Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Dylan
I’m losing track of time.
The days blur together in this gilded prison.
Morning light through the window, afternoon shadows creeping across the floor, evening darkness that swallows everything whole.
Declan visits sporadically, sometimes to taunt me, sometimes to rant about his crumbling empire, sometimes just to remind me that my life is in his hands.
The meals come at irregular intervals, which I think is intentional.
Breakfast might arrive at dawn or at noon.
Dinner could be a proper meal or stale sandwiches, depending on whether Declan remembers to tell his men to feed me.
I’ve learned not to count on anything. The unpredictability is its own form of control.
I’ve started keeping a mental tally of everything I observe. It’s the only thing keeping me sane.
The guards change shifts every eight hours.
There are always two on the perimeter, occasionally three when Declan is feeling paranoid.
They’re bored and sloppy, more interested in their phones than in actually watching for threats.
One of them smokes a lot, disappearing around the side of the house every hour or so for a cigarette break.
The house has three floors. I’m on the second, in a guest room at the end of the hall. There’s a bathroom next door that I’m allowed to use twice a day, always with a guard standing outside. The stairs are at the other end of the hall, near Declan’s study.
The study. That’s where Declan spends most of his time, making calls and pacing and slowly losing his mind. I’ve only seen it once, when he dragged me there to show me something on his computer. Some news article about the tiara, I think. He wanted to gloat about how famous he was becoming.
But I wasn’t looking at the computer. I was looking at everything else.
The gun on the mantlepiece. A handgun, black and sleek, sitting there like a decoration. Declan probably thinks it makes him look dangerous. All I could think was that it was within reach, if I could just get my hands free.
The closet with the slatted doors. Built into the wall near the window, probably meant for coats or storage. The slats are wide enough to see through, narrow enough to hide behind. A place to watch without being seen.
The window itself, looking out onto the back garden. No guards visible from that angle, just a high wall and a gate that leads to God knows where.
Information. I’m collecting it like currency, hoarding it against the day when it might be useful. I don’t know if that day will ever come. But it gives me something to focus on besides the fear.
Declan comes to see me on the third morning. Or maybe the fourth. I’ve lost count.
He looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble on his jaw, clothes rumpled like he slept in them. The careful facade he usually maintains is cracking, revealing the desperate man underneath.
“Murphy’s dead,” he announces without preamble, throwing himself into the armchair by my bed. “Someone put a bullet in his head last night. Left him in an alley in Brixton like garbage.”
I don’t know who Murphy is. One of Declan’s associates, probably. Another rat fleeing the sinking ship.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because it seems like the thing to say.
Declan laughs bitterly. “No you’re not. You’re probably hoping they’ll come for me next.
” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles.
“Everyone’s turning on me. Everyone. The people I trusted, the people I paid, the people who swore they’d have my back.
The moment things got difficult, they scattered like cockroaches. ”
“Loyalty has to be earned,” I say before I can stop myself.
It’s a risk. Last time I talked back, he grabbed my face hard enough to leave bruises. But something has shifted in him since then. The anger is still there, but it’s mixed with something else now. Something that looks almost like fear.
“You don’t understand,” he says, and for once he doesn’t sound cruel.
Just tired. “This business, it’s not like your little bakery.
You can’t afford to be soft. The moment you show weakness, someone takes advantage.
Someone stabs you in the back. Someone steals your tiara and disappears with everything you’ve worked for. ”
“Is that what happened? Someone you trusted stole the tiara?”
Declan’s jaw tightens. “Frankie. My right-hand man. We’d been working together for three years. I trusted him with everything.” He laughs again, hollow and bitter. “Found out he’d been planning it for months. Waiting for the right moment to grab the goods and run. And I never saw it coming.”
There’s genuine pain in his voice. Genuine betrayal. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him.
Then I remember everything he’s done. To me, to our family, to everyone who’s ever had the misfortune of crossing his path. And the sympathy evaporates.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” He stares at the wall, looking more lost than I’ve ever seen him. “The Italians want my head. The Irish crews I’ve burned want revenge. Half my men have abandoned me and the other half are probably planning to. I’m running out of options.”
“You could let me go.”
The words slip out before I can think better of them. Declan turns to look at me, and for a moment I think I see something flicker in his eyes. Consideration, maybe. Or just surprise that I’d suggest it.
“Let you go,” he repeats slowly. “And then what? You run back to your Italian boyfriend and tell him everything? Lead him right to my door?”
“I wouldn’t...”
