Chapter 6
Chapter six
Dante
Three hours.
It’s been three hours since I uploaded the video. Three hours since I left my subject shivering in the shower stall. Three hours of sitting in my office, staring at nothing, telling myself I’m not avoiding the situation.
I’m not avoiding anything. I’m applying time.
Time is one of the most effective tools in my arsenal.
More effective than knives or pliers or even the Dark Room.
Time allows fear to ferment, allows imagination to do the heavy lifting.
Right now, my subject is sitting in that cold, wet bathroom, replaying everything he witnessed.
Every scream. Every plea. Every wet, terrible sound.
He’s imagining himself in Vinnie’s place. Wondering when it will be his turn. Calculating how much pain he can endure before he breaks.
Time is working on him even while I sit here doing nothing.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
The truth is, I can’t face him. Not yet. Not while those hazel eyes are still burning in my memory, filled with a hatred. Hatred I’ve earned a thousand times over but have never been affected by before.
I pour another whiskey. My fourth. Or fifth. I’ve lost count.
The laptop on my desk pings with a notification. Someone has replied to the video I uploaded.
This isn’t unusual. My work attracts attention in certain circles. People comment, sometimes with praise, sometimes with requests for my services, occasionally with empty threats from those who think they’re brave behind the anonymity of the dark web.
I click on the notification without much interest.
It’s a video message.
The frame fills with a man lounging on a beach chair, pure white sand stretching behind him. He’s wearing designer sunglasses and holding a cocktail with a little paper umbrella. His strawberry-blond hair catches the tropical sunlight, and his face is split in a smug, self-satisfied grin.
My blood turns to ice.
I know that face. I’ve been staring at it for days.
Except this isn’t Dylan. The expression is all wrong. Where Dylan’s features always hold softness, vulnerability, a desperate need to be believed, this man radiates arrogance. Cruelty. The cold confidence of someone who has never doubted his own superiority.
“Well, well, well,” the man says, and even his voice is different. Sharper. Harder. The Irish accent far stronger. “Dante, is it? I’ve heard stories about you. The Ajello family’s pet monster.”
He takes a long sip of his cocktail, clearly savoring the moment.
“I have to say, I’m impressed. Not many people manage to track down my associates so quickly. Vinnie always was a weak link. I should have tied that loose end myself. But as for that other man you’ve got there, tied to your chair…”
He leans forward, and the sunglasses slip down his nose just enough to reveal hazel eyes that hold nothing but contempt.
“That’s a funny thing. Because you’ve got the wrong man there.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I grip the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles go white.
“The Ajello family isn’t as almighty as they like to believe,” he continues, his grin widening. “Snatching my twin brother and assuming he’s me? Bit sloppy, don’t you think?”
He leans even closer to the camera, and his voice drops to something almost intimate.
“I’ve never liked the little faggot. But he doesn’t deserve you.”
The video ends.
I sit there, frozen, staring at the black screen where Declan O’Shea’s face used to be.
Little faggot. He called his own brother a little faggot. Said it with such casual disdain, like Dylan was nothing more than an inconvenience. An embarrassment to be hidden away and forgotten.
My mind is racing, spinning through possibilities, trying to find the flaw in what I just witnessed.
This could be pre-recorded. A contingency plan, prepared in advance in case things went wrong. Declan is a con artist, a planner. He would have anticipated the possibility of capture. Would have set up failsafes.
The identical twin story could have been planned from the beginning. A cover identity, complete with a bakery and an aunt and a life story designed to create reasonable doubt.
The video could have been uploaded by a lackey, someone following predetermined instructions if Declan disappeared for too long. Or if a video was uploaded to the dark web showing he had been captured.
And there is also AI. Artificial intelligence is becoming disturbingly convincing these days. Deepfakes can recreate faces, voices, and mannerisms with frightening accuracy.
This could all be an elaborate deception. One final con from a master manipulator.
But even as I think it, I know I’m grasping at straws. The man in that video radiated something that can’t be faked. A fundamental difference in character that went beyond appearance or voice or mannerisms.
That was Declan O’Shea. The real Declan O’Shea.
Which means the man in my shower stall is...
