Page 72 of The Wrong Man

“But Dante.” Carlo’s voice hardens. “You need to be smart about this. If the family finds out you’ve gone soft, that you’re keeping a witness alive because of... whatever this is... it won’t matter how valuable you are. They’ll take care of him and they’ll take care of you too.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because the way you reacted just now, that’s not someone who’s thinking clearly. That’s someone who’s going to get themselves killed protecting something they can’t protect forever.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. The logical part of my brain can see exactly how this ends, the inevitable trajectory toward disaster.

But logic has nothing to do with this. Logic stopped mattering the moment I watched Dylan faint at the sight of my pliers.

“I’ll handle it,” I say.

“How?”

“I don’t know yet.” The admission costs me more than I want to acknowledge. “But I’ll figure something out.”

Carlo studies me for a long moment. Whatever he sees in my face makes him sigh and shake his head.

“You’ve got it bad,” he says. “Worse than I did, maybe. At least I knew what I was getting into. You’ve blindsided yourself completely.”

I don’t argue. There’s no point.

“I’ll keep this quiet,” Carlo continues. “Call it repayment for Ginni. But you need to be careful. Keep your head down, do your job, don’t give anyone reason to look too closely. And for God’s sake, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Define stupid.”

The ghost of a smile crosses his face. “You know what I mean.”

He moves toward the door, and I follow to unlock it. We stand there for a moment in the narrow entryway, two men who’ve known each other for years suddenly looking at each other differently.

“He must be something special,” Carlo says quietly. “To have gotten under your skin like this.”

I think of Dylan’s flour-dusted cheeks. His nervous rambling. The way he blushed when he made that accidental innuendo about performing under observation. The fierce protectiveness in his voice when he talked about his aunt.

“He is,” I say. The words feel inadequate. Laughably insufficient to describe whatever Dylan has become to me.

Carlo nods slowly. “Then I hope it works out. For both your sakes.”

He leaves without another word. I lock the door behind him, all three deadbolts, and lean my forehead against the cool metal.

My hands are shaking. My heart is pounding. The adrenaline from our confrontation is still surging through my system, making everything feel sharp and strange.

I nearly killed Carlo. My closest friend, the person I trust most in this world, and I nearly killed him for suggesting what any reasonable person would suggest. What I would have suggested, not so long ago.

What is happening to me?

The answer is obvious. Has been obvious for days, if I’m honest with myself.

Dylan happened to me. That sweet, nervous, beautiful man who bakes scones and blushes at nothing and looks at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve. He’s gotten inside my defenses somehow. Slipped past walls I’ve spent decades building and made himself a home in spaces I didn’t know existed.

And now I’m threatening to kill my friends to protect him. Now I’m risking everything, my reputation, my safety, my life, for someone I’ve known for barely a week.

It’s madness. Complete and utter madness.

But I can’t seem to stop.

A soft sound from down the hallway makes me freeze. A door opening. Quiet footsteps. Dylan, emerging from the bedroom.

I straighten up and try to compose my features into something neutral. Try to slow my breathing, to release the tension in my shoulders, to look like someone who hasn’t just had his entire worldview shattered by a single conversation.