Chapter 5
Chapter five
Dante
The call comes at three in the morning.
I’m not sleeping. Haven’t been able to sleep since I dragged Dylan out of the Dark Room and saw something in his eyes that looked disturbingly like resilience rather than defeat.
Professional criminals develop that look over years of surviving in brutal environments.
Innocent bakers from Borough Market should not have it.
Unless surviving his brother’s cruelty as a child taught him how to endure things that would break most people.
I shove that thought aside and answer the phone.
“We have another one,” Nicolo says without preamble. “Vinnie Vitelli. He’s the inside man who fed information to O’Shea about the shipping schedules.”
Vinnie Vitelli. I know the name. Mid-level associate with gambling debts and a taste for expensive women. Exactly the kind of weak link that gets exploited by people like Declan O’Shea.
“Bring him to me.”
I end the call and stare at the ceiling of my bedroom.
The apartment next to my studio is sparse and functional.
A bed, a wardrobe, a bathroom. A tiny kitchen and a dingy living room.
I don’t need much. Material possessions have never interested me.
What I need is purpose, and right now my purpose is tangled up in knots because of a man with hazel eyes and freckles who claims to be someone he isn’t.
Or claims to be exactly who he is.
I get up and dress in dark clothes. Black trousers, black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Professional attire for professional work.
When I enter the studio, Dylan is slumped in the chair, chin on his chest, sleeping or unconscious. I can’t tell which. The sight of him makes something uncomfortable twist in my gut.
I ignore the feeling and start preparing.
The metal table needs fresh tools. I select them carefully, laying each one out with the precision of a surgeon. Pliers. Scalpels. A small blowtorch. Wire cutters. Each instrument has its purpose, its moment in the symphony of information extraction.
Except tonight isn’t about information. Tonight is about punishment. And about proving something to myself.
Vinnie Vitelli won’t know where the tiara is. Declan O’Shea would never be stupid enough to share that information with a gambling addict who sold out his own people for pocket change. Vinnie is simply a message. A warning to anyone else who might consider betraying the family.
And he’s a test. One final test to determine once and for all whether the man in my chair is the hardened criminal I was promised or the terrified baker he claims to be.
I walk over to Dylan and study his face. In repose, without the fear tightening his features, he looks younger. Softer. The freckles scattered across his nose make him look almost childlike.
I reach out and grip his chin, tilting his face up toward the light.
His eyes flutter open, confusion giving way to recognition giving way to fear. The progression happens in less than a second, but I catch every nuance.
“Good morning,” I say.
He swallows hard. His voice comes out as a croak. “Is it morning?”
“Does it matter?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those pretty eyes, searching my face for some hint of what’s coming next.
I release his chin and step back. “We’re going to have company soon. I thought you should be prepared.”
“Company?” The word comes out strangled with fear.
“Someone else who was involved in the theft. Someone who worked with you.” I watch his face carefully as I speak. “Someone who might be surprised to see you here.”
Dread flickers across his features. Genuine dread, or the appearance of it. I still can’t tell, and that infuriates me.
“I don’t know anyone involved in any theft,” he says. “I keep telling you, I’m not...”
“Declan. Yes. You’ve mentioned.” I turn away from him and walk to the corner where I keep my recording equipment.
A camera on a tripod, already set up and ready.
Tonight’s session will be filmed. The footage will find its way to certain corners of the dark web where people pay attention to such things.
“What’s that for?” Dylan’s voice has gone high and thin.
“Documentation.”
I can hear his breathing accelerating from across the room. Good. Fear is useful. Fear strips away pretense and leaves only truth.
The sound of a vehicle outside makes me straighten. I cross to the heavy metal doors and slide them open just enough to admit Nicolo and two of his men, who are dragging a stumbling figure between them.
Vinnie Vitelli looks exactly how I remember him. Thin face, receding hairline, the kind of forgettable features that make for good spies and terrible poker players. His expensive suit is rumpled and stained, and there’s blood dripping from a cut above his eye.
But his eyes are what interest me. They dart around the studio, taking in the concrete walls, the tools, the chair. When they land on Dylan, they go wide with recognition.
“Declan!” Vinnie’s voice is a desperate wheeze. “Oh thank God. Declan, you have to tell them. Tell them where it is. They’ll kill us both if you don’t talk.”
