Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Dante
The call comes in the morning.
I’m in the kitchen, making porridge because Liam said Dylan needs bland, easy to digest food while his body recovers. The oats are bubbling gently on the stove, and I’m adding a drizzle of honey when my phone vibrates against the counter.
Nicolo’s name flashes on the screen.
My stomach tightens. I’ve been avoiding this. Avoiding all of it. For days now I’ve existed in a strange bubble, my entire world shrunk down to this apartment and the man recovering in my bed. The outside world, with all its demands and expectations, has felt very far away.
But the outside world doesn’t stay away forever. Not in my line of work.
I answer on the third ring. “Yes?”
“Dante.” Nicolo’s voice is carefully neutral. “We have a situation. Dario needs you.”
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.
“Morning,” I say quietly.
“Morning.” His voice is still rough from sleep, but it’s stronger than yesterday. Stronger than the day before. He’s healing. Slowly, but he’s healing.
“I made porridge. With honey.”
He pushes himself up against the pillows, and I notice he doesn’t need as much help as he did yesterday. Progress. Small and incremental, but real.
“Thank you.” He accepts the bowl when I hand it to him, and this time our fingers brush without him jerking away. More progress.
I watch him eat, taking small careful bites, and my decision becomes easy. Now all I have to do is try to figure out how to say what I need to say.
“I have to go out.”
The words drop into the quiet morning like stones into still water. Dylan’s spoon pauses halfway to his mouth.
“Out?”
“For work.” I keep my voice neutral. Steady. “I’ll be gone for several hours. Maybe longer.”
He doesn’t ask what kind of work. He already knows. I can see it in the way his face goes pale, the way his hand tightens around the spoon.
“Oh,” he says. Just that. Just oh.
The silence stretches between us. I should leave it there. Should let him draw his own conclusions and spare us both the discomfort of speaking them aloud.
But something compels me to explain. To justify myself to this man who has every reason to hate me.
“It’s not something I can refuse. When Dario calls, I have to answer. That’s how this life works.”
Dylan nods slowly. He’s not looking at me anymore. His eyes are fixed on the porridge in his bowl, but I don’t think he’s seeing it.
“And I’ll be here,” he says. “Alone.”
“Yes.”
“While you’re...” He stops. Swallows hard. “While you’re doing what you do.”
I don’t confirm it. I don’t have to.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, and this part is harder to get out.
This part requires admitting things I’m not sure I’m ready to admit.
“About the layout of this building. The studio is just down the hall. The soundproofing isn’t complete.
If someone were to...” I trail off, unable to finish the sentence.
Dylan has gone very still.
“You mean I might hear,” he whispers.
“Yes.”
The word hangs in the air between us. I can see him processing it, imagining it. The muffled sounds of suffering ricocheting down the hallway. The screams. The pleading. All the terrible sounds that are as familiar to me as breathing.
“I don’t want that,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended. “I don’t want you to hear any of it. Not ever again.”
He looks at me then. Really looks at me, with those hazel eyes that see too much and forgive too little.
“Why?” The question is barely a breath.
Because it would hurt you. Because you’ve already been hurt enough. Because the thought of adding even one more nightmare to the ones you already carry makes me want to tear my own heart out.
“Because you don’t deserve it,” I say instead. It’s a fraction of the truth, but it’s all I can manage.
Dylan stares at me for a long moment. Something shifts in his expression, something I can’t identify.
“What are you going to do about it?”
The practical question grounds me. Brings me back to the problem at hand and away from the dangerous emotional territory we’ve been skirting.
“Soundproofing,” I say. “The studio needs to be completely sealed. No sound getting in or out. I should have done it years ago. It’s a security risk as much as anything.”
I’m already mentally cataloguing what will need to be done. The walls, the ceiling, the door. Acoustic foam. Mass-loaded vinyl. Multiple layers of drywall. It’s not a small project, but it’s not impossible either. I know people who can do the work quickly and discreetly.
“Until then,” I continue, “I’ll need to make other arrangements. Find somewhere else to conduct business. That’s why I’m going out today.”
Dylan’s eyebrows rise slightly. “You’d do that? Change your entire setup?”
“Yes.”
The simple answer seems to confuse him. I can see him struggling to reconcile this, the man who tortured him for days, going to great lengths to protect him from the sounds of that same torture being inflicted on others.
“I don’t understand you,” he says finally.
“That makes two of us.”
A ghost of something crosses his face. Not quite a smile, but closer than anything I’ve seen from him before.
“When will you go?” he asks. “Tonight, I mean.”
“Probably around eight. I’ll make sure you have everything you need before I leave. Food. Water. Your medication. The television remote.”
“Television?”
I gesture toward the corner of the room where a flatscreen is mounted on the wall. I haven’t turned it on since he’s been here. Haven’t thought about entertainment or distraction or anything except keeping him alive.
“You should watch something. It will help pass the time.”