The Wrong Man (My Mobster #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Dante

My studio is perfect.

Every detail has been carefully considered to produce the maximum psychological impact.

The concrete walls are stained with rust and darker substances that could be blood, but might be something even worse.

The single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling casts harsh shadows that make the space feel smaller, more claustrophobic than it actually is.

The metal table against the far wall displays my tools in neat, surgical rows.

Each implement is polished to a mirror shine, each one designed for a specific purpose.

I call it my studio because what I do is art.

The careful application of pressure, the precise timing, the gradual unraveling of a human being’s resolve.

It requires skill, patience, and an understanding of human psychology that borders on the spiritual.

Anyone can hurt someone. It takes an artist to break them in exactly the right way.

The chair in the center of the room is the focal point.

Heavy steel, bolted to the floor, with restraints that have been tested on men far stronger than the one currently occupying it.

The chair is designed to create maximum discomfort even without additional measures.

Sitting in it for more than an hour becomes torment.

Sitting in it for six hours borders on genuine torture before I’ve even done anything else.

The man slumped in the chair stirs slightly, consciousness creeping back despite his best efforts to remain in the peace of oblivion.

A black canvas bag covers his head, muffling any sounds he might make and adding to the disorientation.

His wrists are secured behind him with zip ties that will tighten if he struggles.

His ankles are bound to the chair legs. He’s been positioned exactly as I want him.

I watch him from my position against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for full consciousness to return.

This is always one of my favorite moments.

The gradual awareness, the mounting panic as reality sets in.

Some men wake up fighting. Some wake up pleading.

Some, like this one apparently, wake up slowly, as if their subconscious is trying to delay the inevitable.

His breathing changes first. The deep, even rhythm of unconsciousness gives way to something shallower, more rapid.

His chest rises and falls with increasing frequency as his brain begins to process his situation.

Then his hands twitch, testing the restraints without really meaning to, an automatic response to finding himself unable to move.

Finally, his head lifts. The bag moves as he tries to look around, tries to make sense of where he is and what’s happening to him. I can hear his breathing becoming more labored through the canvas. The sound of a man realizing he’s in very serious trouble.

I let him sit with that realization for a long moment.

Fear is a tool like any other, and it works best when allowed to build naturally.

Let him imagine what might be on the other side of the bag.

Let him wonder who has him and what they want.

Let his mind conjure up possibilities that are probably worse than anything I actually have planned.

Though to be fair, what I have planned for Declan O’Shea is fairly unpleasant.

I push off from the wall and walk toward him with slow, deliberate steps. Each footfall echoes in the concrete space, sharp and final. He freezes at the sound, his entire body going rigid with terror. Good. Terror makes them more cooperative.

When I’m standing directly in front of him, close enough to smell the fear sweat that’s already starting to soak through his clothes, I reach out and pull the bag from his head in one swift motion.

And suddenly I stop breathing.

The man blinking up at me in the harsh light is not what I expected. Not what I expected at all.

Declan O’Shea, according to his file, is a hard man.

Twenty-five years old but carries himself like a man far older, cold eyes that have seen violence and dealt it in equal measure.

A man who’s spent his adult life running cons and theft operations for anyone willing to pay him.

A man who thought he could steal from my employer and disappear into the night.

This doesn’t seem like that man.

This man has soft strawberry-blond hair that catches the light like spun gold.

Wide hazel eyes flecked with green and gold, currently filled with confusion and terror but somehow still managing to be the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.

His skin is pale and dusted with freckles across his nose and cheeks, giving him an almost ethereal quality that seems completely out of place in my brutal studio.

He’s smaller than Declan should be. Slighter. Where Declan is supposed to be all hard angles and contained violence, this man is soft curves and delicate bones. Beautiful in a way that makes something in my chest tighten with an emotion I don’t recognize and definitely don’t want.

I blink and pull up a mental image of the photo I was given. I compare it to the man in front of me.

