Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Dante
The knock on the door makes every muscle in my body go rigid.
Three sharp raps. Confident. Familiar. The knock of someone who knows they’ll be let in, because they’ve always been let in before.
Carlo.
I’m on my feet before the sound has finished echoing through the flat, my mind racing through possibilities.
Carlo has been here before, of course. We planned Ginni’s rescue at this very table, spent hours poring over maps and transport routes and contingency plans.
But that was different. That was business, scheduled and expected.
This is unannounced. And unannounced visits are never good news.
Dylan is in the bedroom. Reading, I think, or resting.
He’s been quiet since our baking session, retreating into himself in a way that makes me want to follow him and demand he tell me what he’s thinking.
But I’ve been trying to give him space. Trying not to hover like the obsessive creature I’m rapidly becoming.
Now I’m grateful for that distance. Grateful he’s behind a closed door, out of sight.
I cross to the front door and check the peephole out of habit, even though I already know who it is. Carlo’s familiar silhouette fills the distorted circle of glass. Expensive coat, broad shoulders, the stance of a man who owns every room he walks into.
I unlock and open the door.
“Carlo.” I keep my voice neutral, my body positioned to block any view of the flat’s interior. “This is unexpected.”
He grins at me, all easy charm and white teeth. “Can’t an old friend drop by for a visit?”
“You usually text first.”
“Thought I’d save time.” He’s already moving forward, clearly expecting me to step aside and let him in the way I always have.
I hesitate for just a fraction of a second. Long enough for Carlo’s eyebrows to rise. Long enough for a flicker of something to cross his face. Surprise, maybe. Or the beginning of suspicion.
I step aside, because refusing would raise more questions than it answers. Carlo brushes past me, his expensive cologne filling the small entryway. I close the door and lock it again, all three locks, while he moves into the living room.
“Place looks different,” he observes, glancing around. “Cozier.”
I follow his gaze and see what he sees. The cookbook on the kitchen counter. The stand mixer on the shelf. The faint smell of baking that still lingers in the air. Small details that add up to something larger. Something that shouldn’t be here.
“I’ve been making improvements,” I say flatly.
“Clearly.” Carlo turns to face me, and the easy charm has faded from his expression. What’s left is sharper. More businesslike. “We need to talk about your situation.”
“What situation?”
“Don’t play games, Dante. The O’Shea situation.”
He strides down the hallway to the living room. I trail unhappily behind him.
Carlo settles onto the horrible orange sofa like he owns it, legs stretched out, one arm draped across the back. “You told Dario and me days ago that you’d been given the wrong man. Innocent twin, mistaken identity, very unfortunate. We all agreed it was a mess.”
“And?”
“And it’s been over a week.” Carlo’s eyes are steady on my face. “The mess is still here. Still breathing. Still a liability.”
My jaw tightens. “The situation is under control.”
“Is it? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve been playing house with a witness who can identify you, identify this location, identify the family’s operations. That’s not under control. That’s a ticking time bomb.”
Playing house. Is that really what this looks like from the outside?
“He doesn’t know anything about the family’s operations.”
“He knows about you. He knows about this place. He knows what you do.” Carlo’s voice hardens. “That’s more than enough to bring everything crashing down if he decides to talk.”
“He won’t talk.”
“You can’t guarantee that. No one can.” Carlo leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, I understand this is complicated. Wrong man, innocent victim, you feel guilty. I get it. But guilt doesn’t change the facts, and the facts are that this loose end needs to be tied.”
Every word is reasonable. Logical. Exactly what I would have said myself, a week ago.
Now they make something dark and violent stir in my chest.
“I’m handling it,” I say.
“How?” Carlo spreads his hands. “What’s your plan here? Keep him locked up forever? Hope the problem magically solves itself? You’re usually more practical than this.”
I don’t have a plan. I have a growing obsession and a desperate need to keep Dylan safe and close, and no rational explanation for any of it.
“My methods are my own concern.”
“Not when they affect the family.” Carlo’s patience is visibly fraying. “People are starting to notice. Starting to ask questions. How long can you keep this up before someone decides to take matters into their own hands?”
