Chapter 37
Chapter thirty-seven
Dylan
Dante’s people take us to a house somewhere in the city. I don’t know where exactly. I spend most of the drive with my face pressed against Dante’s chest, his arms wrapped around me, trying to convince myself this is real.
A young man called Liam checks me over when we arrive. He’s gentle and professional, his hands careful as he examines the bruises on my wrists from the handcuffs, the marks on my jaw where Declan grabbed me days ago.
“Nothing serious,” he says finally, and I see Dante’s shoulders relax slightly. “Some bruising, some dehydration. Rest and fluids, and he’ll be fine.”
“Thank you,” I manage, and Liam gives me a soft smile before retreating to where another young man, Nicolo, is waiting.
The house is nice. Expensive. The kind of place that probably belongs to someone in the family, someone whose name I’ll never know. There’s a room in the basement that’s been set up for a specific purpose, and that’s where they’ve put Declan.
I stand outside the door for a long time, trying to find the courage to go in.
“You don’t have to do this,” Dante says quietly. He’s been hovering near me since we arrived, close enough to touch but not crowding. Letting me set the pace. “No one would blame you if you never wanted to see him again.”
“I know.” I take a breath. “But I need to. I need to say... I need him to hear...”
I can’t finish the sentence, but Dante seems to understand. He squeezes my hand once, briefly, and then steps back.
“I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
I nod and push open the door.
The room is bare concrete, lit by a single harsh bulb. And there, in the center of it, is my brother. Tied to a chair.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Weeks ago, I was in this position. Bound and helpless and terrified, staring up at a man who held my life in his hands. Now Declan is the one in the chair, and I’m the one standing over him.
His face is a mess. Broken nose, black eye, blood crusted on his upper lip. He looks smaller somehow. Diminished. The larger-than-life monster of my childhood reduced to just a man. A pathetic, desperate man who ran out of people to betray.
“Well,” Declan sneers when he sees me, but there’s fear underneath. I can see it in his eyes, hear it in the slight tremor of his voice. “Come to gloat?”
I don’t answer right away. Just look at him, this person who shares my face but has never shared anything else. Who made my childhood a nightmare and then let me take the fall for his crimes.
“No,” I say finally. “I came to talk.”
“Talk?” He laughs, incredulous. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”
“Everything.” I pull up a chair and sit down across from him, close enough that he can’t look away. “Everything you did to me. Everything you made me believe about myself. I’m going to say it all, and you’re going to listen.”
“Dylan...”
“No.” My voice comes out harder than I expected. “You don’t get to interrupt. You don’t get to manipulate your way out of this. For once in your life, you’re going to shut up and hear what I have to say.”
Declan’s mouth snaps shut. Maybe it’s shock. Maybe it’s the realization that for the first time, he has no power here. Either way, I’ll take it.
I start at the beginning.
“Do you remember the closet under the stairs?” I ask. “The one where you used to lock me in when Ma and Da weren’t home? I was six the first time. Six years old, and you told me there were monsters in the dark that would eat me if I made any noise.”
Declan’s expression flickers. He remembers.
“I used to have nightmares about that closet. For years. Even after I moved to London, I couldn’t sleep in complete darkness. Had to have a light on, like a child, because my own brother convinced me that monsters were real.”
I keep going. The times he stole my things and blamed me when they went missing.
The way he twisted every situation to make me look like the liar, the troublemaker, the problem child.
The carefully crafted campaign to turn our parents against me, dripping poison in their ears until they looked at me like I was a stranger in their home.
Such a perfectly executed campaign, that by the time adolescence hit and I realized I was gay, coming out was simply the final nail in the coffin.
“Remember when we were twelve, and you broke Da’s watch? The one his father gave him?” I ask. “You told them I did it. Told them you saw me throw it against the wall in a tantrum. And they believed you. They always believed you.”
Declan says nothing. Just watches me with those familiar eyes that hold no warmth.
“Da didn’t speak to me for two weeks after that. Two weeks of silence from my own father, because of a lie you told.” I shake my head. “And that was just one of dozens. Hundreds, maybe. Every time something went wrong, you made sure I took the blame.”
“And then the tiara,” I say. “You stole it, and when the consequences came calling, you let them take me instead. Your own twin brother. You left me to be tortured, and you didn’t care. You probably didn’t even think about it.”
“I didn’t know they’d...” Declan starts, and I cut him off.
“Don’t. Don’t you dare try to make excuses. You knew exactly what would happen to whoever they caught. You just didn’t care, because it wasn’t you.”
The words are pouring out now, years of hurt and anger that I’ve kept locked away because I was too afraid to feel it. Too convinced that I was the problem, that I deserved what happened to me, that Declan was right when he called me weak and worthless and wrong.
“You made me think I was broken,” I say, and my voice cracks slightly.