No. I need to be sure. I can’t afford to make another mistake.
I type a message, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts.
Prove it. Hold a hairdryer and point it at your face. You have thirty minutes.
It’s a ridiculous request. Absurd. The kind of thing that would make anyone question my sanity.
But that’s exactly the point. No one would prerecord themselves holding a hair dryer and blowing it at their face.
It’s too specific, too random. And while AI has made terrifying advances, I don’t believe it’s sophisticated enough yet to convincingly render the natural movement of hair and skin being buffeted by air.
I send the message and wait.
I pace my office like a caged animal. I pour another drink but don’t touch it. I check the screen every few seconds, willing a notification to appear while simultaneously dreading what it might contain.
What if he doesn’t respond?
What if he does respond, and it confirms everything I’m desperately trying not to believe?
I think about Dylan. About the terror in his eyes when I secured the gag over his mouth. About the way his whole body shook while he watched me work on Vinnie. About the dark stain spreading across his trousers as his mind retreated from horrors it couldn’t process.
I think about the pillow I gave him after he fainted. The restraints I loosened without meaning to. The way I couldn’t bring myself to hurt him even when I was convinced he was lying to me.
Some part of me knew. Some part of me has known from the beginning.
The laptop pings.
Another video message.
I click on it with hands that aren’t quite steady.
Declan is in a hotel room now. Lavish, beachy, all pale wood and white linens and floor to ceiling windows overlooking impossibly blue water. The Maldives, probably. One of those over water bungalows that cost more per night than most people earn in a month.
He’s holding a hairdryer.
“The things we do for family,” he sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes with theatrical exasperation.
Then he switches on the hair dryer and points it directly at his face.
His strawberry-blond hair whips back from his forehead. His skin ripples slightly under the assault of warm air. His eyes squint against the blast, but he maintains that smug, superior expression throughout.
It’s real. Unmistakably, undeniably real.
No deepfake could capture those micro-movements. No prerecorded contingency would include something so specific and absurd.
Declan O’Shea is on a beach in the Maldives, sipping cocktails and mocking me.
And his innocent twin brother is tied to a chair in my bathroom, soaking wet and traumatized and hating me with every fiber of his being.
The video ends, and I continue staring at the screen.
I’ve made mistakes before. Small ones, usually. Errors in judgment that cost time or money but nothing irreplaceable. I’ve always prided myself on learning from them, on refining my methods until mistakes become impossible.
This isn’t a small mistake.
This is catastrophic.
I’ve been torturing an innocent man. A baker. A soft, sweet, probably genuinely kind person who has never done anything to deserve even a fraction of what I’ve put him through.
The Dark Room. The psychological torment. Forcing him to watch while I... while Vinnie...
Oh God.
I drop my head into my hands and try to breathe.
I don’t do guilt. I’ve told myself that for years. Guilt is a luxury I can’t afford, an indulgence that would make me weak and ineffective. The people I hurt deserve what they get. The work I do is necessary.
But Dylan didn’t deserve any of it.
Dylan was closing up his bakery, probably thinking about whatever orders he needed to fill the next day, and masked men grabbed him and threw him into a van and delivered him to a monster who spent days breaking him in ways that will never fully heal.
Because of a brother who called him a little faggot. Who clearly knows exactly what’s happening to Dylan and doesn’t care, beyond using it as an opportunity to gloat. Who is laughing about it from a beach in the Maldives.
I think I might be sick.
I stumble to my feet, knocking over the whiskey. The glass shatters on the floor, amber liquid spreading across the concrete, but I barely notice. I’m already moving, already running down the hall to my studio, already dreading what I’m going to find.
The bathroom door is still closed. I can hear nothing. No crying, no pleading, no sounds of movement at all.
For one horrible moment, I think he might be dead. That the cold and the shock and the trauma were too much. That I’ve killed him without even meaning to.
I wrench the door open.
Dylan is still in the chair, still tied, still soaking wet. His head is bowed, his chin resting on his chest, his strawberry-blond hair plastered to his skull. He’s shaking violently, his whole body wracked with tremors that rattle the chair against the tiles.
