Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Dante
Something is wrong.
I feel it before I even reach the building. A prickling at the back of my neck, an instinct honed by decades of violence and survival. The air feels different. Charged. Like the moment before a storm breaks.
I walk quickly and silently, my hand already reaching for the gun holstered beneath my jacket. The entranceway is quiet. Too quiet. No sound from behind my door, no soft movements or clattering of baking equipment or any of the small noises that have come to mean Dylan is home and safe and mine.
The door is open.
Not just unlocked. Open. Hanging off its hinges, the frame splintered where someone kicked it in. The locks I installed, three of them, top of the line, meant to keep the world out and Dylan in. Useless. Destroyed.
I draw my gun and step inside.
“Dylan?”
My voice sounds strange. Hollow. I move through the flat, room by room, clearing each space with mechanical precision, even though I already know what I am going to find.
Nothing. No one. He is gone.
The bedroom is the worst. The sheets are tangled, half pulled off the bed.
A mug sits on the nightstand, empty, next to a crumpled wrapper from a packet of biscuits.
McVities dark chocolate digestives. The ones I bought because he mentioned liking them once, days ago, in a rambling tangent about comfort food.
He was here. He was right here, safe in my bed, and someone took him.
The door has been forced open from the outside. The evidence is clear. Dylan hasn’t escaped. He didn’t leave of his own free will, and I hate how comforting that is. What kind of a monster am I? Dylan choosing to leave me, is infinitely better than Dylan in the hands of my enemies.
I sink down onto the edge of the mattress. My hands are shaking. I can’t remember the last time my hands shook.
Who? Who would dare? Who even knew he was here?
Carlo. Carlo knows. But Carlo would never betray me. We have been friends for years. He agreed to cover for me, lie for me, after he almost died at my hands when I thought he was threatening Dylan. He wouldn’t do this.
Which means someone else found out. Someone tracked Dylan here. Someone with the resources and the manpower to find me, break down my door and take him by force.
I pull out my phone and tap Carlo’s number. He answers on the second ring.
“Dante? What’s wrong?”
“Dylan is gone.” The words taste like ash. “Someone took him. Broke down my door, signs of a struggle. He is gone.”
Silence on the other end. Then Carlo’s voice, sharp and focused. “When?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been gone for three hours.”
“Any idea who?”
“No. But whoever it was, they had numbers. At least three men, maybe more, based on the damage.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.”
The line goes dead. I sit in the wreckage of my bedroom, staring at the empty bed where Dylan should be.
This morning, I left him. Walked out without a word because I didn’t know what to say.
He was curled up in this bed, still shaken from his panic attack, and I left him alone because I am a coward.
Because I could not face what I had done to him, the trauma I had caused, the way he flinched from me when the flashback took hold.
I should have stayed. Should have held him, talked to him, told him everything I have been too afraid to say. Instead, I took the easy way out. Let work be my excuse, let distance be my shield.
And now he is gone.
The guilt is suffocating. It wraps around my chest and squeezes until I cannot breathe.
All those days of trying to keep him safe, of buying him gifts and watching him bake and falling so deeply in love that I do not recognize myself anymore.
All of it meaningless because when it mattered most, I was not here.
I force myself to stand. To move. To do something other than drown in regret.
I start searching the flat more carefully.
Looking for clues, evidence, anything that might tell me who took Dylan and where they went.
I check the security camera I installed in the hallway, but it has been disabled.
Whoever did this knew what they were doing.
Professionals, or at least people with enough experience to cover their tracks.
But I already knew that. It’s not like amateurs would have been able to track me down. However, on the other hand, professionals should know fucking better than to mess with me.
My phone rings. Nicolo.
“Carlo called me,” he says without preamble. “What do you need?”
His offer is sure, confident. No hesitation. It does something to my heart. I like the kid, but I had no idea he liked me back.
“Information. Someone grabbed Dylan from my flat. I need to know who,” I say calmly, keeping things professional.
“Give me an hour. I will shake every tree we have and see what falls out.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” His voice softens slightly. “We’ll find him, Dante. Whoever took him, they will regret it.”
I end the call. It seems Liam told his fiance about my little request for medical advice. Seems he also shared his suspicions about my feelings.
I sigh heavily. It doesn’t matter, I realize with some surprise. I don’t care if the whole world knows I’m soft for Dylan O’Shea.
I go back to searching with renewed vigor. The living room yields nothing useful. The kitchen is untouched, which suggests the attackers came straight for the bedroom. They knew where Dylan would be. Knew the layout of the flat.
My phone buzzes again. A text from one of my lower-level contacts, someone who keeps an ear to the ground in the less savory parts of the city.
Word on the street is Declan O’Shea has been spotted in London. Arrived three days ago. Keeping a low profile.
Declan O’Shea.
