Page 13 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

NICO

What the fuck was I thinking?

I wait until he’s fully unconscious before unlocking the cuffs, just in case he tries to make a break for it… again.

He’s already tried to bolt once. I wouldn’t put it past him to try again, especially now that I’ve touched him the way I have.

The way he let me.

His suite’s finally finished. Reinforced locks, new security. I have no excuse to keep him here like this anymore.

And yet, I still want to.

He’s a distraction. A problem. And usually, I take care of my problems—discreetly.

And this one… he’s a stalker. Private investigator. Maybe even a hired gun.

But none of that stops him from being the most dangerously beautiful, intoxicating thing I’ve ever seen.

He isn’t mine. Not by choice, anyway. He’ll probably never be.

But when he looked up at me last night, panting, broken, and begged me to ruin him…

Something inside me snapped.

I’ve spent my whole life taking what I want. With force. With power. Without apology.

But with him, I don’t want that. I want him willing. I want his surrender, not just his body.

And still, I chained him to my bed like a fucking madman.

Now he’s out cold, completely undone, and it’s just about the only time I feel like I can breathe around him.

Carefully, I lift him. Carry him across the estate like a goddamn offering, back to the corner suite I had rebuilt like a gilded cage. I set him down gently, apply ointment to the raw skin around his wrists, and cover him with the sheets.

He stirs, but doesn’t wake.

Good.

Because if he saw the way I was looking at him right now, I don’t think I could lie my way out of it.

At the door, I pause before turning the lock, pulling one of the guards aside.

“Tell me the second he wakes up,” I mutter. “He doesn’t leave this room. Not unless I say.”

The guard nods, and I walk away.

I try to work.

I really do.

On top of finding the hitman, I have a stack of contracts waiting on my desk. Three new security audits to review. An encrypted message from a port contact in Naples flagged urgent. But all I can think about is him.

Every time I try to read, my eyes blur. Every signature looks like his name.

Fuck this.

I close the laptop, lean back in my chair, and rub the bridge of my nose. The overhead lights are too harsh. The silence is too loud. Everything feels off, like I left something burning and can’t remember what.

I reach for the remote and flip on the surveillance feed.

There he is.

Camera three. Corner suite. Still unconscious, or pretending to be. Face soft against the pillow, dark lashes brushing his cheeks, one arm thrown over his head like he forgot he was ever cuffed.

His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm.

He’s been out like this for hours.

He’s faking it.

Or maybe this is just me being impatient.

My jaw tightens.

I page the kitchen. “Have one of the chefs bring something to the corner suite. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Whatever.”

“Yes, sir,” comes the reply.

I don’t know why I care if he eats. Maybe I just want something to do with my hands. Something to fix.

But by noon, when I notice the tray of food’s untouched and he still hasn’t moved, I’ve had enough.

I shut off the monitor and stand, pushing the chair back so hard it scrapes the floor.

If he’s still playing dead, fine.

He wants my attention? He’s going to get it.

I meet the guards stationed outside his door.

“I’ll take it from here,” I say.

They step aside without a word. I slip the key into the lock, turn it, and push the door open.

Julian’s sprawled across the bed, shirtless and tangled in the sheets like he fucking owns the place. His eyes are shut, but I know better.

“Get up,” I say.

He doesn’t react.

I take a step closer, my voice dropping an octave. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

His eyes crack open, just enough to meet mine. He doesn’t bother trying to hide the smirk curling at his lips.

“I was having the most wonderful dream,” he murmurs. “I was on a deserted island, thousands of miles away from you.”

He pauses, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“You ruined it.”

“Dream’s over,” I mutter.

He stretches out slowly, like he’s testing how far he can push me.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” I say coolly, “you still have a job to do. I didn’t drag you into my house out of charity.”

Julian’s eyes flick up from the bed. His wrists are still red from the night before.

“You watching me sleep now, boss?” he mocks. “Should I be flattered or file a report?”

I step closer, gripping the footboard with one hand and leaning in just enough to fill his space.