Cristo, I’m such an idiot. Dylan is much smaller than my usual subjects. He doesn’t have the muscle mass to keep him warm. Of course hypothermia was going to kick in much sooner.
“Dylan.”
My voice comes out rough. Wrong. Not the voice of a professional interrogator, but something rawer. More desperate.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even lift his head.
I cross the small space in two strides and drop to my knees in front of him. My hands find his face, tilting it up, and what I see makes my stomach plummet.
His skin is gray. Not pale, gray. His lips have gone blue. His eyes are open but unfocused, staring at nothing, seeing nothing. When I press my fingers to his throat, his pulse is weak and irregular, his body fighting a losing battle against the cold.
Hypothermia. Severe, by the look of it. Potentially fatal if I don’t act fast.
“Dylan, can you hear me?”
His lips move, but no sound comes out. Just a faint exhale that might be an attempt at words. His eyes drift toward me, but there’s no recognition in them. No fear, no hatred, no hope. Just emptiness.
He’s slipping away. Right in front of me.
I tear at the restraints, my fingers clumsy with panic. The zip ties resist, and I have to pull a knife from my pocket to cut through them. His wrists are raw and bleeding, the skin torn from hours of struggling against his bonds.
The moment he’s free, he slumps forward. I catch him before he can hit the floor, and the cold of his body shocks me even through my clothes. He’s like ice. Like holding a corpse.
No. Not a corpse. Not yet. Not ever, if I have anything to say about it.
I gather him in my arms and stand. He weighs almost nothing, or maybe the adrenaline is making me stronger than I should be. His head lolls against my shoulder, and I can feel the violent tremors running through him, his body’s last desperate attempt to generate heat.
I carry him to my apartment. My bedroom is sparse, functional, but the bed is large and the blankets are heavy. It will have to do.
I lay him on the mattress as gently as I can, then start stripping off his wet clothes. His shirt first, the buttons defeated by my shaking hands. Then his trousers, his shoes, his socks. Everything soaked through, everything stealing warmth from a body that has none left to spare.
He makes a sound when I pull off the last of his clothing. A weak, wordless protest that might be embarrassment or might be fear. I don’t let myself think about it. Can’t afford to.
“I’m trying to help you,” I say, though I’m not sure he can hear me. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
I pull back the covers and maneuver him underneath, then pile every blanket I own on top of him. But even as I do it, I know it won’t be enough. Blankets only work if the body has heat to trap. Dylan’s body has no heat left.
There’s only one option.
I strip off my own clothes, dropping them in a careless heap on the floor. Then I climb into bed beside him and pull his frozen body against mine.
The cold is shocking. He’s like a block of ice pressed against my chest, stealing my warmth with desperate efficiency.
I wrap my arms around him and hold him close, trying to share as much body heat as possible.
My legs tangle with his, my chest presses against his back, my breath ghosts across the nape of his neck.
“Stay with me,” I murmur against his hair. “Don’t you dare die. Not now. Not after everything.”
He shivers violently in my arms, and I pull him closer. His back against my chest. His frozen feet tucked between my calves. Every point of contact a transfer of heat from my body to his.
It takes a long time. Minutes that feel like hours. But gradually, incrementally, I feel the shaking begin to ease. Feel his skin start to lose that deathly chill. Feel his breathing deepen from shallow gasps to something closer to normal.
He’s not out of danger yet. But he’s alive. He’s going to stay alive.
And then I’m going to have to figure out how to fix everything I’ve broken.
I lie there in the darkness, holding the man I tortured, and try to imagine what comes next.
I can’t let him go. He’s witnessed too much, knows too much. Releasing him would be a death sentence for both of us. Me, because he could identify me to the authorities. Him, because the family doesn’t leave loose ends.
But I can’t keep hurting him either. The thought of causing him any more pain makes something in my chest twist into knots.
Which leaves what? Keeping him here? Making him comfortable? Trying to somehow make amends for the unforgivable things I’ve done?
It sounds insane. It probably is insane.
But as I feel his body slowly warming against mine, as I listen to his breathing even out into something that might be sleep, I know one thing with absolute certainty.
I’m going to try.