the view. It feels damn good to make Dylan happy. I think I prefer making people happy to making them hurt.