Page 14 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

JULIAN

Fucker.

The guard’s already waiting in the hall, eyes blank like always, like he didn’t just hear the argument—or whatever that was—inside. He doesn’t say a word, just turns and starts walking.

I follow, fists clenched.

Back in the suite, I toss my briefcase on the bed and rip open the closet, muttering curses under my breath. Most of the stuff hanging inside looks like it came straight off a Milan runway—suits, tailored jackets, leather, shirts with collars so stiff they could double as knives.

Real subtle, Vitale…

“Jesus, does he own anything that isn’t made to be seen?” I hiss, shoving hangers aside. Everything screams look at me, which is great when you’re a mafia kingpin, not so much when you’re tailing a possible enemy through the docks in broad daylight.

Eventually I settle on something basic enough: dark jeans, black tee, leather jacket. It’ll have to do.

I throw the laptop in my briefcase and tuck the small knife in my waistband. Just in case.

Not that it’ll do much if Nico decides to get handsy again.

I exhale hard through my nose, dragging a hand through my hair. I shouldn’t still feel him on me. On my skin. In my fucking head.

But I do.

And that scares me more than the job.

“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter, slinging the briefcase over my shoulder as I step into the hall.

The guard waits just outside the door like he’s glued to the damn wall. He gives a stiff nod the second I step out, then turns without a word and starts leading me down the hall.

No small talk. No sideways glances.

Good. I’m not in the mood.

Each step echoes off the polished floors as we make our way downstairs. I try not to look too hard at the corners of the estate. There are too many cameras, too many doors I don’t have keys to. A cage dressed up like a mansion is still a cage.

Nico’s already in the foyer, black button-down rolled to the elbows, muscles on full display like a warning label. I find it odd he doesn’t have any tattoos. You’d think someone like him would. Then again, I’ve never seen him shirtless…

He’s slipping his car keys into his palm when he looks up and sees me.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches, his eyes sharp and cold.

And fuck, he looks good doing it.

“Let’s go,” he says, jerking his chin toward the door.

He leads the way out, and I fall in step behind him, past the guards flanking the doors. Sunlight punches through the sky, blinding after hours in that marble prison. I squint and shove my hands in my jacket pockets, pretending I’m not still replaying last night in my head.

The Benz is already parked out front, blacked out and gleaming like a loaded gun.

Nico unlocks it with a click, sliding behind the wheel. I slip into the passenger seat without a word.

It still smells like him in here. Spiced cologne. Leather. Power.

I stare straight ahead.

“Still don’t trust me to go alone?” I mutter as he pulls onto the road.

“I don’t trust anyone,” he says flatly. “But you’re a special case.”

I roll my eyes, but my stomach tightens anyway.

The city blurs past the windows as we head toward the docks. Sunlight bounces off the windshield, cutting lines across his face. He doesn’t flinch. Just drives like a man with a vendetta.

Because he is.

And for the next few hours, he’s my shadow.

Whether I like it or not.

When we reach the docks, he puts the car into park in an alley that smells like sea salt and diesel. Rusted fences line the perimeter, and rows of stacked shipping containers tower behind them.

Nico kills the engine but doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

The silence bleeds between us. He stares out at the pier through the windshield, hands still on the wheel like he’s holding back the urge to snap something in half.

“We’re early,” I say, breaking the silence.

He finally looks at me. “Good.”

I glance at the time on the dash. Still a few hours to kill before the guy’s usual pattern kicks in.

“So what, we watch the rats run in and out until sunset?”

Nico’s smirk is razor-thin. “That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Watching people?”

“I’m good at more than that,” I mutter, then immediately regret it when his smirk deepens.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

He gets out of the car without another word, slamming the door behind him. I hesitate for a beat, then follow, boots crunching on gravel as we move through the back end of the pier district.

There’s a rhythm here if you know how to listen for it: dock workers shouting, forklifts humming, gulls circling like scavengers. Everyone’s too busy minding their own business to pay attention to two guys walking with purpose.

But Nico… Nico’s impossible not to notice.

Even when he’s trying to blend in, there’s a sharpness to him. A tension in the way he moves, like a predator pretending to be tame.

He stops near the edge of a warehouse and nods at the corner facing the docks.

“We’ll post up here. If your guy shows, I want every detail. How he walks, who he talks to, whether he carries.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You ever tail someone before?”

He gives me a look. “I’ve hunted men, Cross. Tail work’s the easy part.”

Fair.

