Page 11 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

JULIAN

The first thing I register is the dull ache in my arms.

The second is cold metal biting into my wrists.

I blink hard, the haze of sleep evaporating just in time for panic to take its place.

What the fuck—

My arms are stretched above my head, cuffed to the goddamn headboard. Heavy. Tight. No give. I twist, yank, and try to slip a wrist free, but it’s no use.

“Nico,” I grit out. “You absolute psychopath.”

No key in sight. Sheets rumpled. My body sore in places I’m not even ready to think about.

He handcuffed me in my sleep.

That controlling, smug, Armani-wearing bastard.

I yank harder, frustration mounting, chest rising with every sharp breath. I’m not even sure if I’m more humiliated or furious. Probably both. Definitely both.

Out of options, I shout toward the door.

“Let me out of here, you fucking lunatic!”

Silence.

Then, after a few excruciating beats, the creak of the door hinges.

My stomach flips.

Of course he heard me.

Of course he waited.

Of course he’s fucking enjoying this.

The door creaks open slowly, like a horror movie cliché.

And there he is, wearing nothing but a black shirt and boxers, his hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed… or a warpath.

He leans against the doorway with a steaming mug in one hand and the kind of expression that makes you want to throw something. Amused. Unbothered. Like this is cute to him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says warmly, like he didn’t just chain me to the bed like a damn prisoner.

“You handcuffed me,” I snap. “In my sleep.”

He shrugs. “You looked like you needed the rest.”

He strolls in like he owns the air, taking his sweet time. “After the shit you pulled last night? You’re lucky all I used was cuffs.”

My jaw clenches. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” he says, finally setting the coffee down on the nightstand. “I think it’s necessary.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, casual as hell, like I’m not restrained and vibrating with rage.

“You broke out of my house, assaulted a member of my staff, tailed me to the club, then jumped me in my sleep,” he says, dragging his fingers up my thigh. “Forgive me for thinking you might need some… structure.”

“Fuck you.”

He hums, like I’ve just complimented him. “Maybe later.”

I pull against the cuffs again, metal clanking against wood. “You gonna let me out, or are you keeping me like some trophy?”

Nico’s hand slides higher, warm through the sheet. My stomach tightens.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he murmurs. “You look good like this. Pissed off. Helpless. Half hard.”

I hate that he’s not wrong.

“Don’t act like you’re doing this for me,” I grit out. “You’re just a control freak with a god complex.”

“And you,” he whispers, leaning closer until our noses nearly touch, “are a liar with a death wish.”

His breath ghosts over my lips, his fingers curling around my jaw.

“But you’re mine now. So we’ll find balance.”

I don’t even think. I react.

I spit in his face.

It lands square on his cheek, and for a split second, I hold my breath, waiting for the explosion. For the slap. The threat. Anything.

But Nico just blinks.

Then slowly, he wipes it with his thumb.

And licks it off.

My stomach twists. Not from disgust, but from the twisted, humiliating heat that coils low in my gut as he grins like the fucking devil himself.

He rises without a word, pulls a chair up to the edge of the bed, and sits with his legs spread, draping one hand over the backrest.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I growl, yanking on the cuffs again. “Uncuff me, asshole.”

He hums, his fingers drumming on the chair’s frame. “Cagniolo, in my family, we have a saying about trust…”

His gaze darkens, sharp as a knife.

“I don’t trust words. I question actions. But I never doubt patterns.”

My blood runs cold.

He says it with such measured ease. Not as a threat. Not even an accusation, but a statement. One that cuts deeper than anything else could.

He knows something.

Or at least, he thinks he does. Either way, that look in his eyes? It’s not the usual smugness. It’s calculation. Still calm. Still quiet.

But colder.

“Why did you follow me last night?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft.

Shit.

I keep my expression still, despite my pulse pounding. “I didn’t.”

“You did,” he says simply. “You thought I didn’t notice?”

I force a scoff. “You’re paranoid.”

“Mm,” he muses, leaning forward just slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Maybe. But I’m alive because I listen to my instincts.”

His eyes trail down my body—spread out, restrained, bare beneath the sheet like a lamb in the fucking lion’s den.

“You showed up at Nocturne like you were looking for something,” he continues. “But I think you already found it, didn’t you?”

He lets the silence drag, lets me squirm.

I grit my teeth. Stay silent.

“Want to tell me why you were out there?” he asks again, one brow lifting.

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “What, am I your prisoner now?”

His smirk returns. “No. If you were a prisoner, you’d be gagged, blindfolded, and begging for mercy by now.”

