Page 13 of The Wrong Man

Vinnie Vitelli won’t know where the tiara is. Declan O’Shea would never be stupid enough to share that information with a gambling addict who sold out his own people for pocket change. Vinnie is simply a message. A warning to anyone else who might consider betraying the family.

And he’s a test. One final test to determine once and for all whether the man in my chair is the hardened criminal I was promised or the terrified baker he claims to be.

I walk over to Dylan and study his face. In repose, without the fear tightening his features, he looks younger. Softer. The freckles scattered across his nose make him look almost childlike.

I reach out and grip his chin, tilting his face up toward the light.

His eyes flutter open, confusion giving way to recognition giving way to fear. The progression happens in less than a second, but I catch every nuance.

“Good morning,” I say.

He swallows hard. His voice comes out as a croak. “Is it morning?”

“Does it matter?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those pretty eyes, searching my face for some hint of what’s coming next.

I release his chin and step back. “We’re going to have company soon. I thought you should be prepared.”

“Company?” The word comes out strangled with fear.

“Someone else who was involved in the theft. Someone who worked with you.” I watch his face carefully as I speak. “Someone who might be surprised to see you here.”

Dread flickers across his features. Genuine dread, or the appearance of it. I still can’t tell, and that infuriates me.

“I don’t know anyone involved in any theft,” he says. “I keep telling you, I’m not...”

“Declan. Yes. You’ve mentioned.” I turn away from him and walk to the corner where I keep my recording equipment. A camera on a tripod, already set up and ready. Tonight’s session will be filmed. The footage will find its way to certain corners of the dark web where people pay attention to such things.

“What’s that for?” Dylan’s voice has gone high and thin.

“Documentation.”

I can hear his breathing accelerating from across the room. Good. Fear is useful. Fear strips away pretense and leaves only truth.

The sound of a vehicle outside makes me straighten. I cross to the heavy metal doors and slide them open just enough to admit Nicolo and two of his men, who are dragging a stumbling figure between them.

Vinnie Vitelli looks exactly how I remember him. Thin face, receding hairline, the kind of forgettable features that make for good spies and terrible poker players. His expensive suit is rumpled and stained, and there’s blood dripping from a cut above his eye.

But his eyes are what interest me. They dart around the studio, taking in the concrete walls, the tools, the chair. When they land on Dylan, they go wide with recognition.

“Declan!” Vinnie’s voice is a desperate wheeze. “Oh thank God. Declan, you have to tell them. Tell them where it is. They’ll kill us both if you don’t talk.”

I watch Dylan’s face. Watch the bewilderment deepen into horror as he realizes what’s happening.

“I’m not...” Dylan starts, but I cross the room in three strides and secure a gag over his mouth before he can finish.

“Quiet,” I say softly. “Just watch.”

His eyes are enormous above the gag. Hazel and gold and green, shimmering with unshed tears. I force myself to look away.

Vinnie is still babbling. “Declan, please. I didn’t know they’d find out. I swear I didn’t tell anyone else. Just you. You promised no one would get hurt. You promised it would be easy money.”

Nicolo’s men have secured Vinnie to a second chair. Not as elaborate as Dylan’s, just a simple wooden thing that will serve its purpose well enough.

Nicolo gives me a nod as he and his men leave. I note the quickness of their steps and it almost makes me smile. Big, tough mafia men and they don’t want to stay for this. They don’t want to watch. No one ever does.

They need my skills. They use them, appreciate them. But the very attributes that make me valued and useful, also make me a social pariah. Even amongst the family.