Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
Dante
It’s been two days, and we have nothing.
Every lead turns into a dead end. Every contact comes up empty. Declan O’Shea has gone to ground somewhere in London, and he has taken Dylan with him.
I’m going out of my mind.
Carlo finds me in my flat, staring at the map of London we’ve spread across the kitchen table. Red pins mark locations we’ve already checked. There are far too many of them, and none of them have brought me any closer to Dylan.
“You need to sleep,” Carlo says.
“I’ll sleep when Dylan is safe.”
“Dante.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re no good to him if you collapse from exhaustion. When did you last eat?”
I can’t remember. The thought of food makes me nauseous anyway. How can I eat when Dylan is out there, probably terrified, probably hurt, probably thinking I’ve abandoned him?
“We’re missing something,” I say instead of answering. “There has to be an angle we haven’t considered. Someone who knows Declan’s operations, someone who might know where he’d go to ground.”
“We’ve shaken every tree we have. Nicolo’s people have been working around the clock. Dario’s put out feelers with every contact in the city.” Carlo sighs. “Short of asking the Irish directly, I don’t know what else we can do.”
The Irish. Dylan’s people.
An idea begins to form. Stupid, dangerous, possibly suicidal. But I’m desperate enough to try anything.
“Dylan’s aunt,” I say slowly. “Moira. She raised him after his parents sent him away. She might know something about Declan’s operations. Or know someone who does.”
Carlo stares at me. “You want to approach Dylan’s family? The family who will almost certainly want to kill you for what you’ve done?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“Probably.” I meet his eyes. “But I’m out of options, Carlo. And Dylan...” My voice catches. I hate how weak I sound. “Dylan trusts her. He loves her. If there’s anyone in his world who might help, it’s her.”
Carlo is quiet for a long moment. Then he nods slowly.
“Alright. But I’m coming with you. And we’re bringing backup.”
“No.” I shake my head. “If I show up with a squad of armed mafia, she’ll never trust me. I need to go alone.”
“Dante...”
“I know the risks. But this is Dylan we’re talking about.” I take a breath. “I’d walk into hell for him, Carlo. Facing one angry Irish woman is nothing compared to that. Even if she has mobsters at her beck and call.”
Carlo doesn’t look happy about it, but he doesn’t argue further. He knows me well enough to recognize when my mind is made up.
“At least let me drive you,” he says. “I’ll wait in the car. If things go wrong, you’ll have backup nearby.”
It’s a reasonable compromise. I nod.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
Moira O’Shea lives in a small terraced house in Peckham. It’s tidy, well-maintained, with flower boxes in the windows and a welcome mat by the door. The kind of house that speaks of a quiet, ordinary life.
I wonder how much of that is real, and how much is carefully constructed camouflage.
Dylan told me his aunt left “that life” years ago. But people don’t just walk away from the world we inhabit. They carry it with them, hidden beneath the surface, ready to emerge when circumstances demand.
I knock on the door.
For a long moment, nothing happens. Then I hear footsteps, and the door opens to reveal a woman in her sixties with silver-streaked hair and sharp hazel eyes that remind me painfully of Dylan.
She takes one look at me and her expression hardens.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
“Ms. O’Shea.” I keep my voice calm, unthreatening. “My name is Dante. I’m a friend of Dylan’s.”
The change is immediate. Her eyes widen, then narrow with suspicion. One hand moves slightly, and I notice for the first time that she’s positioned herself to slam the door in my face if needed. Smart. Careful. The instincts of someone who’s survived dangerous situations before.
“Dylan?” Her voice is sharp. “You know where Dylan is? Is he alright? We’ve been worried sick, he disappeared weeks ago, the police have been useless...”
“He’s alive.” The words come out rougher than I intended. “But he’s in danger. I need your help to get him back.”
Moira stares at me for a long moment, reading something in my face that I can’t hide. Whatever she sees there makes her step back and open the door wider.
“You’d better come in.”
The inside of the house is exactly what I expected. Cozy, cluttered with photographs and knick-knacks, smelling faintly of baking and tea. There’s a photo of Dylan on the mantelpiece, younger and smiling, wearing an apron that says “Kiss the Cook.” My chest aches at the sight of it.
Moira leads me to a small sitting room and gestures for me to take a seat. She remains standing, arms crossed, studying me with an intensity that reminds me of being interrogated.
“Start from the beginning,” she says. “And don’t leave anything out. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
So I tell her. Not everything, not the torture or the captivity, but enough.
I tell her about Declan stealing the tiara, about the family wanting retribution, about how Dylan got caught up in something that was never his fault.
I tell her he’s been staying with me, that we’ve grown close, that Declan took him two days ago and I’ve been tearing the city apart trying to find him.
Moira listens without interrupting. Her expression doesn’t change, but I can see the wheels turning behind those sharp eyes.
When I finish, she’s quiet for a long moment.
“You’re the one, aren’t you?” she says finally. “The Italian ordered to deal with Declan. The one who was given Dylan by mistake.”
My blood runs cold. “How do you know that?”
“I still have contacts, Dante. People who keep me informed about certain... developments.” She tilts her head, studying me. “They told me the Ajello’s butcher had been given someone they thought was Declan. They told me he was probably dead.”
“I didn’t kill him.” My voice comes out fierce, almost desperate. “I would never... I couldn’t...”
“But you did hurt him.” It’s not a question. “In the beginning. Before you realized who he was.”
I can’t deny it and I won’t insult her intelligence by trying.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “I hurt him. And I’ll carry that guilt for the rest of my life. But right now, what matters is getting him back. Declan has him, and Declan is dangerous and desperate and I don’t know what he might do.”
Moira is silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, she sits down in the armchair across from me.
“That boy Declan has always been rotten to the core,” she says grimly.