I watch Dylan’s face. Watch the bewilderment deepen into horror as he realizes what’s happening.
“I’m not...” Dylan starts, but I cross the room in three strides and secure a gag over his mouth before he can finish.
“Quiet,” I say softly. “Just watch.”
His eyes are enormous above the gag. Hazel and gold and green, shimmering with unshed tears. I force myself to look away.
Vinnie is still babbling. “Declan, please. I didn’t know they’d find out. I swear I didn’t tell anyone else. Just you. You promised no one would get hurt. You promised it would be easy money.”
Nicolo’s men have secured Vinnie to a second chair. Not as elaborate as Dylan’s, just a simple wooden thing that will serve its purpose well enough.
Nicolo gives me a nod as he and his men leave. I note the quickness of their steps and it almost makes me smile. Big, tough mafia men and they don’t want to stay for this. They don’t want to watch. No one ever does.
They need my skills. They use them, appreciate them. But the very attributes that make me valued and useful, also make me a social pariah. Even amongst the family.
I breathe through my nose and push my errant thoughts back deep down where they belong. It’s time to work.
I approach Vinnie slowly, letting him see me. Letting the anticipation build.
“Mr. Vitelli,” I say calmly. “Do you know who I am?”
His face goes grey. “You’re... you’re Dante.”
“Good. Then you know why you’re here.”
“Please.” Tears are streaming down his face now. “Please, I have a family. I have children. I only did it because of the debts. Declan said no one would get hurt.”
“Declan lied.”
I select a tool from the table. A simple pair of pliers. Nothing fancy. Sometimes the classics are most effective.
“I’m going to ask you some questions,” I tell Vinnie. “Your answers will determine how quickly this ends.”
“I’ll tell you everything! I’ll tell you anything you want to know!
” His words tumble over each other in his desperation.
“Declan approached me six months ago. He knew about my gambling debts, knew I was desperate. He offered me fifty thousand to give him the shipping schedules. I didn’t know what he was planning, I swear I didn’t know about the Crown Jewels. ”
I glance at Dylan. He’s watching with wide, horrified eyes. His chest is heaving with rapid, panicked breaths.
“Where is the tiara now?” I ask Vinnie, even though I already know what his answer is going to be.
“I don’t know! Declan never told me. He just took the information and disappeared. I haven’t heard from him since the night of the theft.” Vinnie’s eyes dart to my other prisoner. “Until now. Declan, please. Tell them where it is. They’re going to kill me. They’re going to kill both of us.”
Dylan makes a muffled sound behind his gag. It might be a denial. It might be a plea. I can’t tell.
I turn back to Vinnie.
“I believe you,” I say.
Relief floods his face. “Thank you. Oh, thank you. I’ll do anything, I’ll...”
“I believe you don’t know where the tiara is.” I cut him off. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t change what happens next.”
The relief curdles into fresh terror.
“No. No, please. I told you everything I know. I cooperated. Please.”
“You betrayed the family.” My voice is flat. Professional. “There are consequences for that.”
I start with his fingers.
The sounds that fill the studio are not pleasant. Vinnie screams. He begs. He alternates between pleading with me and pleading with Declan to save him.
I work methodically, without passion. This is not about enjoyment. This is about sending a message. The camera records everything, its red light blinking steadily in the corner.
Throughout it all, I’m aware of Dylan watching. Tracking his reactions from the corner of my eye. Waiting for the mask to slip, for the hardened criminal underneath to emerge.
But all I see is horror. Pure, unfiltered horror. The kind that seems impossible to fake.
His face has gone white. His body is shaking so violently that the chair rattles against the concrete floor. There are tears streaming down his cheeks, soaking into the gag.
Vinnie is begging Dylan again, his words slurred and broken. “Declan... please... just tell them... make it stop... I have children... Declan, please...”
Dylan is shaking his head frantically, making desperate sounds behind his gag. Sounds that are clearly denials. Sounds that are clearly trying to say he’s not Declan, he can’t help, he doesn’t know anything.
But Declan O’Shea is a con artist. A professional liar. A man who has made a career out of making people believe things that aren’t true.
This could all be an act. An incredibly convincing performance designed to manipulate me into letting my guard down.
