Page 69 of The Wrong Man

I am in so much trouble.

Chapter twenty

Dante

The knock on the door makes every muscle in my body go rigid.

Three sharp raps. Confident. Familiar. The knock of someone who knows they’ll be let in, because they’ve always been let in before.

Carlo.

I’m on my feet before the sound has finished echoing through the flat, my mind racing through possibilities. Carlo has been here before, of course. We planned Ginni’s rescue at this very table, spent hours poring over maps and transport routes and contingency plans. But that was different. That was business, scheduled and expected.

This is unannounced. And unannounced visits are never good news.

Dylan is in the bedroom. Reading, I think, or resting. He’s been quiet since our baking session, retreating into himself in a way that makes me want to follow him and demand he tell me what he’s thinking. But I’ve been trying to give him space. Trying not to hover like the obsessive creature I’m rapidly becoming.

Now I’m grateful for that distance. Grateful he’s behind a closed door, out of sight.

I cross to the front door and check the peephole out of habit, even though I already know who it is. Carlo’s familiar silhouette fills the distorted circle of glass. Expensive coat, broad shoulders, the stance of a man who owns every room he walks into.

I unlock and open the door.

“Carlo.” I keep my voice neutral, my body positioned to block any view of the flat’s interior. “This is unexpected.”

He grins at me, all easy charm and white teeth. “Can’t an old friend drop by for a visit?”

“You usually text first.”

“Thought I’d save time.” He’s already moving forward, clearly expecting me to step aside and let him in the way I always have.

I hesitate for just a fraction of a second. Long enough for Carlo’s eyebrows to rise. Long enough for a flicker of something to cross his face. Surprise, maybe. Or the beginning of suspicion.

I step aside, because refusing would raise more questions than it answers. Carlo brushes past me, his expensive cologne filling the small entryway. I close the door and lock it again, all three locks, while he moves into the living room.

“Place looks different,” he observes, glancing around. “Cozier.”

I follow his gaze and see what he sees. The cookbook on the kitchen counter. The stand mixer on the shelf. The faint smell of baking that still lingers in the air. Small details that add up to something larger. Something that shouldn’t be here.

“I’ve been making improvements,” I say flatly.

“Clearly.” Carlo turns to face me, and the easy charm has faded from his expression. What’s left is sharper. More businesslike. “We need to talk about your situation.”

“What situation?”

“Don’t play games, Dante. The O’Shea situation.”

He strides down the hallway to the living room. I trail unhappily behind him.

Carlo settles onto the horrible orange sofa like he owns it, legs stretched out, one arm draped across the back. “You told Dario and me days ago that you’d been given the wrong man. Innocent twin, mistaken identity, very unfortunate. We all agreed it was a mess.”

“And?”

“And it’s been over a week.” Carlo’s eyes are steady on my face. “The mess is still here. Still breathing. Still a liability.”

My jaw tightens. “The situation is under control.”

“Is it? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve been playing house with a witness who can identify you, identify this location, identify the family’s operations. That’s not under control. That’s a ticking time bomb.”