He rises slowly, comes back to the bed. His hand drifts lazily over my chest, trailing down to my stomach, stopping just above where the sheet tented before he came in. He doesn’t touch me there.

“I’m giving you the chance to come clean, Julian,” he murmurs. “While I’m still in a good mood.”

I stare up at him, heart hammering. My wrists ache from pulling. My pride aches worse.

And still, part of me wants to fold.

Not because I trust him.

But because I want him to touch me.

Fuck.

This isn’t torture.

Not the kind I’m used to, anyway.

He stands over me like a goddamn statue, smug and silent, letting his fingers ghost over the edge of the sheet. Not touching. Not taking. Just hovering.

And it’s driving me insane.

My back arches off the bed without permission, my hips chasing even a flicker of contact that never comes.

“Fuck you,” I hiss, furious at my body. Furious at him.

He tilts his head, amused. “Already did.”

“You’re sick.”

“You’re hard.”

My face burns. It’s true. My cock is still straining against nothing—leaking, aching, throbbing for friction he won’t give me.

“Tell me what you were doing out there,” he says again, voice lower now, dead serious. “Tell me the truth.”

I shake my head. “You don’t get to interrogate me like this.”

“Oh, but I do.” He leans closer, mouth barely grazing my jaw without kissing it. “I gave you a bed. You gave me lies.”

His lips brush my earlobe. My breath catches.

I hate him.

I hate him.

I hate him.

I need him to touch me.

“I can do this all day, Julian,” he whispers. “I’ve broken men in less time than it’s taken you to beg.”

“I’m not begging.”

He smiles against my cheek. “Not with words.”

He moves again, this time, down to my thigh, where his fingers barely skim the sheets.

And still, no touch.

I buck again, my frustration boiling over into something feral. “Goddammit—”

“You want relief?” he says, stepping back. “Tell me something real.”

I grit my teeth so hard it hurts. My pride is a pit of fire in my throat. I’ve survived interrogations that tore flesh from bone. But this?

This slow, burning denial?

It’s fucking worse, somehow.

I have to give him something. But if I lie through my teeth like last time, he’ll know. So, I settle on a half-truth.

“Fine,” I bite out, chest heaving. “You want the truth? Here it is.”

He waits.

“I’ve been watching you for years.”

His eyes flicker, a small shift, but it’s there. I keep going.

“I knew who you were before. I knew your name. Your habits. Where you live. Where you fucked. I knew everything.”

A tense beat passes. Two.

“I was never just some random guy.”

He stares at me like he’s trying to see through my skin.

“And why?” he asks quietly. “Why me?”

I swallow hard. “Because I wanted to know what kind of man you were.”

He leans down again, his mouth barely an inch from mine.

“You sure that’s all you wanted, cucciolo?” he murmurs. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like a man obsessed.”

He’s not wrong.

But he doesn’t know the half of it.

He doesn’t know I came here to kill him.

And now I’m the one bound to his bed—leaking, humiliated, confessing to a lifetime of obsession with the man I was hired to destroy.

And he still hasn’t touched me.

My hips jerk again, useless. Desperate.

He smiles. “Next time you want something from me, Julian…”

His voice is a knife wrapped in velvet.

“Try asking nicely.”

Then he turns, walks away, leaving me hard, sweating, and shaking in his bed like a man possessed.

I don’t know how long it’s been.

Time doesn’t exist here. Not when I’m cuffed to this bed, naked, leaking, and losing my goddamn mind.

My wrists ache.

My cock is still hard.

Why the fuck is it still hard?

This is torture.

And not the kind I was trained for.

This is something darker. Filthier. Personal.

Is this his plan?

Keep me on edge until I crack? Until I beg to be used like some obedient pet?

Fucker.

Of course it is. Because everything bends to Nico Vitale.

The people. The air. The goddamn rules of gravity.

And now, me.

It’s true, what I told him. I was stalking him. For years.

He just doesn’t know why.

Long story short, he and his family screwed me over and broke my career in half. Back when I still wore a badge. Back when I still believed in rules and justice and all that bullshit.

And the worst part is, when we did finally meet again, he didn’t even remember my name.

But I remember his.

Nico Vitale.

The name that haunted every sleepless night behind bars.

The name that bled into every broken rib, every locked door, every fucking scar.

Nico Vitale.

Nico Vitale.

Nico Vitale.

He’s the reason I went to prison.

He’s the reason I became… this.

So when Silvio offered me the hit, I didn’t hesitate. It felt like fate. Divine retribution. Finally, a chance to settle the score in blood.

But now I’m tied to his bed—dick aching, chest heaving—and I’m so fucked in the head, I can’t tell if I want to gut him or get on top of him.