Same jawline. Same nose. Same set to the eyes. The forehead matches. The chin is right. This is the same face, and for some reason, that’s shocking.

I force myself to focus. So he’s prettier than his photo suggested. That doesn’t change anything. Beautiful people can be just as treacherous as ugly ones. More so, sometimes, because they’re used to trading on their looks to get what they want.

But even as I think it, it still feels like something is off. This man doesn’t look like someone who’s spent his life on the wrong side of the law. He looks like someone who apologizes when he accidentally bumps into furniture.

He’s staring at me with those beautiful eyes, and I can see him trying to process what’s happening. His gaze darts around the studio, taking in the concrete walls, the tools, the single harsh light. I watch his face pale as the reality of his situation sinks in.

He’s wearing a gag, of course. Protocol. Can’t have them screaming for help during transport. I should leave it for now, let him sit with his fear a while longer. Build the pressure before I start asking questions.

Instead, I find myself reaching out to remove it, drawn by some impulse I don’t understand. His eyes widen as my fingers brush against his face, and I feel an unexpected jolt of something that might be electricity or might be guilt. His skin is warm and impossibly soft under my touch.

The gag comes free, and he immediately starts trying to speak, his voice hoarse and desperate.

“Please,” he says, and his voice is nothing like what I expected either.

It’s soft, educated, with a slight Irish accent that makes every word sound like music.

“Please, oh God there’s been a terrible mistake.

You think I’m Declan, don’t you? You must think I’m Declan, because I haven’t done anything.

I swear to God I haven’t done anything.”

I laugh, sharp and humorless. “They all say that.”

“No, you don’t understand.” His words tumble over each other in his desperation to be heard. “I’m Dylan O’Shea. Dylan, not Declan. I’m Declan’s twin brother. Nobody knows about me because I’ve been living quietly, running my bakery, staying out of trouble. You’ve got the wrong person.”

Twin brother. That’s a new one. I have to admire his creativity. Most people start with claims of mistaken identity, but they usually don’t have the imagination to invent an entire fictional sibling.

“Nice try,” I say, walking over to my table of tools. I select a small paring knife, the one with the bone handle that fits perfectly in my palm. “But Declan O’Shea doesn’t have a twin brother. Declan O’Shea doesn’t have any siblings at all. Only child, no close relatives.”

I turn back to him, twirling the knife between my fingers with practiced ease. His eyes lock onto the blade, and I watch all the color drain from his face.

“That’s not true!” he protests, his voice climbing higher with panic.

“My parents couldn’t handle having a gay son, so they hid me away.

Sent me to live with my aunt here in London when I was sixteen.

I’ve been keeping my head down ever since, trying to build a normal life.

I haven’t seen Declan in years. I don’t even know what he’s been up to. ”

Gay? The flicker of interest that stirs within me is unprofessional and entirely inappropriate. I shake my head to clear it and focus on what really matters.

The details he just gave are impressive. Most people can’t maintain a complex lie under this kind of pressure, but he’s sticking to his story with admirable consistency. Either he’s a much better actor than I give him credit for, or he’s telling the truth.

But that’s impossible. The intelligence is solid. My boss would not have the wrong man delivered to me. This is Declan O’Shea, twenty-five years old, professional thief, currently in possession of something that belongs to my employer. That’s the man who is sitting in my chair right now.

Isn’t it?

I study his face more carefully, looking for signs of deception. His eyes are wide and honest, filled with terror but not guilt. His breathing is rapid but steady, not the erratic gasping of someone trying to maintain a lie. Everything about his body language screams genuine fear and confusion.

“What do you do for work?” I ask abruptly. I want to hear him run out of lies.

“I told you, I have a bakery. Knead Me Bakery in Borough Market. I make cakes and pastries and bread. I’ve been there for three years now.

” The words pour out of him like water from a broken dam.

“I know it sounds mad, but I can prove it. My hands, look at my hands. They’re not the hands of someone who does. .. whatever it is you think I do.”