Page 17 of The Wrong Man

Except this isn’t Dylan. The expression is all wrong. Where Dylan’s features always hold softness, vulnerability, a desperate need to be believed, this man radiates arrogance. Cruelty. The cold confidence of someone who has never doubted his own superiority.

“Well, well, well,” the man says, and even his voice is different. Sharper. Harder. The Irish accent far stronger. “Dante, is it? I’ve heard stories about you. The Ajello family’s pet monster.”

He takes a long sip of his cocktail, clearly savoring the moment.

“I have to say, I’m impressed. Not many people manage to track down my associates so quickly. Vinnie always was a weak link. I should have tied that loose end myself. But as for that other man you’ve got there, tied to your chair…”

He leans forward, and the sunglasses slip down his nose just enough to reveal hazel eyes that hold nothing but contempt.

“That’s a funny thing. Because you’ve got the wrong man there.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I grip the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles go white.

“The Ajello family isn’t as almighty as they like to believe,” he continues, his grin widening. “Snatching my twin brother and assuming he’s me? Bit sloppy, don’t you think?”

He leans even closer to the camera, and his voice drops to something almost intimate.

“I’ve never liked the little faggot. But he doesn’t deserve you.”

The video ends.

I sit there, frozen, staring at the black screen where Declan O’Shea’s face used to be.

Little faggot. He called his own brother a little faggot. Said it with such casual disdain, like Dylan was nothing more than an inconvenience. An embarrassment to be hidden away and forgotten.

My mind is racing, spinning through possibilities, trying to find the flaw in what I just witnessed.

This could be pre-recorded. A contingency plan, prepared in advance in case things went wrong. Declan is a con artist, a planner. He would have anticipated the possibility of capture. Would have set up failsafes.

The identical twin story could have been planned from the beginning. A cover identity, complete with a bakery and an aunt and a life story designed to create reasonable doubt.

The video could have been uploaded by a lackey, someone following predetermined instructions if Declan disappeared for too long. Or if a video was uploaded to the dark web showing he had been captured.

And there is also AI. Artificial intelligence is becoming disturbingly convincing these days. Deepfakes can recreate faces, voices, and mannerisms with frightening accuracy.

This could all be an elaborate deception. One final con from a master manipulator.

But even as I think it, I know I’m grasping at straws. The man in that video radiated something that can’t be faked. A fundamental difference in character that went beyond appearance or voice or mannerisms.

That was Declan O’Shea. The real Declan O’Shea.

Which means the man in my shower stall is...

No. I need to be sure. I can’t afford to make another mistake.

I type a message, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts.

Prove it. Hold a hairdryer and point it at your face. You have thirty minutes.

It’s a ridiculous request. Absurd. The kind of thing that would make anyone question my sanity.

But that’s exactly the point. No one would prerecord themselves holding a hair dryer and blowing it at their face. It’s too specific, too random. And while AI has made terrifying advances, I don’t believe it’s sophisticated enough yet to convincingly render the natural movement of hair and skin being buffeted by air.

I send the message and wait.

I pace my office like a caged animal. I pour another drink but don’t touch it. I check the screen every few seconds, willing a notification to appear while simultaneously dreading what it might contain.

What if he doesn’t respond?