Page 40 of The Wrong Man

The question cuts deep. Because I don’t know. I never know, not really. The people delivered to my studio come with files and accusations and the assumption of guilt. I take those assumptions at face value because that’s what I’m paid to do.

Until Dylan. Until I took someone at face value and was catastrophically wrong.

“I don’t think so,” I say slowly. “The Kozlovs are organized crime. This man is one of their soldiers. He’s done things. Made choices.”

“You don’t know that for certain though. You didn’t know that about me.”

The words land like blows. Accurate. Deserved. I absorb them without flinching, because flinching would be an admission of weakness I can’t afford.

“No,” I admit. “I don’t know for certain. I never do.”

Dylan is quiet for a long time. His porridge is getting cold, forgotten in his hands.

“Does it bother you?” he asks finally. “Not knowing?”

The honest answer is no. It has never bothered me before. I’ve always operated on the assumption that the people delivered to me earned their place in my chair. That the family’s intelligence was good. That I was an instrument of justice, however brutal.

Dylan has stripped that comfortable assumption away. Left me raw and exposed to doubts I’ve spent years avoiding.

“It bothers me now,” I say. “It didn’t use to.”

His eyes meet mine, and something passes between us. Not forgiveness. Not understanding. But something. An acknowledgment, maybe, of the impossible situation we’ve both found ourselves in.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he says softly. “The screaming. Even if it’s someone who deserves it. I don’t want to hear it ever again.”

“You won’t.” The promise comes out fierce. Absolute. “I’ll make sure of it. Whatever it takes.”

He nods slowly, accepting my word even though he has no reason to trust it.

“Okay.”

Just okay. Just that simple acceptance, like I’ve promised to pick up milk on my way home instead of pledging to restructure my entire operation to protect his psychological wellbeing.

I stand abruptly, needing to move, needing to do something with the strange energy coursing through my veins.

“I’m going to make some calls,” I say. “Arrange somewhere else for tonight. And I’ll start making arrangements for the soundproofing.”

Dylan watches me move toward the door. Just before I reach it, his voice stops me.

“Dante?”

I turn back. He’s sitting there in my bed, wearing my clothes, eating food I made him, and looking at me with an expression I can’t read.

“Thank you,” he says. “For... for thinking about it. About me. You didn’t have to.”

The words should feel hollow. A prisoner thanking his captor for basic consideration. But there’s something genuine in his voice, something that makes that dangerous warmth bloom in my chest again.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I did.”

I leave before I can say anything else. Before I can examine too closely why his gratitude matters so much to me, or why the thought of him hearing screams fills me with more horror than the screams themselves ever have.

In my office, I sit at my desk and stare at the wall.

I need to focus. I need to make arrangements for tonight, find an alternative location, coordinate with Nicolo. I need to think about the Kozlov situation and how to handle it efficiently.

Instead, I think about soundproofing.

I think about layers of acoustic foam and mass-loaded vinyl. I think about sealed doors and isolated ceilings. I think about creating a space where my two worlds never have to touch, where the monster I am in the studio can exist separately from whatever I’m becoming in this apartment.