Page 8 of Madness & Mercy

They all think Nico’s the dangerous one because he’s willing to get his hands dirty. But that’s exactly why he’s vulnerable. Heneedsthe blood. The violence. The illusion of control. Ever since his father died, he’s been looking for a reason to keep going.

Turns out, his favorite one involves pain. Inflicting it. Taking it. I’ve seen the club he visits when he thinks no one’s watching. The kind of place where men go to punish themselves or someone else.

My guess?Nico hasn’t figured out which one he is yet.

Men like that? They make me sick.

Unstable. Reckless. Impulsive. Addicted to sensation.

I’ve pulled bodies out of bathtubs because of men like him. Sat with dying officers in alleyways because some psycho wanted to feel powerful for five seconds. That’s why I don’t let it get personal anymore. Why I stopped trying to be the hero.

I don’t need a mask. I don’t need chaos.

I need precision.

I kill when I’m paid to kill, which makes me the perfect man to take him down.

The plan is simple: pose as a private investigator with intel on the staged hit that’s dragging his name through the dirt. Get close. Feed Silvio what he needs. Bury the king from the inside out.

And Nico’s already falling for it.

He thinks he’s sizingmeup, but I’ve had his whole life under a microscope for weeks. I know his patterns, his schedule, the way he smokes when he’s alone, the way his jaw twitches when he’s angry but trying not to show it. I know the names of every man he’s trusted, and everyone he’s buried.

He kills for power. For release. For the fucking high of it.

I kill for the paycheck.

That’s the difference.

He’s emotional. I’m efficient.

He’s reckless. I’m calculated.

And right now, his mask is slipping.

Good thing I never needed one.

I take another sip from my coffee, slow and smug.

God,he hates me already.

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” he says, his voice like velvet dragged across broken glass. “Bad habit. Someone should break it.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Someone shouldtry.”

The muscle in his jaw tenses.

He slides into the seat across from me, measured and lethal, his eyes never leaving mine. Everything about him is sharp. Calculated. Designed to rattle. It would probably work on anyone else.

Too bad I stopped giving a shit five years ago.

He leans forward, elbows on the table, gloved hands folded like a king on judgment day.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Julian Cross. Freelance PI.”