“Even as a child, there was something wrong with him. Cruel to animals, cruel to other children, cruel to Dylan especially. My brother refused to see it, kept making excuses, kept hoping he’d grow out of it.
” She shakes her head. “Some people don’t grow out of cruelty. They just get better at hiding it.”
“Can you help me find him?”
“I might be able to.” She fixes me with that piercing stare. “But first, I need to know something. What is Dylan to you? And don’t give me some nonsense about being friends. I saw your face when you talked about him.”
The question cuts right to the heart of everything I’ve been trying not to examine too closely. What is Dylan to me? A mistake that turned into something unexpected. A captive who became a companion. A man I hurt and then couldn’t stop trying to make it up to.
“I love him,” I say, and the words feel like a confession. “I know I have no right to. I know what I’ve done is unforgivable. But I love him, Ms. O’Shea. And I’ll do anything to get him back safe.”
Moira studies me for a long moment. Whatever she sees in my face must satisfy her, because some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
“Alright,” she says. “Then we have work to do.”
She stands and moves to a bookshelf, pulling out what looks like an old address book. When she opens it, I see pages filled with names and numbers in cramped handwriting.
“I may have left that life, but I didn’t leave it entirely unprepared,” she says.
“There are people who owe me favors. People who might know where Declan is hiding.” She looks at me over her shoulder.
“And there are Dylan’s friends from the bakery.
Sean and Teagan. They’ve been going out of their minds with worry.
They deserve to know what’s happening, and they might be able to help. ”
“Help how?”
“Sean’s brother runs with some rough crowds. Teagan’s family has connections too. And you’d be surprised what ordinary people can accomplish when someone they love is in danger.”
I think of Dylan, ordinary Dylan with his baking and his rambling and his soft heart. He accomplished plenty. He survived me.
“Call them,” I say. “Call everyone you can think of. I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care what favors I have to owe. I just want Dylan back.”
Moira nods, something like approval flickering in her eyes.
“Then let’s get started.”
She picks up the phone and begins calling people.
I listen as she speaks to contact after contact, her voice shifting between warm familiarity and cold authority depending on who’s on the other end.
It’s impressive watching her work. Dylan told me she left the life behind, but watching her now, I can see the life never truly left her.
During the fourth call, she covers the mouthpiece and looks at me.
“I’ve got a possible location. A house in Richmond that Declan’s been renting under a false name. One of my contacts saw armed men coming and going.” Her eyes are sharp. “It’s not confirmed, but it’s the best lead we have.”
Richmond. Expensive, quiet, the kind of place where neighbors mind their own business. Exactly where Declan would go to ground.
She ends her call.
“I need that address,” I say.
“You’ll have it. But first, I’m calling Sean and Teagan. They need to know what’s happening, and they’ll want to help.”
I want to argue, want to grab the address and go charging in right now. But Moira is right. Other people love Dylan too, and they deserve to be a part of this.
“Fine,” I say. “But quickly. Every minute Dylan spends with Declan is a minute too long.”
She nods and dials another number. I hear a male voice answer, panicked and breathless.
“Moira? Is there news? Have they found him?”
“Sean, love, I need you to listen carefully. I’ve got someone here who knows where Dylan is. I need you and Teagan to come to my house right away.”
There’s a muffled conversation on the other end, then Sean’s voice again, stronger now. “We’re on our way. Twenty minutes.”
Moira hangs up and turns back to me. “They’re good kids. Loyal. They’ve been putting up flyers, talking to the police, doing everything they can think of to find him.” She pauses. “They don’t know about you. About what you do. I think it’s best if we keep it that way, at least for now.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll tell them you’re a friend of Dylan’s who has connections. That you’ve been helping search for him. They don’t need to know the details.”
I nod. The fewer people who know about my profession, the better.
We wait in tense silence. Moira makes tea, seemingly more out of habit than hospitality, and I accept a cup I have no intention of drinking.
The photo of Dylan on the mantelpiece keeps drawing my eye.
He looks so young in it, so happy. So different from the man I untied from my chair after I tortured him.
I wonder if he’ll ever look that carefree again. I wonder if I’ve destroyed something that can never be rebuilt.
The doorbell rings. Moira goes to answer it, and a moment later two young people burst into the sitting room. The man is tall and broad, with worried eyes and flour still dusting his forearms. The woman is smaller, dark-haired, practically vibrating with nervous energy.
Sean and Teagan. Dylan’s people. His real family, the one he chose for himself.
“Where is he?” Sean demands, looking at me with a mixture of hope and suspicion. “Moira said you know where Dylan is. Is he okay? Who took him?”
“His brother,” I say. “Declan. It’s a family matter that got out of hand.”
Teagan’s face darkens. “That bastard. Dylan told us about him. Said he was dangerous, said he’d cut all ties years ago.”
“Declan came back. He took Dylan, and I’ve been trying to find him ever since.”
“Who are you?” Sean asks, still suspicious. “How do you know Dylan? He never mentioned anyone named Dante.”
I glance at Moira, who gives me a subtle nod.
“We met recently,” I say carefully. “Through mutual acquaintances. We... grew close. And now I’m going to get him back.”
Sean studies me for a long moment. Whatever he sees in my face must be convincing, because some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
“What do you need from us?”
“I don’t know yet. But Moira thought you might be able to help.”
“Anything,” Teagan says fiercely. “We’ll do anything. Dylan’s the best person I know. He doesn’t deserve any of this.”
No, he doesn’t. He deserves peace and safety and a life filled with baking and laughter. He deserves so much better than what I’ve put him through. But I can’t change the past. I can only try to fix the present.
“Then let’s make a plan,” I say. “And let’s bring Dylan home.”
Moira spreads a map of London on the coffee table, and we begin to work. For the first time in two days, I feel something that might be hope.