Page 1 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

NICO

They dump the body where they know I’ll find it.

The only problem?

I didn’t pull the trigger.

The city won’t care. They never do. The Vitale name carries weight. Enough to crush a man, enough to bury a truth. I’ve built my empire on blood, fear, and efficiency. If there’s a corpse left with my calling card, it isn’t just a warning.

It’s an invitation.

I step out of the backseat of the Rolls Royce, the scent of diesel and death curling in the crisp, morning air. Luca flanks my right, silent as always, his expression carved in stone. Sirens whine a few blocks out. Too slow. Too late. Just how we like it.

The body lies face-down on the asphalt, hands bound, throat slashed. It’s sloppy work. Excessive, even. Someone wants this to look personal. Someone wants the city whispering my name before the blood dries.

I crouch beside the body, my fingertips brushing dried blood on his broken jaw. “Figlio di puttana,” I mutter under my breath. “We know this guy?”

“Roman Falco,” Luca says. “Romano’s accountant. Went missing three days ago.”

I glance up, my eyes narrowing. “Romano sent his own man to die?”

Luca doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Silvio Romano never lifts a finger without weighing the profit. If he’s burning his own men, it’s because he’s got something better to gain.

Or someone.

I rise slowly, while my eyes scan the skyline, the shadows in the alleyway, the steel-lidded cameras I know are watching. “Clean this up. Quietly.”

“And the story?” Luca asks.

“Mugging gone wrong. Blame it on the locals. Make it dirty, not strategic.”

I turn away from the body, already thinking two steps ahead. “And find out who’s been whispering my name in city hall.”

Luca doesn’t move. “There’s more.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Of course there is.

He reaches inside his coat and hands me a black folder with no label, just weight.

“Found this on the dash of one of our tail cars,” he says. “Engine was still warm. Driver’s gone.”

I open the folder.

Inside, there are photographs.

Grainy. Surveillance stills. One man, captured over and over.

I commit every detail of him to memory:

Tall. Lean. Rough around the edges. Thick brown hair. Angular face. Glasses. Green eyes that look like they’ve seen the gates of hell and didn’t bother flinching.

In one photo, he’s standing against a brick wall with a cigarette between his fingers like he’s got all the time in the world. In another, he’s watching me step out of the nightclub I entered two days ago.

I didn’t notice him then, but I sure as hell do now.

“Who is he?” I ask, already knowing the answer will piss me off.

“No ID,” Luca replies. “No prints, no plates, no digital trail. Facial recognition’s pulling nothing. But he’s been following you.”

My jaw ticks.

“How long?”

“Long enough. There are three confirmed locations. One tail car. Slipped past our guys each time.”

I stare at the image. Unlike the many other men who tried to cross me, his eyes aren’t wide with fear. They’re narrowed with purpose. With intent. Like he’s watching something he’s already decided to destroy.

I slam the folder shut and shove it into Luca’s chest.

“Find him.”

Luca nods and disappears down the alley.

I turn back toward the bridge, toward the body staged in my name, the whispers already winding through city streets.

And in the silence that follows, one thought cuts through louder than the rest:

Who the fuck are you, and why are you watching me?

After stuffing Roman’s body into the trunk, I slide into the backseat of the Rolls.

The door shuts with a soft click, quiet and final. Soundproofed from the city, from the corpse cooling behind me, from the blood someone spilled in my name. Inside, the world is clean. Dark leather seats. Black chrome trim. The faint scent of smoke and expensive cologne, all mine.

It’s not my only car, but it’s the quietest. The one I use when I want people to remember I don’t need noise to be dangerous.

“Home,” I say.

Enzo nods from the front seat. He doesn’t speak. He knows better. The partition rises a second later, cutting off even the shape of his shoulders. Privacy on demand. Control in every detail.

The Rolls glides away from the curb like it was born to ghost through chaos.

I lean back, my eyes locked on the city flashing past in soft blurs of gold and steel.

The streets are waking up: trucks unloading, joggers in overpriced gear pretending this city doesn’t have claws.

The skyline is still pink around the edges, like the morning hasn’t figured out what kind of day it wants to be.

I already know what kind of day it is.

Whoever staged that body under the Halston Bridge wanted a message carved into the pavement. But what they don’t understand is this: I don’t read messages. I answer them.

With blood. With silence. With precision.

I close my eyes, picturing the man’s face. Sharp in profile, cigarette hanging from his lips like a sneer. He knew he was being watched. He wanted it.

