Page 37 of The Wrong Man

Of course he does. Dario always needs me eventually. That’s the nature of our arrangement. I provide a service. He provides protection, resources, a place in the family hierarchy. It’s a transaction that has served us both well.

“What kind of situation?”

“The Kozlov thing has escalated. They’ve taken one of our couriers. Dario wants answers, and he wants them fast.”

The Kozlovs. Russian bratva, always pushing boundaries, always testing to see what they can get away with. I dealt with some of their people six months ago. Clearly, the lesson didn’t stick.

“When?”

“Tonight. I’ll text you when we have an ETA.”

The call ends, and I stand there staring at my phone while the porridge continues to bubble behind me.

Tonight. I have to work tonight.

The thought should be simple. Routine. I’ve done this hundreds of times. Someone needs information extracted, I extract it. Someone needs to be made an example of, I make them an example. It’s what I do. What I’m good at. The only thing I’m good at.

But now there’s Dylan.

Dylan, who is finally starting to look less like a ghost and more like a person. Dylan, who let me wash his hair yesterday and didn’t flinch quite as hard when I touched him. Dylan, who is sleeping in my bed right now, breathing easier than he has in days, completely unaware that the monster caring for him is about to go do monstrous things.

I turn off the stove and grip the edge of the counter.

What am I supposed to do? I can’t refuse Dario. That’s not how this works. I’m not some independent contractor who can pick and choose my assignments. I’m part of the family, bound by obligations that go deeper than employment. When Dario calls, I answer. When he needs something done, I do it.

But the thought of leaving Dylan alone makes something in my chest clench painfully. And the thought of bringing him anywhere near my work makes it even worse.

I think about the studio down the hall. The concrete walls. The metal table with its neat rows of tools. The chair bolted to the floor, the one Dylan sat in while I broke him piece by piece.

He can’t be anywhere near that. Not ever again. The studio is right next to this apartment. If I bring someone there tonight, if I do what needs to be done, Dylan might hear.

The screaming. Dear God, the screaming.

I close my eyes and see Dylan’s face. The way he looked when Vinnie was begging for mercy. The horror. The tears. The way his whole body shook with the force of what he was witnessing.

He’s already broken. I’ve already shattered him into pieces I don’t know how to put back together. If he hears that again, hears the sounds of my work filtering through the walls while he lies helpless in my bed, it might destroy whatever fragile progress we’ve made.

Whatever fragile thing is growing between us.

I shake my head sharply. There’s nothing growing between us. He’s my prisoner. My victim. My responsibility, yes, but nothing more than that. The strange tenderness I feel when I look at him, the way my chest aches when he flinches from my touch, the desperate need to make him comfortable and safe and happy. None of that means what I’m afraid it might mean.

I’m just trying to make amends. That’s all. Guilt manifesting as misplaced affection.

I almost believe it.

The porridge is getting cold. I scoop it into a bowl and add more honey, then carry it to the bedroom. Dylan is still asleep, curled on his side with one hand tucked under his cheek. His strawberry-blond hair is soft and clean from yesterday’s bath, falling across his forehead in gentle waves.

He looks peaceful. Young. Innocent in a way that makes my heart ache.

I set the bowl on the nightstand and settle into my usual chair. I’ve spent more time in this chair over the past week than I’ve spent anywhere else in years. Watching him sleep. Monitoring his breathing. Counting the minutes between doses of antibiotics and calculating how much fluid I can coax him to drink.

It’s become a strange kind of rhythm. A routine I didn’t know I was capable of.

His eyes flutter open, and for just a moment before full awareness returns, he looks at me without fear. Just sleepy confusion, soft and unguarded.

Then he remembers where he is. Who I am. What I’ve done.

The walls go up. Not as high as they used to be, but still there. Still keeping me out.