“You still think this is a game?” I hiss. “You’re not here to sleep. You’re not here to test boundaries and run your mouth. You’re here to prove your worth. Or I put a bullet in your head and call it a day.”

He stiffens, but he doesn’t look away.

“I gave you back your room. Let you sleep in. That was a courtesy, Julian. Don’t make me regret it.”

I turn to leave, then pause at the threshold and look back over my shoulder.

“Get dressed. You’re meeting me downstairs in ten. One of the guards will escort you.”

He scoffs under his breath. “What if I take fifteen?”

I don’t even blink. “Then I drag you out of here naked. Either way, you’ll be there.”

I step into the hall.

“Tick tock, cagniolo.”

And I don’t wait for an answer.

I hear him before I see him.

Boots on marble. The low murmur from the guard. The slow creak of the doors swinging open.

And there he is.

Brought in like a prisoner without chains, though no chains or binds could ever keep that mouth of his shut. Keeping my head lowered, I steal a quick glance at him. He’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday, despite having access to a designer wardrobe.

Enzo and Luca stand near the table with me, reviewing potential suspects, maps, and manifests from the pier: dock numbers, cargo codes, intercepted shipments. My mind should be on the work.

It isn’t.

It’s already locked on the man standing in front of me, the heat of him crawling down my spine like instinct.

He pauses just inside the doorway, eyes scanning the room like he’s calculating exit strategies.

Smart.

Useless, but smart.

The guard who brought him in nods once and steps out without a word, the heavy door shutting behind him with a thud.

“Leave us,” I say, still not looking up.

Enzo glances at me. “Boss?”

I raise my head just enough to meet his eyes.

One look.

That’s all it takes.

He nods. Luca lingers half a second too long, casting a glance toward Julian like he’s tempted to say something stupid. He doesn’t.

He knows better.

The two of them step out, and the silence falls like a blade.

Now it’s just us.

Finally, I look up.

Julian stands in the center of the room, arms crossed, chin lifted, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“You’re late,” I mutter.

He shrugs it off like it’s nothing. “Your guy walks like he’s on life support.”

I ignore him, circling the table until I’m standing right in front of him.

He doesn’t back up. But his body’s telling the truth his mouth won’t; every muscle tight, jaw locked like he’s debating between swinging or bolting.

“Sleep well?” I ask.

He scowls. “Cut the shit.”

I smirk. “Suit yourself.”

Then I gesture to the chair opposite mine. “Sit.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches me like he’s trying to figure out what I’m about to do next.

I drop my voice.

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

A beat passes. Two. Then finally, he moves.

He sits like he’s being called to the stand. Back straight, hands clasped. Composed, but not relaxed. Never relaxed.

I take the seat across from him, silent for a moment.

He glares at me like he wants me dead.

I stare back like I’ve already buried him.

Because whatever game he thinks this is?

He’s already lost.

And it’s time he starts realizing it.

“So,” I say, folding my hands on the table like I’ve got all the time in the world. “Let’s talk about what you’re really doing here.”

Julian lifts an eyebrow. “Pretty sure that’s your mystery to solve, boss.”

I don’t blink. “Don’t play games with me. You said you’re a private investigator. Fine. Let’s pretend that isn’t complete bullshit.”

“It’s not,” he says dryly.

“Sure,” I murmur. “Then tell me, why would a legitimate P.I openly admit to stalking me for years?”

That shuts him up.

I lean forward. “You told me you wanted to help find who’s behind the bounty on my head. Good. Then here’s your shot.”

I slide the folder across the table. A little louder than necessary. Let the weight of it speak for me.

He opens it.

Photos. Logs. Victims. Two of my guys, one from a rival crew, and a body fished out of the Halston. All with one thing in common.

The same signature.

And the same loose ends I’m tired of chasing.

Julian doesn’t flinch as he flips through it. His expression sharpens, turning focused, almost too comfortable with the gory details.

He pauses on one image. Taps his finger once.