I lean against the metal siding, scanning the docks. “And what if he makes me out?”

Nico steps in close, lowering his voice so only I can hear.

“Then you’ll improvise. Lie. Flirt. Kill him. I don’t care how you handle it, just make sure I get something I can use.”

I scoff. He’s using me as bait. Of course he is.

Nico stands just behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him, like he’s daring me to acknowledge it. Like he knows exactly how much space to invade without laying a single hand on me.

It’s calculated. Precise. Just like everything he does.

I glance sideways. “You always breathe down your men’s necks when they’re working?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Only the ones who lie to me.”

I roll my eyes and refocus on the docks.

A container gets unloaded in the distance. The sound of heavy chains and rusted steel grinding against concrete echoes through the lot. A seagull shrieks overhead like it’s warning us both to turn around and run.

But neither of us do.

I scan the crowd again. Dockhands. A few drivers. One suit near the crane office, phone glued to his ear.

Then I see him.

“Three o’clock,” I mutter, tilting my chin subtly. “Black jacket, grey cap. That’s him.”

Nico follows my gaze. “You sure?”

“Positive. Same guy I saw tailing your runner last week.”

Nico doesn’t speak for a second, watching the man walk along the edge of the loading dock like he’s not doing anything shady. But I know better. Guys like him don’t just stroll through warehouse yards in the middle of the afternoon for fun.

“He’s alone,” I say. “No backup in sight. Could be waiting for someone.”

“Or scouting a drop,” Nico mutters. “Stay sharp.”

I glance back at him. “That supposed to be motivational?”

He smirks. “It’s either that or slap you.”

“Try it, Vitale.”

His smile widens, dangerous and dark. “Don’t tempt me.”

I turn back toward the dock before I say something stupid. My heart’s still steady, but everything else feels… tense. Tight. Like I’m being strung up between loyalty and the noose I built for myself.

I’ve tailed suspects before.

I’ve killed men before.

But I’ve never done either with the guy I’m supposed to kill standing two feet behind me, practically breathing down my spine.

The man in the black jacket stops near a shipping crate and pulls out a cigarette. Lights it. Takes a slow drag. Then starts moving again, same loop as last week. He’s not just loitering. He’s waiting.

“Could be a meeting,” I say.

“Could be bait,” Nico counters. “You bring a piece?”

I shoot him a look. “Your guys took everything I had when they locked me in your fucking mansion, remember?”

He doesn’t flinch. Just reaches into the back of his waistband and pulls out a sleek matte-black Beretta—custom grips, silencer-ready, clearly not off-the-shelf.

Definitely his.

He offers it grip-first.

“If shit goes sideways, I want you to pull the trigger.”

My jaw tightens. “You giving me permission to kill someone on your watch?”

He shrugs, calm as ever. “If you’re smart enough to know the difference between a threat and a witness? Be my guest.”

It’s sick, how easily we talk about it. Death. Lies. Strategy.

But that’s the job. And Nico breathes this shit like oxygen.

I chamber a round and shove it into my jacket.

The guy in the cap takes another turn past the containers and checks his watch.

“Ten minutes,” I say. “If no one shows, he’s either paranoid or trying to look like he’s not.”

Nico hums. “You ever think maybe he knows he’s being watched?”

“Always a possibility.”

“Then let’s see how good you are at not getting caught.”

I step out, zeroing in on the guy we tracked; grey cap, black jacket, walking like he owns the fucking pier but keeps checking over his shoulder like maybe someone’s figured him out.

He doesn’t see me.

I blend in. Shadow the bastard like I was born to.

“You tailing me?” I mutter low, not looking back.

“Not this time,” Nico says behind me. “But I’ll be watching.”

And then he’s gone. Just… gone. Like smoke off a barrel. Like he was never fucking there in the first place.

Which means I’m alone now, twenty yards from a maybe-assassin, maybe-messenger, maybe-dead-man. And somewhere behind me, Nico’s eyes are burning a hole through my back like he already knows how this ends.

I steady my breath. Adjust my grip. This isn’t new. I’ve tailed worse under shittier conditions.

But this time, the barrel’s pressed to both sides of my skull. And no matter which way I turn, I bleed.

The guy ahead of me doesn’t walk like muscle. Too lean. Too twitchy. He’s either low on the food chain or real good at pretending to be. He stops every few feet, pretends to light a cigarette he never actually smokes. Keeps glancing over his shoulder like paranoia’s baked into his spine.

He knows something’s coming.

He just doesn’t know it’s me.