Page 54 of The Wrong Man

Nicolo’s fiance, Liam. Gentle and quiet, with those haunted eyes that speak of trauma I can only guess at. But he spent five years in prison. Five years surviving in an environment that breaks most men. Whatever softness he shows now was forged in fire.

And Carlo’s wife, Ginni. The most dangerous person I know, for all he likes to wear skirts and plan dinner parties. That boy has a darkness in him that even I find unsettling sometimes. A capacity for violence that rivals my own, wrapped in a package of delicate beauty and a soft voice.

They all have edges. They all have armor. They’ve all learned to protect themselves in a world that would destroy them otherwise.

But Dylan...

Dylan is different. Dylan is genuinely, uncomplicatedly soft. He apologizes when he bumps into furniture. He thanks me for every meal I bring him, even the terrible ones. He talks about his bakery with such love and passion that I can almost smell the bread rising.

He has no edges. No armor. No defenses at all except his kindness, which isn’t really a defense at all.

He shouldn’t exist in my world. He shouldn’t be able to survive here, in this place of blood and concrete and screaming.

And yet here he is. Not just surviving but somehow maintaining that impossible softness despite everything I’ve put him through.

It makes me want to protect him. Shield him. Keep him wrapped in cotton wool where nothing hard or sharp can ever touch him again.

Even though I’m the hardest, sharpest thing in his life right now.

We reach the kitchen, and Dylan stops in the doorway. His eyes go wide as he takes in the stack of boxes, the bags of groceries, the sheer volume of stuff I’ve brought home.

“Dante,” he breathes. “This is... you didn’t have to...”

“I wanted to.” The words come out rougher than I intended. “You said you wanted to bake. This is what you need to bake.”

He moves forward slowly, almost reverently, and starts opening boxes. The stand mixer first. He runs his fingers over the brushed steel surface, examines the attachments, makes a soft sound of approval that sends warmth flooding through my chest.

“This is a good one,” he says. “Professional quality. You didn’t have to spend this much.”

“You deserve good tools.”

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and something passes between us that I don’t have words for. Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper. Something that makes the air feel thick and charged.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “I mean it. This is... no one has ever...”

He trails off, shaking his head. Then he turns back to the boxes and starts unpacking with renewed enthusiasm.

I watch him work. Watch the way his hands move with practiced efficiency as he organizes everything, sorting bowls by size, putting utensils into the bright yellow holder I bought. His whole demeanor has changed. The nervous energy that usually defines him has settled into something calmer, more focused. He’s in his element now, surrounded by the tools of his trade.

“This kitchen is tiny,” he says, more to himself than to me. “But I can make it work. If I organize properly, if I use the vertical space...” He trails off, already mentally rearranging.

“We could get shelves,” I offer. “Or one of those hanging rack things. For the pots and pans.”

He turns to look at me, and there’s that smile again. The one that makes something crack open in my chest.

“That would be perfect. Thank you, Dante.”

My name sounds different when he says it. Softer. Less like an accusation and more like... something else. Something I don’t let myself name.

“I should put the groceries away,” I say, because I need to do something with my hands before I do something stupid. Like reach out and touch him. Like pull him close and breathe in the scent of his hair. Like tell him all the things I’m starting to feel that I have no right to feel.

“I can help,” Dylan offers, already reaching for a bag.

We work together in the tiny galley kitchen, putting away groceries, organizing supplies. It’s cramped. We keep bumping into each other, apologizing, stepping aside. Every accidental touch sends sparks through my nervous system.

He doesn’t flinch anymore. I notice that somewhere between the flour going in the cupboard and the butter going in the fridge. When my arm brushes his, he doesn’t pull away. When I reach past him for a shelf, he doesn’t freeze up.

Progress. More progress than I have any right to hope for.