Dylan’s twin brother. The man who started all of this by stealing that fucking tiara, the man who let his own brother take the fall for his crimes. The man who, according to Dylan, has never given a damn about anyone but himself.
Why would Declan take Dylan now? After all these days of silence, why would he suddenly swoop in and grab his brother?
Unless it’s not about brotherly love at all. Unless it’s about something else entirely. Leverage, maybe. Or reputation. Or simply because Dylan knows too much about Declan’s business, and Declan wants to make sure that information stays buried.
I call Carlo again.
“Declan O’Shea,” I say when he picks up. “Dylan’s brother. He has been in London for three days.”
“You think he is the one who took Dylan?”
“I think it’s too much of a coincidence to be anything else.”
Carlo is quiet for a moment. “We’ll need to be careful.”
“I don’t care about careful.” My voice comes out harder than I intended. “Dylan is out there, taken by a man who has hated him since childhood. Every minute we waste on careful is a minute Dylan spends in that monster’s hands.”
“I understand. But if we move too fast, we could get him killed.”
The words land like a slap. He is right. Of course he is right. If Declan feels cornered, there is no telling what he might do.
I force myself to take a breath. To think clearly, strategically, like the professional I am supposed to be.
“We need to find out where Declan is holding him,” I say. “We need intelligence, surveillance, a plan. I can’t just...”
“I know.” Carlo’s voice is gentle. “I know, Dante. We will figure this out. Together.”
Together. The word feels foreign. I have spent my entire career as a lone wolf, trusting no one, relying only on myself. I help others, they don’t help me. I don’t need it. But Carlo is right. I can’t do this alone. Not this time. Not when the stakes are this high.
“Call everyone,” I say. “Dario, anyone who owes me a favor. I want every resource we have focused on finding Declan O’Shea.”
“Done. I’ll have people at your flat within the hour.”
I hang up and stand in the middle of my destroyed bedroom, surrounded by the wreckage of the life I was trying to build with Dylan.
The last time I saw him, I was peeking through the tiny gap by the door hinges. He was curled up in bed, still trembling from his panic attack. Still haunted by the trauma I inflicted on him. And I walked away without a word because I was too much of a coward to face what I had done.
He probably thinks I don’t care. Probably thinks I was relieved to leave, to escape the awkwardness and the guilt and the messy complications of what we have become to each other.
He is wrong. He is so wrong it makes my chest ache.
I love him. I love Dylan O’Shea with a ferocity that terrifies me. I love his rambling and his baking and his freckles and his soft accent. I love the way he looks at me like I might be worth saving. I love every broken, beautiful piece of him.
And I am going to get him back.
I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care who I have to hurt or what lines I have to cross. I will tear this city apart brick by brick until I find him.
And when I get my hands on Declan O’Shea, I will show him exactly what happens to people who touch what is mine.
Hold on, Dylan. Wherever you are, whatever is happening, hold on.
I am coming for you.
The next hour passes in a blur of phone calls and arrivals.
Carlo is the first to show up, Ginni trailing behind him with wide eyes that take in the destruction with something that looks almost like professional appreciation.
Then Nicolo, grim faced and still on his phone coordinating with his contacts.
Even Dario sends word that he is available, that whatever I need, the family will provide.
I didn’t let him down when Molly was taken by the Russians. He won’t let me down now.
Because this is what we do. When one of ours is threatened, we close ranks. We become a single unit, focused and deadly, capable of things that would make ordinary people weep.
Dylan is not technically one of ours, not yet. He is a civilian, an innocent, someone who should never have been dragged into this world. But no one questions it. No one asks why we are mobilizing for a baker from Borough Market who has no connection to our business.
They know. They can see it on my face, hear it in my voice. Dylan matters. Dylan is mine. And that makes him family.
“We need to find out where Declan is staying,” Nicolo says, spreading a map of London across my damaged coffee table. “He arrived three days ago, which means he has had time to set up somewhere. Property rental, hotel, maybe a contact who owed him a favor.”
“Somewhere that makes him feel important,” I say. “Declan has an ego. He will want to feel like a king, even while he is hiding.”
“That narrows it down.” Nicolo makes a note. “I have people checking high-end rentals in the city. If he used his real name, we’ll find him within hours.”
“And if he didn’t?”
“Then it takes longer. But we’ll still find him.”
Carlo puts a hand on my shoulder. “We will get Dylan back, Dante. Whatever it takes.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. The cold dread that filled me when I first saw the broken door has not faded. It has grown, spreading through my chest like ice water.
Dylan is out there somewhere. Scared, probably. Hurt, possibly. In the hands of a man who has tormented him since childhood.
And I was not here to protect him.
The guilt threatens to swallow me whole, but I force it down. There will be time for self-recrimination later, after Dylan is safe. Right now, I need to be the monster. Cold, calculating, ruthless.
The man who makes people talk.
The man who always finds what he is looking for.
I will find Dylan. And God help anyone who stands in my way.