Page 70 of The Wrong Man

Playing house. Is that really what this looks like from the outside?

“He doesn’t know anything about the family’s operations.”

“He knows about you. He knows about this place. He knows what you do.” Carlo’s voice hardens. “That’s more than enough to bring everything crashing down if he decides to talk.”

“He won’t talk.”

“You can’t guarantee that. No one can.” Carlo leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, I understand this is complicated. Wrong man, innocent victim, you feel guilty. I get it. But guilt doesn’t change the facts, and the facts are that this loose end needs to be tied.”

Every word is reasonable. Logical. Exactly what I would have said myself, a week ago.

Now they make something dark and violent stir in my chest.

“I’m handling it,” I say.

“How?” Carlo spreads his hands. “What’s your plan here? Keep him locked up forever? Hope the problem magically solves itself? You’re usually more practical than this.”

I don’t have a plan. I have a growing obsession and a desperate need to keep Dylan safe and close, and no rational explanation for any of it.

“My methods are my own concern.”

“Not when they affect the family.” Carlo’s patience is visibly fraying. “People are starting to notice. Starting to ask questions. How long can you keep this up before someone decides to take matters into their own hands?”

The implication sends ice through my veins. Someone else. Someone who wouldn’t be gentle. Someone who wouldn’t care that Dylan is innocent, that he’s soft and sweet and deserves none of this.

“No one touches him,” I hear myself say. The words come out harder than I intended.

Carlo’s eyes narrow. “Dante...”

“No one. Touches. Him.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Loaded with implications neither of us wants to examine.

Carlo studies me for a long moment. Then he sighs, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair.

“Listen. I owe you, okay? For the Ginni situation. You put yourself on the line for me, helped me get him out when no one else would have. I haven’t forgotten that.”

I stay silent, waiting.

“Let me repay the favor.” His voice has softened, turned almost gentle. “I’ll take care of it for you. Quick, clean, painless. He won’t even know it’s coming. And then this whole mess goes away and you can go back to your life.”

For a moment, the words don’t register. They’re just sounds, meaningless noise that my brain refuses to process.

Then understanding crashes through me like a wave of ice water.

He’s offering to kill Dylan. To murder him as a favor to me. Like it’s nothing. Like Dylan is nothing, just a problem to be solved, an inconvenience to be eliminated.

Something inside me snaps.

I move before I’m conscious of deciding to move. One moment Carlo is sitting on my sofa with that reasonable, friendly expression on his face. The next moment I have him pinned against the wall, my forearm across his throat, my body weight keeping him immobilized.

“You will not touch him.” My voice comes out low and dangerous, barely recognizable as my own. “You will not go near him. You will not even think about him. Do you understand?”

Carlo’s eyes have gone wide with shock. His hands come up instinctively, not to fight but to placate, palms open and empty.

“Dante.” His voice is strangled, careful. “Dante, calm down.”

“Do you understand?” I press harder against his throat, just enough to make breathing difficult. Just enough to make my point absolutely clear.