Chapter 3
Chapter three
Dante
My thoughts are in turmoil. Even my soul feels uneasy.
The file sits open on my desk, Declan O’Shea’s photograph staring up at me like an accusation.
I’ve been looking at it for twenty minutes, comparing every detail to the face I just left tied to a chair in my studio.
Same jawline. Same nose. Same fucking freckles scattered across pale skin like a constellation I’m starting to memorize.
But something is wrong. Something is eating at me like acid in my chest, and I don’t understand it.
I excel at reading people. It’s my gift, my curse, my entire fucking career.
I can spot a lie before it leaves someone’s lips.
I can see deception in the way they hold their shoulders, the micro-expressions that flash across their faces for milliseconds.
It’s what makes me valuable to my employers and what ensures I have no real friends.
People are afraid of being seen too clearly. And I see everything.
Except apparently not this time.
The boy in my chair... Dylan, he insists his name is Dylan.
.. he doesn’t feel like he’s lying. Everything about his body language screams genuine terror and confusion.
His breathing patterns, his eye movements, the way his voice breaks when he talks about his aunt.
Either he’s the most gifted actor I’ve ever encountered, or he’s telling the truth.
And I have no wish to torture an innocent person. I’m not wired that way. Never have been. My work is exactly that, work. A profession. One I’m extremely good at. But it’s not a hobby. Not something I do for fun.
I reach for the bottle of whiskey I keep in my desk drawer. The amber liquid burns going down, but it doesn’t wash away the growing certainty that something is very, very wrong here.
The photograph taunts me. I pick it up, studying Declan’s face again. Cold hazel eyes that hold no warmth, no vulnerability. A mouth that’s never offered to bake cakes for someone pointing a weapon at him. This is a hard man, someone who’s spent years learning to hide his thoughts behind a mask.
The man in my chair rambled about chocolate tempering techniques.
Identical twins should have some differences, shouldn’t they? Subtle variations that come from different life experiences, different personalities shaping their features over time. But looking at this photograph and remembering that sweet, terrified face…
The only difference between that man and this photo is the expression, the light in his eyes. But expressions can be lies.
I slam the photo down on my desk and reach for my phone.
Nicolo answers on the second ring.
“Have you given me the wrong man?” I don’t waste time with pleasantries. I never do.
“Of course not!” His indignation crackles through the speaker. “What kind of question is that?”
“I have my doubts.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. Admitting uncertainty feels like confessing weakness, but I need answers.
Nicolo sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. “Dante, Declan O’Shea is a con artist by trade. He weaponises his Irish charm. He’s made a small fortune by fooling people into believing he is something he is not. The man could probably convince his own mother he’s a saint while picking her pocket.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Of course. Of course that’s what this is. A performance, carefully calculated to exploit any shred of human decency I might have left. The wide-eyed innocence, the rambling about baking shows, the offering to make me lemon drizzle cake.
All of it a lie. All of it designed to make me doubt myself.
But even as I tell myself this, something rebels in my chest. The way he fainted when I raised the pliers. The genuine terror when I showed him the knife. The soft, broken sound he made when he begged me not to hurt him.
I want to ask Nicolo about a twin. The question burns on my tongue, desperate to be voiced. But I can’t. Even when I just say it in my head it sounds ridiculous. Does he have a sweet and innocent identical twin that nobody knows about?
Asking it out loud would reveal just how thoroughly this man has gotten under my skin, how close he’s come to breaking through defenses I’ve spent years building. My reputation would be tarnished. My credibility questioned.
In my world, doubt is weakness. And weakness gets you killed.
I hang up without saying another word.
The silence in my office feels oppressive. I pour another drink, then another, but the alcohol does nothing to quiet the war raging in my head. Professional ruthlessness battling against an instinct I don’t understand and definitely don’t trust.
I think about the way he looked at me when he woke up after his faint. The confusion in those hazel eyes, followed by something that might have been hope. Hope that I might believe him. Hope that I might show him mercy.
Hope that I’ve already started to crush.
The rational part of my brain insists this is exactly what Nicolo described. A master manipulation designed to exploit the one thing I’ve never had to worry about. Compassion.
But the rational part of my brain is at war with something deeper. Something that’s telling me the boy in my chair is exactly what he claims to be.
And I hate it. Just like I hate the way his voice catches when he talks about his aunt. I hate the way he blushes when he mentions his bakery’s ridiculous name. I hate the way he makes me want to believe him, even as every professional instinct screams that I’m being played.
Most of all, I hate that I can’t bring myself to hurt him. Not while I still have these doubts eating me alive.
I drain my glass and stand up. There’s another way to find the truth.
A method that doesn’t require knives or pliers or any of the tools that have served me so well over the years.
Psychological pressure can break someone just as effectively as physical pain, and it has the advantage of leaving no permanent marks.
If Dylan O’Shea is really the innocent baker he claims to be, he’ll break under the right kind of stress.