The implication sends ice through my veins. Someone else. Someone who wouldn’t be gentle. Someone who wouldn’t care that Dylan is innocent, that he’s soft and sweet and deserves none of this.
“No one touches him,” I hear myself say. The words come out harder than I intended.
Carlo’s eyes narrow. “Dante...”
“No one. Touches. Him.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Loaded with implications neither of us wants to examine.
Carlo studies me for a long moment. Then he sighs, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair.
“Listen. I owe you, okay? For the Ginni situation. You put yourself on the line for me, helped me get him out when no one else would have. I haven’t forgotten that.”
I stay silent, waiting.
“Let me repay the favor.” His voice has softened, turned almost gentle. “I’ll take care of it for you. Quick, clean, painless. He won’t even know it’s coming. And then this whole mess goes away and you can go back to your life.”
For a moment, the words don’t register. They’re just sounds, meaningless noise that my brain refuses to process.
Then understanding crashes through me like a wave of ice water.
He’s offering to kill Dylan. To murder him as a favor to me. Like it’s nothing. Like Dylan is nothing, just a problem to be solved, an inconvenience to be eliminated.
Something inside me snaps.
I move before I’m conscious of deciding to move. One moment Carlo is sitting on my sofa with that reasonable, friendly expression on his face. The next moment I have him pinned against the wall, my forearm across his throat, my body weight keeping him immobilized.
“You will not touch him.” My voice comes out low and dangerous, barely recognizable as my own. “You will not go near him. You will not even think about him. Do you understand?”
Carlo’s eyes have gone wide with shock. His hands come up instinctively, not to fight but to placate, palms open and empty.
“Dante.” His voice is strangled, careful. “Dante, calm down.”
“Do you understand?” I press harder against his throat, just enough to make breathing difficult. Just enough to make my point absolutely clear.
“Yes.” The word comes out as a wheeze. “Yes, I understand. I won’t touch him. I swear.”
I hold him there for another long moment, letting the reality of the situation sink in. Letting him see exactly how serious I am.
Then I step back.
Carlo sags against the wall, one hand going to his throat. He’s breathing hard, color high in his cheeks. But it’s his eyes that tell the real story. Wide. Startled. Frightened.
He’s afraid of me. Carlo Benedetti, who’s stared down rivals and survived assassination attempts and never flinched. Carlo Benedetti, capo and the Ajello heir’s right hand man. He’s afraid of me.
The confirmation should make me feel powerful. Instead it just makes me feel hollow. Even Carlo, the closest thing I have to a friend, looks at me like I’m a monster.
But then, I am a monster. I’ve always known that. It’s just that now, for the first time, the knowledge brings something other than cold acceptance.
It brings loneliness. A bone-deep ache that I didn’t know I was capable of feeling.
“Dante.” Carlo’s voice is hoarse. “What the hell is going on with you?”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer. The violence is still singing in my blood, the desperate need to protect what’s mine drowning out everything else.
“This isn’t normal.” Carlo is watching me like I’m a wild animal he’s not sure will attack again. “This isn’t you. The Dante I know doesn’t react like this. Not over a job. Not over anyone.”
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
The silence that follows is heavy.
Carlo straightens slowly, tugging his collar back into place. His hands are trembling slightly. I notice this with the clinical part of my brain, the part that catalogues weaknesses even when I don’t intend to exploit them.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he says finally. “Something about this situation. About him.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Don’t bullshit me.” His voice is stronger now, recovering some of its usual confidence. “I’ve known you for years. I’ve seen you do things that would give most people nightmares, and I’ve never seen you flinch. But mention taking care of one witness and you nearly kill me. That’s not nothing.”
I stare at him flatly, giving nothing away.
Carlo shakes his head slowly. “You’ve got feelings for him. That’s what this is. The innocent twin you were supposed to dispose of, and instead you’ve gone and caught feelings.”
The words hit too close to home. I keep my expression neutral through sheer force of will.
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” Carlo’s smile is thin, knowing.
“Because I remember a certain conversation we had not so long ago. Right here in this flat, actually, while we were planning how to get Ginni out. About how people look at you when they realize what you’re capable of.
How nobody’s ever stuck around long enough to see past the monster. ”