“Yes you would.” His voice hardens again, the brief vulnerability vanishing behind familiar walls. “You’d sell me out in a heartbeat. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
He’s right. Of course he’s right. If I got out of here, the first thing I’d do is find Dante. And Dante would burn this house to the ground.
“You know what the funny thing is?” Declan says, and there’s something almost wistful in his tone. “When we were kids, I used to think you were the lucky one. Getting sent away, getting to escape all of this. I was jealous.”
I stare at him. “You were jealous? Of me?”
“You got out. You got to be normal, or at least pretend to be. While I was stuck there, learning the family business, becoming...” He gestures vaguely at himself. “This.”
“You could have left too. You chose this life.”
“Did I?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You really think there was ever a choice? Da had me working jobs by the time I was fourteen. By the time I was old enough to know better, I was in too deep to get out.”
It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said to me. And for a moment, just a moment, I catch a glimpse of the brother I might have had. The one who existed before the cruelty and the crime and the endless betrayals.
But then his expression hardens again, and the moment passes.
“I’m not letting you go,” Declan says, standing up abruptly. “You’re my insurance policy. The only card I have left to play. When the Italians come, and they will come, you’re going to be my bargaining chip.”
He leaves without another word, slamming the door behind him. I hear the lock click into place.
I’m alone again. Alone with my thoughts and my fears and the growing certainty that time is running out.
But underneath the fear, something else is stirring. Declan is falling apart. His empire is crumbling. The people he trusted are abandoning him or dying. He’s scared, and scared people make mistakes.
I just need to be ready when he makes his.
The guard who brings my dinner that night is different from the usual ones.
He’s younger, early twenties maybe, with nervous eyes and a face that doesn’t quite fit the role of hired muscle. He sets the tray on my bedside table without meeting my gaze, then hesitates at the door.
He glances over his shoulder, checking the hallway. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
“Someone paid me to give you this,” he says, pressing it into my hand. “Don’t tell anyone. And don’t ask me any questions.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone. The door closes, the lock clicks, and I’m alone with a scrap of paper that suddenly feels like the most important thing in the world.
My hands shake as I unfold it.
The message is short. Just five words, scrawled in handwriting I don’t recognize.
He’s coming. Hold on.
I read it three times, four times, five times, until the words blur through the tears I didn’t realize I was crying.
He’s coming.
Dante is coming for me.
I sink down onto the bed, my legs suddenly unable to hold me. All those hours of trying to stay strong, trying to be brave, trying not to fall apart. And now five words on a scrap of paper have undone me completely.
He didn’t give up. He didn’t decide I was more trouble than I was worth. He didn’t walk away and let Declan have me.
He’s coming.
I don’t know how he found out where I am. I don’t know who sent this message or how they got it to me. I don’t know anything except that somewhere out there, Dante is working to bring me home.
Hope blooms in my chest, warm and fierce and almost painful. I’ve been trying so hard not to hope, not to believe, not to set myself up for disappointment. But this piece of paper changes everything.
I picture Dante’s face. The way he looked at me that night, when we were tangled together in his bed. The almost-smile he gets when I’m being ridiculous. The way his hands shake when he touches me, like he can’t quite believe I’m real.
He loves me. I know that now, even if neither of us has said the words. And love doesn’t give up. Love doesn’t walk away.
Love comes for you, even when the odds are impossible.
I press the note to my chest, feeling the crinkle of paper against my skin. Then, carefully, I tear it into tiny pieces and shove them down in between the gaps in the floorboards. No evidence. Nothing for Declan to find if he decides to search my room.
But the words are burned into my memory now. A promise. A lifeline.
He’s coming. Hold on.
I can do that. I’ve held on this long, through torture and illness and falling in love with someone impossible. I can hold on a little longer.
I think about the gun on the mantlepiece. The closet with the slatted doors. The guard rotations and the layout of the house and every piece of information I’ve been hoarding like treasure.
When Dante comes, I’m going to be ready. I’m going to help, somehow. I’m not going to be the helpless victim waiting to be rescued.
I’m stronger than that now. Stronger than Declan knows. Stronger than I ever gave myself credit for.
The night feels different now. Less suffocating. Less hopeless.
I curl up on the bed and close my eyes, and for the first time since Declan took me, I fall asleep with something other than fear in my heart.
He’s coming.
And when he gets here, we’re going to make Declan regret ever touching me.
I fall asleep with the words echoing in my mind like a prayer.
He’s coming. Hold on.
I can hold on. I will hold on.
For Dante. For myself. For the life we might still have together, if we’re brave enough to reach for it.