Page 15 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

I keep my pace casual, like I’m just another asshole at the docks.

My fingers twitch toward the pistol inside my coat, just in case. Because the guy looks like he might bolt. Or shoot. Or both.

He turns down an alley tucked between two abandoned shipping offices. A dead end. Dumb move, unless he’s leading me into a trap.

I wait a beat.

Then follow, careful and quiet.

My footsteps echo soft against the cracked pavement as I edge around the corner. But when I round it…

There’s nothing but empty space. A rusted dumpster. A broken pallet leaning against the wall. No sign of him.

Fuck.

I spin, checking behind me.

A shadow moves.

But it’s not him.

It’s Nico.

He steps out from behind a cargo container like he’s been there the whole time. Watching. Waiting.

So he is tailing me.

I should’ve known.

He doesn’t say a word, just lifts his chin in the direction of a service door up the alley. Slightly ajar. Like someone was too rushed, or too cocky, to close it.

I nod once and move toward it.

Nico follows, silent as a ghost.

We press in close to the metal, listening. There’s faint movement inside. Muffled voices, two or three of them. Maybe more.

I glance at Nico.

He gives the smallest nod.

I push the door open with the toe of my boot and step inside.

It’s dim inside. The air smells like old oil and cigarette ash.

And somewhere inside this rotting building is our guy.

Maybe not alone.

I move low, back against the wall, edging toward the sound. One breath at a time.

Behind me, I can feel Nico’s presence like a blade at my spine. Every step, every breath, he’s measuring me.

Not just the target.

Me.

I’m still a suspect. Still not trusted.

Still very much disposable.

And as I press closer to the source of the voices, it hits me…

If I fuck this up?

I won’t need to worry about the men inside pulling the trigger.

Because Nico will beat them to it.

The voices go quiet, just like that.

Something in my gut twists hard, and I freeze mid-step, my eyes narrowing at the steel door cracked ahead of us.

It’s not silence.

It’s waiting.

“Fall back,” I whisper, just loud enough for Nico to hear.

But it’s too late.

The first shot cracks through the air like a whip, splintering a pipe over my shoulder. Ricochet sings past my ear.

“Fuck!” I drop down, ducking behind a rusted barrel.

Two more shots. Nico’s already moving, fast and lethal. He doesn’t flinch, just raises his weapon and returns fire with deadly precision. One body drops. Maybe two. Hard to tell over the ringing in my ears.

My shoulder burns, white hot all of a sudden.

I look down.

Blood.

Lots of it.

“Shit,” I hiss, pressing my hand to the hole in my upper arm. Clean shot, maybe. Hurts like hell. Everything goes tight around the edges, like the world’s zooming out.

“Cross!” Nico’s voice, sharp and lethal, cuts through the chaos. Then I feel him, an iron grip on my jacket, hauling me up and back.

We retreat fast, through the side corridor we entered, bullets sparking off walls behind us. The whole fucking building is a trap. A kill box.

We make it to the car.

Barely.

Nico throws the passenger door open, shoves me inside, and floors it before I even shut it. Tires screech. The engine roars.

I grit my teeth, blood soaking into my shirt and dripping down my fingers. “I’m fine,” I mutter, trying to breathe through it. “This is nothing.”

His hands are like stone on the wheel, jaw clenched so tight, I swear I can hear it crack.

“You’re bleeding all over my seats,” he growls.

“Not like you don’t have ten more of these fuckin’ cars.”

He says nothing. Just drives faster. The silence between us buzzes with fury.

But it’s not at me.

It’s worse.

He’s angry on my behalf.

When we finally screech into the estate, he kills the engine, slams his door, and yanks mine open like he’s one second from dragging me inside. His hand is iron on my good arm, guiding me through the front door, down the hall, into Nico’s bedroom like I’m breakable. Like I’m his.

The second we’re in the room, he kicks the door shut and points to the bed.