“That there was something wrong with me. That I was weak, pathetic, a disappointment. I carried that belief for years, Declan. It shaped everything about me. The way I saw myself, the relationships I couldn’t trust, the life I was too afraid to fully live. ”
I lean forward, holding his gaze.
“But I’m not broken. I’m not weak. I’m not any of the things you told me I was.
I survived everything you threw at me, and I built a life despite you.
I have friends who love me, who came to rescue me even though it meant putting themselves in danger.
I have work that matters to me, a bakery where people come every morning because my croissants make their day a little better.
I have someone who sees me, really sees me, and thinks I’m worth fighting for. ”
I think of Dante. Of the way he punched Declan without hesitation because he knew, he just knew, that it wasn’t me. Of the way he held me in that closet doorway like I was something precious. Of the way he’s waiting outside right now, ready to support whatever I need.
“I have a life worth living,” I say. “And you have nothing. That’s the difference between us.”
“Your Italian boyfriend,” Declan spits. “The one who tortured you. That’s your great love story? Stockholm syndrome with a mobster?”
I don’t flinch. A week ago, those words would have cut me open. Now they just seem sad.
“You don’t understand love,” I say quietly.
“You’ve never understood it. That’s your tragedy, Declan.
You’ve spent your whole life taking and using and betraying, and you’ve never once known what it feels like to have someone care about you.
Really care. Not for what you can give them or what they can get from you, but just.. . for you.”
Something shifts in Declan’s face. Just for a moment, I see something that might be pain. Might be recognition.
Then it’s gone, replaced by the familiar sneer.
“Very touching. Are you done with your little speech?”
“Almost.” I stand up, looking down at him. “I used to be afraid of you. Terrified, actually. You were this massive presence in my life, this force of destruction that I couldn’t escape no matter how far I ran.”
I shake my head slowly.
“But sitting here now, looking at you... I’m not afraid anymore. You’re not a monster, Declan. You’re just a sad, small man who never learned how to be anything else. And I’m done letting you have any power over me.”
I turn toward the door. Then I stop, looking back over my shoulder.
“I don’t want you dead,” I say. “But I don’t care what else happens to you.”
Dante is waiting outside, just like he promised. His eyes search my face, looking for signs of damage, of distress. I give him a small, tired smile.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I think I actually am, for once.”
He pulls me into his arms, and I let myself sink into the embrace. Let myself feel safe and held and loved.
“What do you want to do with him?” Dante asks quietly, his voice rumbling against my ear.
“I meant what I said. I don’t want him dead. But beyond that...” I shrug. “I don’t care. He’s not my problem anymore.”
Dante nods. And then he smiles, just slightly. It’s not a nice smile.
“Ginni has been asking for a practice subject. Someone to work on independently, to prove he’s ready.”
Ginni. Dante’s apprentice. The pretty, delicate-looking man who scared the crap out of me while also making me seethe with envy when I thought he might be Dante’s boy. But he’s actually Carlo’s wife, and earlier he looked at the chaos around him like it was a birthday party.
“Is that... appropriate?”
“Ginni is very enthusiastic about his work.”
As if summoned, Ginni appears at the end of the hallway. He’s dressed impeccably, in a very short baby-pink dress and thigh-high white silk stockings. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and his eyes are sparkling with undisguised glee.
“Insegnante, is it true?” he breathes, practically bouncing on his toes. “Do I get to have him?”
I look at this beautiful, delicate creature vibrating with excitement at the prospect of causing pain, and feel a genuine chill run down my spine.
He’s utterly terrifying. And he’s about to be alone with my brother.
Part of me thinks I should feel guilty about this. Should feel some lingering loyalty to the person who shares my blood, my face, my history. But when I search inside myself, I find nothing. Just a vast, peaceful emptiness where the fear used to live.
“He’s all yours,” Dante says. “Find out exactly how he got the tiara and everything he knows about where it might be now.”
Ginni actually claps his hands together. “Oh, this is the best day of my life. Well, second best. The wedding was better. But this is definitely in the top three.”
He practically skips toward the basement door, pausing only to give me a bright smile. His eyes are dark and sparkling, like a child on Christmas morning.
“Don’t worry,” he says cheerfully. “I’m going to take such good care of him.”
The door closes behind him. A moment later, I hear Declan’s voice, raised in protest, followed by Ginni’s delighted laugh. The sound is musical and sweet and absolutely bone-chilling.
I don’t feel guilty. I probably should, but I don’t. Declan made his choices. Spent his whole life hurting people, betraying people, using people up and throwing them away. Now he gets to live with the consequences.
It feels like justice. It feels like closure.
It feels like freedom.
Dante’s hand finds mine, warm and solid and real.
“Let’s go home,” he says softly.
Home. The word settles into my chest like a warm ember. I don’t know exactly where home is anymore. The flat near the bakery? Dante’s place? Somewhere else entirely?
But I think, maybe, home isn’t a place at all. Maybe it’s the person whose hand is holding mine.
I nod, letting him lead me away.
I don’t look back.