Chapter 12 #2
Dylan looks at the television like he’s never seen one before. Like the concept of watching shows while held captive in a monster’s bedroom is too bizarre to comprehend.
“I used to watch a lot of cooking shows,” he says quietly. “Before. In my flat. After work I’d come home and put on Bake Off or MasterChef and just... decompress.”
The image hits me harder than it should. Dylan in his own space, surrounded by his own things, comfortable and safe and happy. Dylan before I ripped him out of his life and destroyed everything he knew.
“You can watch whatever you want,” I say. “I’ll show you how to use the remote.”
He nods, but he’s somewhere else. His eyes have gone distant, probably thinking about his bakery. His aunt. The life he may never get back.
“When will you be home?”
The question catches me off guard. The casual domesticity of it. When will you be home. Like I’m a husband going off to work, not a torturer going off to torture.
“Late,” I manage. “Maybe two or three in the morning. Possibly later, depending on how things go.”
“How things go,” he repeats flatly. “You mean how long it takes to make someone talk.”
I could lie. Could soften the truth or deflect the question. But Dylan deserves better than lies. After everything I’ve put him through, he deserves at least that much.
“Yes.”
He takes a breath. Then another. His knuckles are white around the bowl of porridge.
“And this person. Are they...” He stops, seeming to search for the right words. “Are they like me? Innocent?”
The question cuts deep. Because I don’t know. I never know, not really. The people delivered to my studio come with files and accusations and the assumption of guilt. I take those assumptions at face value because that’s what I’m paid to do.
Until Dylan. Until I took someone at face value and was catastrophically wrong.
“I don’t think so,” I say slowly. “The Kozlovs are organized crime. This man is one of their soldiers. He’s done things. Made choices.”
“You don’t know that for certain though. You didn’t know that about me.”
The words land like blows. Accurate. Deserved. I absorb them without flinching, because flinching would be an admission of weakness I can’t afford.
“No,” I admit. “I don’t know for certain. I never do.”
Dylan is quiet for a long time. His porridge is getting cold, forgotten in his hands.
“Does it bother you?” he asks finally. “Not knowing?”
The honest answer is no. It has never bothered me before. I’ve always operated on the assumption that the people delivered to me earned their place in my chair. That the family’s intelligence was good. That I was an instrument of justice, however brutal.
Dylan has stripped that comfortable assumption away. Left me raw and exposed to doubts I’ve spent years avoiding.
“It bothers me now,” I say. “It didn’t use to.”
His eyes meet mine, and something passes between us. Not forgiveness. Not understanding. But something. An acknowledgment, maybe, of the impossible situation we’ve both found ourselves in.
“I don’t want to hear it,” he says softly. “The screaming. Even if it’s someone who deserves it. I don’t want to hear it ever again.”
“You won’t.” The promise comes out fierce. Absolute. “I’ll make sure of it. Whatever it takes.”
He nods slowly, accepting my word even though he has no reason to trust it.
“Okay.”
Just okay. Just that simple acceptance, like I’ve promised to pick up milk on my way home instead of pledging to restructure my entire operation to protect his psychological wellbeing.
I stand abruptly, needing to move, needing to do something with the strange energy coursing through my veins.
“I’m going to make some calls,” I say. “Arrange somewhere else for tonight. And I’ll start making arrangements for the soundproofing.”
Dylan watches me move toward the door. Just before I reach it, his voice stops me.
“Dante?”
I turn back. He’s sitting there in my bed, wearing my clothes, eating food I made him, and looking at me with an expression I can’t read.
“Thank you,” he says. “For... for thinking about it. About me. You didn’t have to.”
The words should feel hollow. A prisoner thanking his captor for basic consideration. But there’s something genuine in his voice, something that makes that dangerous warmth bloom in my chest again.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “I did.”
I leave before I can say anything else. Before I can examine too closely why his gratitude matters so much to me, or why the thought of him hearing screams fills me with more horror than the screams themselves ever have.
In my office, I sit at my desk and stare at the wall.
I need to focus. I need to make arrangements for tonight, find an alternative location, coordinate with Nicolo. I need to think about the Kozlov situation and how to handle it efficiently.
Instead, I think about soundproofing.
I think about layers of acoustic foam and mass-loaded vinyl. I think about sealed doors and isolated ceilings. I think about creating a space where my two worlds never have to touch, where the monster I am in the studio can exist separately from whatever I’m becoming in this apartment.
I think about Dylan.
I think about the way he looked at me this morning, fear and confusion and something else warring in his pretty eyes. I think about how he said thank you like he meant it. I think about when will you be home, and how those five words made me feel things I have no right to feel.
He’s my prisoner. My victim. My responsibility.
But he’s also the first person in years who has looked at me and truly seen everything that I am. The first person who has made me want to be something other than what I am.
It’s dangerous. Foolish. A complication I don’t need in an already complicated situation.
I should be thinking about how to keep him quiet. How to ensure he never tells anyone what happened, what he witnessed, what he knows. I should be thinking about exit strategies and contingency plans.
Instead, I’m thinking about how to make him comfortable. How to make him feel safe. How to earn back even a fraction of the light I destroyed.
I pick up the phone and start making calls.
The first is to a contact who specializes in construction. I explain what I need, emphasizing discretion and speed. He quotes me a price that would make most people flinch. I agree without negotiation.
The second call is to Nicolo. I tell him I need an alternative location for tonight. He doesn’t ask why, just gives me an address and a time.
Dylan won’t be inflicted with hearing my work. Not tonight. Not ever again.
It’s not enough. It will never be enough.
But it’s something. A small step toward becoming whatever I need to become to deserve his gratitude.
Whatever I need to become to be worthy of keeping him.
The thought should horrify me. Instead, it settles into my chest like a weight I’m learning to carry.
I’m going to keep him. Not as a prisoner, not as a victim, but as... something else. Something I don’t have a name for yet.
And I’m going to do whatever it takes to make that something else worth having. For both of us.