And if he’s Declan O’Shea playing the role of his life, well.
.. con artists rely on their ability to think, to plan, to maintain their performance.
Remove those abilities, and even the most talented actor will slip up.
I make my decision and head back to the studio.
He looks up when I enter, those impossible eyes wide with something between hope and terror.
“Please,” he starts, the word tumbling out before he can stop himself.
“I know you don’t believe me, but I’m telling the truth.
I’m Dylan, not Declan. I run a bakery, I make cakes, I’ve never stolen anything in my life.
My aunt can vouch for me, my employees can vouch for me. You could call them, you could...”
I let him babble, watching the desperate hope fade from his face as I remain silent. He’s good, I’ll give him that. The tremor in his voice sounds genuine. The tears gathering in his eyes look real. Even the way his breathing speeds up as panic sets in seems authentic.
But Nicolo’s words echo in my mind. He weaponises his Irish charm.
I walk to the chair without speaking, my footsteps echoing in the concrete space. He flinches when I reach for the bolts that secure the chair to the floor, but I ignore his soft whimper of fear.
“What are you doing?” His voice climbs higher as I work. “Please, I told you everything I know. I don’t know anything about a tiara. I don’t know where it is. I don’t know where Declan is. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
The logical arguments, the reasonable tone despite his obvious terror. All carefully calculated to appeal to whatever humanity I might have left. I have to admire the dedication to character.
The last bolt comes free, and I tip the chair backward. He squeaks, the sound high and genuinely terrified, his bound hands flexing uselessly behind him. I grab the back of the chair and start dragging it across the concrete floor.
The noise is horrendous. Metal scraping against stone, his weight making the chair heavier than it should be.
He’s trying to say something, but I can’t hear him over the screech of steel on concrete.
Not that it matters. Whatever pleas he’s making, whatever promises he’s offering, I’ve heard them all before.
The door to the Dark Room is set into the far wall, reinforced steel painted the same color as the concrete. Soundproofed. Lightproof. A sensory deprivation chamber that’s broken many men into pieces.
I unlock it and drag him inside.
The room is barely large enough for the chair, a concrete box with no windows, no light sources, nothing but darkness so complete it has weight. I position the chair in the center and step back.
“Wait,” he says, and now there’s real panic in his voice.
The kind that’s hard to fake. “Wait, please, what is this? Where are you going? Don’t leave me in the dark, please.
I’m afraid of the dark. I’ve been afraid since I was a child, my brother used to lock me in closets and tell me monsters would get me.
Please, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, I’ll help you find Declan! just don’t leave me here.”
I ignore the way his voice breaks on the last word and step out of the room.
“Please!” The word is a raw scream now. “Please don’t do this! I’m not lying to you! My name is Dylan O’Shea and I’m not the man you’re looking for!”
I close the door.
The silence is immediate and absolute. The soundproofing swallows his cries as if they never existed. I slide the bolt home and lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted.
If he’s innocent, truly innocent, he’ll break within hours. The darkness will strip away his defenses, the silence will amplify every fear he’s ever had.
In the profound silence, he’ll hear his own body working, and the sound of his blood pumping through his veins will make him viscerally, terribly aware of his fragile mortality.
He’ll scream, he’ll beg, he’ll confess to anything just to make it stop.
And if he’s the con artist Nicolo described, if this is all an elaborate performance, then he’ll maintain his composure for longer. Professional liars are used to pressure, to maintaining their roles even under stress. But even they have limits.
In the dark, with nothing but his own breathing for company, one of two things will happen. Either Dylan O’Shea will break, or Declan O’Shea will crack.
Either way, I’ll have my truth.
I just hope I can live with it.
The whiskey in my system has left me with a headache, and I massage my temples as I walk back to my office. Every professional instinct tells me I’m handling this correctly.
But something cold has settled in my chest, and I can’t shake the image of those hazel eyes going wide with terror when I closed the door. The way his voice cracked when he mentioned being afraid of the dark since childhood.
If he’s lying, if this is all performance art designed to manipulate me, then it’s the most convincing act I’ve ever seen.
And if he’s telling the truth...
I don’t let myself finish that thought. Can’t let myself finish it. Because if Dylan O’Shea is exactly who he claims to be, then I’ve just locked an innocent man in a nightmare that will break him in ways that are just as awful as physical torture.
I pour another drink and try to convince myself I’ve made the right choice.
The clock on my wall ticks steadily, marking the passage of time in a space where a man who might be innocent is learning what true darkness feels like.
Three hours, I tell myself. If he hasn’t broken in three hours, I’ll know he’s stronger than he appears. And strength like that doesn’t come from baking cakes and watching television shows.
Strength like that comes from years of lying for a living.
The minutes crawl by like hours, and I find myself watching the clock more than working. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice that sounds disturbingly like conscience, whispers that I might have just made the biggest mistake of my career.