“This guy,” he says. “Saw him shadowing your runner last week at Pier 19. He wasn’t watching the crates. He was watching your kid.”

“Zane?”

He turns to me. “Curly hair, nervous as hell? Then, yeah. Your boy’s being followed.”

“You’re sure?”

Julian lifts his eyes. “I don’t open my mouth unless I am.”

“You’re not off the hook yet,” I say. “You’re still a liability. Still a walking question mark with too many answers and not enough explanations.”

He stays quiet, but I can see his posture shift, like he expects me to strike.

“I should’ve buried you the second I found you. But instead…” I pause, lowering my voice. “I brought you into my home. Let you sleep under my roof. Let you put your hands on me.”

He doesn’t move.

“You’ve been useful to me,” I continue. “So far.”

I lean in behind him, close enough that I feel his shoulders tense beneath the heat of my breath.

“But if you lie to me again…”

Julian turns his head, his eyes cutting sharp enough to bleed. “What?” he hisses, “you’ll chain me to the bed again?”

I smile, but there’s nothing soft about it. Just teeth. “No, cagniolo. Next time…” I drag the words out like a promise. “I won’t be so gentle.”

He grits his teeth so hard, he looks like he might break a molar.

I straighten.

“You recognize the guy in the photo. Good. You’re going to track him. Watch who he talks to. What he eats. Where he sleeps. I want it all. Names, tells, weak points.”

Julian doesn’t flinch. “Fine,” he says, like it’s no big deal. Like he’s done this countless times in his sleep.

I nod once. “You said he’s been tailing Zane at Pier 19. You should go back there, see what you can find.”

Julian sits up a little, dragging the folder toward him. “Then I’m going now. I want eyes on him before he gets comfortable.”

I let that hang there a second. Then drop it:

“I’m coming with you.”

His gaze flicks up, sharp. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I work better alone.”

I shake my head once. “No. You run better alone. But I’m not letting you off the leash tonight.”

He scoffs, his body stiffening.

“You want me to trust you?” I say. “Then you’ll work under my eyes. You’ll sweat under my eyes. You’ll fucking bleed under them if you have to.”

He grits his teeth, but doesn’t say a word.

“Fine,” he mutters eventually. “Let’s go.”

He starts to stand like he’s in control now. Like he’s calling the shots.

“Sit back down,” I say, tapping the table once. “We’re not done yet.”

He freezes, mid-motion.

“Jesus Christ. What now?”

He glares at me like he wants to throw the chair across the room. But I don’t flinch. I just stand, move to the door, and call out to the guard posted just outside.

I glance toward the door. “Bring the tray.”

Julian’s eyes narrow. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

The guard returns a moment later, setting the tray—scrambled eggs, toast, fruit, coffee—down in front of him. It’s the same one I had sent up earlier, untouched.

Julian glares at it like it’s poison.

I drag the tray toward him. “Eat.”

He scoffs.

“I said eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care.”

He slouches back in the chair, arms crossed. “What is this, prison cafeteria hour?”

“No,” I say, dragging the tray toward him. “It’s me making sure you don’t pass out the second we get to the docks because your stubborn ass hasn’t eaten in two days.”

He exhales hard through his nose. The kind of breath that usually comes before a punch.

“I told you to eat,” I say, softer now. But not kinder. “And you will. Every bite. Right here. In front of me.”

He gives me this look, somewhere between pure hate and challenge.

Then, finally, he grabs the fork. Stabs a piece of egg like he’s murdering it.

Each bite is tense. Slow. Forced.

And I watch. Not because I need to.

Because I want to.

It’s the first time he’s followed an order without chains or a knife pressed to his throat. And somehow that makes it worse for him.

And better for me.

He finishes the last bite, tosses the fork down with a clatter, and glares at me through his lashes.

“There,” he mutters. “Happy?”

I flash a lazy, satisfied smile. “Ecstatic.”

I turn towards the door.

“Gear up. We leave in twenty. And Julian?”

He looks up at me.

“If I have to come back for you, don’t bother getting dressed.”