My jaw tightens.

I’ve seen that kind of hunger before.

That man didn’t just stumble into my orbit. He walked in.

And I’m going to find out why.

We pull through the wrought iron gates of the estate twenty minutes later. The gravel crunches beneath the tires as the house looms into view. Four stories of stone and shadow, carved into the hillside like a monument to power. Or penance.

Enzo parks the car in silence.

I don’t wait for him to open the door.

The morning air bites my skin, but I don’t flinch. There’s too much fire under my ribs to feel cold. My phone buzzes once in my pocket. A text from Luca.

LUCA: Tracking heat signatures from the alley. No prints. No cams. Ghost.

Figures.

Whoever this man is, he’s careful. But not careful enough.

He watched me.

He followed me.

Now I’m going to follow him.

And when I catch up, when I find out who sent him, I won’t just burn the evidence.

I’ll bury him with it.

Bury him so deep, not even the dead will speak his name.

Enzo drives off without a word.

He knows where to take the body. Knows how deep to dig, who to pay off, what to burn. It’s not his first time, and it won’t be his last.

Most people think he’s just a driver. But Enzo’s more than that.

He’s family in the way blood never quite is.

He’s loyal, discreet, and capable of making someone disappear before breakfast. He’s been with us since the early days, back when the Vitale name was still clawing its way back to power.

We don’t talk much, but we don’t have to.

He does the jobs we don’t always have time for.

And usually, I’d handle it myself. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. Hell, I prefer it. Makes the message clearer. Cleaner.

But I’ve got bigger things to deal with.

Someone’s been following me. Slipping past our security. Getting too close.

And I don’t like what that says about him, or what it says about me.

I open the door, step out and walk the familiar path up the stairs, my shoes echoing across marble as I enter the foyer.

I don’t need to look to know she’s here. I can feel her presence like frost on glass.

“Did you clean up the mess you made?”

Her voice cuts through the quiet like a knife through silk.

I look up. Allegra Vitale stands at the top of the staircase, wrapped in black cashmere with pearls at her throat like a noose worn for fashion.

“Which one?” I ask, unbuttoning my coat. “There’s been so many.”

She descends the stairs slowly, every movement controlled, every word loaded.

“Don’t be clever, Nicolò. That’s your father’s blood showing.”

“I thought you liked that about him.”

“I liked that he knew when to stop. You—” she narrows her eyes “you’re too fond of fire. One day you’ll light the wrong match.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “If that day comes, I’ll burn the whole fucking city before I go out.”

She pauses at the last step. We’re face to face now, close enough for me to see the calculation behind her gaze. That same look she wore at my father’s funeral. The one that never mourns, only measures.

“You’re being watched,” she says.

My shoulders tense. “I’m being watched by everyone. That’s not news.”

“No, is different.” She crosses her arms. “One of Silvio’s dogs?”

I don’t answer.

I don’t need to. The flicker in her eyes says she already knows I’ve found something. Or someone.

She clicks her tongue, soft and sharp. “Kill him.”

I arch a brow. “You haven’t even seen his face.”

“I’ve seen yours,” she replies. “And I know that look. You’re curious. Curiosity is a crack in the foundation, Nico. You let it in, and everything falls.”

“I won’t make the same mistakes he did.”

“No. You’ll make new ones.”

She leans in just enough to lower her voice.

“Kill the man following you. Before it’s too late.”

Then she walks past me, her perfume trailing behind her.

I reach into my pocket for my phone, knuckles still tight from the morning. My steps echo through the marble foyer as I cut through the hall, headed straight for the garage.

The house is silent. Even the guards keep their distance when I’m like this.

I swipe the key fob for the black Benz, the one that doesn’t draw attention like the Rolls. Sleek. Fast. Disposable, if it needs to be.

The line clicks as Luca answers after one ring. He always does.

“Where is he?” I grit out, already unlocking the car.

“Midtown,” Luca replies. He’s calm, controlled. That’s why he’s still breathing after all these years. “Spotted him walking near Park Row station. Same clothes from the photos. He’s not hiding.”

I slide into the driver’s seat, the engine purring to life beneath my hands like a beast waiting to be unleashed. “Then he wants me to find him.”

“Or he’s testing how long it takes you to notice,” Luca says.

“Too fucking late for that.”

I pull out of the driveway, tires whispering across the stone. Enzo’s already gone, off to bury one more problem in a long list of them. He’s a cleaner. A loyal one. One of the last men I trust to handle messes without asking questions.