Page 118 of The Wrong Man

Declan’s jaw tightens. “Frankie. My right-hand man. We’d been working together for three years. I trusted him with everything.” He laughs again, hollow and bitter. “Found out he’d been planning it for months. Waiting for the right moment to grab the goods and run. And I never saw it coming.”

There’s genuine pain in his voice. Genuine betrayal. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him.

Then I remember everything he’s done. To me, to our family, to everyone who’s ever had the misfortune of crossing his path. And the sympathy evaporates.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” He stares at the wall, looking more lost than I’ve ever seen him. “The Italians want my head. The Irish crews I’ve burned want revenge. Half my men have abandoned me and the other half are probably planning to. I’m running out of options.”

“You could let me go.”

The words slip out before I can think better of them. Declan turns to look at me, and for a moment I think I see something flicker in his eyes. Consideration, maybe. Or just surprise that I’d suggest it.

“Let you go,” he repeats slowly. “And then what? You run back to your Italian boyfriend and tell him everything? Lead him right to my door?”

“I wouldn’t...”

“Yes you would.” His voice hardens again, the brief vulnerability vanishing behind familiar walls. “You’d sell me out in a heartbeat. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

He’s right. Of course he’s right. If I got out of here, the first thing I’d do is find Dante. And Dante would burn this house to the ground.

“You know what the funny thing is?” Declan says, and there’s something almost wistful in his tone. “When we were kids, I used to think you were the lucky one. Getting sent away, getting to escape all of this. I was jealous.”

I stare at him. “You were jealous? Of me?”

“You got out. You got to be normal, or at least pretend to be. While I was stuck there, learning the family business, becoming...” He gestures vaguely at himself. “This.”

“You could have left too. You chose this life.”

“Did I?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You really think there was ever a choice? Da had me working jobs by the time I was fourteen. By the time I was old enough to know better, I was in too deep to get out.”

It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said to me. And for a moment, just a moment, I catch a glimpse of the brother I might have had. The one who existed before the cruelty and the crime and the endless betrayals.

But then his expression hardens again, and the moment passes.

“I’m not letting you go,” Declan says, standing up abruptly. “You’re my insurance policy. The only card I have left to play. When the Italians come, and they will come, you’re going to be my bargaining chip.”

He leaves without another word, slamming the door behind him. I hear the lock click into place.

I’m alone again. Alone with my thoughts and my fears and the growing certainty that time is running out.

But underneath the fear, something else is stirring. Declan is falling apart. His empire is crumbling. The people he trusted are abandoning him or dying. He’s scared, and scared people make mistakes.

I just need to be ready when he makes his.

The guard who brings my dinner that night is different from the usual ones.

He’s younger, early twenties maybe, with nervous eyes and a face that doesn’t quite fit the role of hired muscle. He sets the tray on my bedside table without meeting my gaze, then hesitates at the door.

He glances over his shoulder, checking the hallway. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

“Someone paid me to give you this,” he says, pressing it into my hand. “Don’t tell anyone. And don’t ask me any questions.”

Before I can respond, he’s gone. The door closes, the lock clicks, and I’m alone with a scrap of paper that suddenly feels like the most important thing in the world.

My hands shake as I unfold it.

The message is short. Just five words, scrawled in handwriting I don’t recognize.