Page 125 of The Wrong Man

“Dylan.” His voice breaks on my name. “Dylan, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

I can’t speak. There are tears streaming down my face and my throat is too tight and all I can do is grab fistfuls of his shirt and hold on.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pulling me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, so tight I can barely breathe, and I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except that he’s here, he’s real, he came for me. “I’ve got you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I left you. I’m never leaving you again.”

“You came,” I manage finally, my voice muffled against his shoulder. “You actually came.”

“Of course I came.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and his eyes are bright with something that might be tears. “I will always come for you, Dylan. Always.”

Behind us, Declan groans again. I feel Dante tense, his arms tightening around me protectively.

“How did you know?” I ask. “How did you know it wasn’t me?”

Dante’s expression softens even more. He reaches up and brushes a tear from my cheek with his thumb.

“Because I know you,” he says simply. “I know the way you move, the way you breathe, the way you look at me. The kindness that shines out of you. He’s got the right face, but he couldn’t fake the rest. He couldn’t fake you.”

Something breaks open inside me at those words. All the fear and pain and loneliness of the past few days, all the doubt about whether Dante really cared, whether any of this was real. It all dissolves in the face of this simple truth.

He knows me. He sees me. He loves me.

I kiss him.

It’s messy and desperate and probably tastes like tears, but I don’t care. I need to feel him, need to prove to myself that this is real, that I’m not still locked in that room dreaming about rescue that will never come.

Dante kisses me back like I’m oxygen and he’s been drowning. His hands are in my hair, on my back, pulling me closer even though there’s no space left between us.

“I love you,” I gasp against his mouth. “I love you, Dante. I should have said it before.”

“I love you too.” He presses his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “I love you so much it terrifies me.”

A sound from the doorway makes us both turn. An intimidating Italian man is standing there, looking slightly awkward but mostly relieved.

“The house is secure,” he says. “Declan’s men are dealt with. We should move.”

“Thanks, Carlo.” Dante nods, but he doesn’t let go of me. I don’t want him to.

“Can you walk?” he asks quietly.

“I think so.”

He helps me to my feet anyway, keeping one arm wrapped around my waist. I lean into him, too exhausted and overwhelmed to pretend I don’t need the support.

As we move toward the door, I glance back at Declan. He’s still on the floor, clutching his broken nose, glaring at us with pure hatred.

“This isn’t over,” he spits. “You think you’ve won? You haven’t won anything.”

Dante’s arm tightens around me. “Get him secured,” he tells Carlo. “Dylan gets to decide what happens to him.”

Carlo nods and moves toward Declan, and I let Dante guide me out of the room.

The hallway is full of people. I catch a glimpse of a face I recognize. Ginni, vibrating with barely contained energy. Looking like he’s at a birthday party and not a dangerous rescue mission.

And then, at the bottom of the stairs, a figure I don’t expect to see.

“Aunt Moira?”

She’s holding a shotgun. An actual shotgun. And when she sees me, her face crumples.