I hate that I can’t tell. I hate that this man has gotten so far under my skin that I’m second-guessing everything I know to be true.
Most of all, I hate that some small, traitorous part of me wants him to be innocent. Wants Dylan O’Shea to be real.
I push the thought aside and focus on my work.
Vinnie’s screams echo off the concrete walls, filling the studio with the sound of consequences. This is what happens to people who betray us. This is what awaits anyone foolish enough to think they can steal from the family and get away with it.
Including the man currently tied to my chair.
If he’s Declan. Which he must be.
Vinnie’s pleas become weaker, more desperate. He’s crying openly now, snot and tears mixing with blood on his ruined face.
“Declan,” he gasps. “We were friends. We played poker together. Remember? At Tony’s place? You said... you said you’d look out for me. You promised.”
Dylan makes another muffled sound. His eyes are squeezed shut now, his head turned away as if he can’t bear to watch anymore.
Too soft, I think. Too squeamish. Declan O’Shea would have developed a tolerance for violence by now. He would have learned to compartmentalize, to distance himself from other people’s pain.
But then again, maybe that’s exactly what a skilled con artist would want me to think.
I finish what I started. Quickly, efficiently. Vinnie’s screams cut off abruptly, and the studio falls silent except for Dylan’s muffled sobs.
I stand there for a long moment, looking down at the body, feeling nothing. This is the work. This is what I do. There’s no room for sentiment, no space for doubt.
And yet.
I turn to look at Dylan.
He’s passed out. His head has lolled forward, his body gone completely limp in the restraints. And there’s a dark stain spreading across the front of his trousers.
He pissed himself. From fear. From the horror of what he was forced to witness.
Part of me thinks that Declan O’Shea would never react that way. That a hardened criminal would watch with cold calculation, looking for weaknesses, planning his escape.
But another part of me, the professional part that has kept me alive all these years, reminds me that the best liars are the ones who commit fully to their roles. Who don’t break character even under the most extreme circumstances.
Wetting yourself from fear is embarrassing. Humiliating. It would take a very dedicated con artist to go that far for the sake of maintaining a cover.
But then again, twelve million euros is a lot of motivation.
And of course, even hardened criminals don’t enjoy witnessing my work. As evidenced by how quickly Nicolo and his men left earlier.
The fear, the passing out, the pissing himself, could all be genuine. It’s not proof that he’s innocent.
I don’t know. I still don’t fucking know.
The uncertainty is maddening. I’ve built my entire career on my ability to read people, to see through their lies and find the truth underneath. And this one man, this one infuriating, confusing, possibly innocent man, has managed to defeat me completely.
I move on autopilot. Gripping the back of his chair and dragging it across the concrete floor. The noise is terrible, metal scraping against stone, but Dylan doesn’t wake. He’s too far gone into whatever dark place his mind has retreated to.
The bathroom attached to my studio is functional at best. A toilet, a sink, a shower stall with a drain in the floor. I drag the chair into the shower and position it under the spray head.
Then I turn on the water. Cold. Freezing cold.
Dylan gasps awake as the icy water hits him, his body jerking against the restraints. His eyes are wild, unfocused, still trapped in whatever nightmare his mind has constructed.
I let the spray run until he’s thoroughly soaked, until his clothes are plastered to his shivering body and his hair is streaming water into his eyes. Then I turn off the tap and step back.
He’s staring at me with those hazel eyes, and I see something new in them. Something beyond fear, beyond bewilderment, beyond the desperate hope that I might believe him.
I see hatred.
Good. Hatred is easier to deal with than those pleading looks. Hatred makes sense in a way that his supposed innocence doesn’t.
“I’ll be back,” I say, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears. Hollow. Wrong.
I leave him there, dripping and shivering in the cold shower stall, still tied to the chair. I have work to do. A video to upload. A message to send.
The video takes less than an hour to edit and upload to the appropriate channels. By morning, everyone who matters will have seen it. Everyone will know what happens to people who betray the family.
I pour myself a whiskey and sit in my office, staring at the screen long after the upload has finished.
Somewhere in my studio, a man is shivering in soaked clothes, tied to a chair, hating me with every fiber of his being.
And I still don’t know if he’s the criminal I was promised or the innocent victim he claims to be.
I drain my glass and pour another.
The doubt is going to drive me mad.