“Sit,” he barks.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“Sit. The fuck. Down.”

I don’t argue this time.

He disappears into the adjoining bathroom, comes back with a kit I didn’t know he kept stocked here. Gloves. Gauze. Scissors. The works.

“This is unnecessary,” I mutter as he peels my jacket off with surprisingly careful hands. “I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you’ve had.”

I wince as he pulls the ruined shirt off next, blood sticky and dried against my skin. His jaw tightens when he sees the wound, a clean exit, right through the shoulder.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, swabbing around the hole. “Could’ve hit your lung. Could’ve been your head.”

“But it wasn’t,” I snap, his proximity making my skin feel too tight. “So stop acting like I’m dying.”

He ignores me, working in silence, cleaning, wrapping, securing. He’s being gentle in a way that pisses me off.

His hands pause, then his voice cuts low and lethal:

“They set us up.”

“Yeah,” I say. “No shit.”

“Whoever it was, whoever’s feeding intel to my enemies, they’re going to fucking regret it.”

I glance at him, the storm building behind his eyes.

He’s already planning.

Already picturing the kill.

And for the first time, I’m not entirely sure it’s all the bastards at the docks he’s imagining bleeding.

It might be whichever one hurt me.

Or maybe he doesn’t know the difference anymore.

He finishes bandaging my arm and drops the bloodied gauze into the trash like it personally offended him.

“You’re staying here tonight,” he says.

I blink. “What? No.”

“You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”

I scoff. “You going to cuff me again?”

He steps closer,

“I don’t need to.”

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because he’s right. I’m too exhausted, too weak to move.

“Fine,” I mutter, gritting through the pain. “I’ll stay.”

But the second the word leaves my mouth, I hate how weak it sounds. Hate the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. Like he’s won something.

Nico leans in, eyes scanning my face like he’s waiting for me to take it back. I don’t. I just hold his stare and grit my teeth harder.

“Say it again,” he murmurs.

I scowl. “What?”

“Say it like you mean it.”

He brushes his thumb along the bandage he just wrapped around my shoulder, slow and possessive. “Tell me you’ll stay.”

My jaw clenches.

The fuck is this, some twisted victory lap?

I should shove him. Should bite back. Should spit in his face just to see what he does.

But I don’t.

Because part of me—some fucked up, splintered part—wants to give it to him. Wants him to own it. Own me.

“I’ll stay,” I grind out.

He exhales slowly. Like that was what he needed to hear all along.

“Good boy.”

My stomach knots. Not with anger. Not exactly.

I look away, blood still crusted on my ribs, the throbbing in my arm starting to spike now that the adrenaline’s wearing off. “Don’t push your luck.”

“I’m not,” he says coolly, walking over to the small bar cart by the wall. “Just making sure we understand each other.”

He pours a finger of whiskey into a glass. Doesn’t ask if I want one.

Brings it over anyway.

I take it. Because fuck him, I need it.

Because my shoulder’s screaming and I’d rather deal with the pain than the way he keeps looking at me.

Like I belong to him.

I down half the glass in one gulp. It burns all the way down, and still doesn’t hurt as much as this… whatever the hell this is.

Nico watches me over the rim of his own glass.

“You’re lucky I was there,” he says, his tone deceptively casual.

I laugh once, dry and bitter. “Yeah. I’ll add that to the list of shit I owe you for.”

He smirks. “The list’s getting long.”

“So’s my patience.”

He steps closer again. “Then you better behave.”

“You keep saying that,” I mutter, finishing the last sip. “Still waiting for a reason to.”

He takes the glass from my hand and sets it aside, then leans in until our foreheads nearly touch.

“I just saved your life, piccolino,” he whispers. “Don’t make me regret it.”

I don’t move.

I don’t speak.

I just breathe, shallow and ragged, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Waiting to see what I’ll do.

Because whatever this thing is between us, it’s bleeding now.

Open.

Wounded.

And still very much alive.