Page 16 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

NICO

I should’ve let him bleed out.

Should’ve watched the light leave his eyes and walked the fuck away.

But I didn’t.

And now I’m the one losing sleep.

I saw it happen.

That split second. That twitch of the bastard’s hand.

The glint of the barrel.

The fucking crack of it.

And the way Julian’s body jolted back like a puppet with its strings cut.

Everything in me went still.

Then it snapped.

And I didn’t think. I just pulled the trigger. Over and over and over.

Three bodies dropped, maybe four. I lost count. Didn’t care.

But the one who mattered, the one who pulled the shot?

Slipped through my fucking fingers.

He won’t next time.

I’ll make him suffer.

I’ll carve the skin from his bones and feed it to the dogs.

I’ll make him scream Julian’s name before I end him.

Because if anyone’s going to kill Julian Cross… it’s me.

Not some low-rank wannabe with shit aim.

But here’s the truth I can’t outrun: the bullet didn’t kill him.

It just woke something up in me I’ve been trying to drown.

I’m the one who dragged him into this.

I’m the one who pushed him into the line of fire.

And now I’m the one sitting beside his unconscious body like a fucking priest at a deathbed, watching his chest rise and fall, convincing myself he’s still here.

He looks pale. Fragile. Nothing like the venom-tongued bastard I’ve been circling for days.

The bandage over his shoulder is fresh and tight. I made sure of it.

He muttered something when I cleaned the wound, something about how it wasn’t a big deal.

He’s had worse.

I don’t doubt it.

Julian Cross is a liar.

A manipulator. A professional illusionist wrapped in cheap sarcasm and a body built to ruin men like me.

And yet…

I trust him.

More than I should. Maybe more than I ever have anyone.

And fuck, maybe I hate him for that.

I want to blame him for getting shot. For being sloppy. For making me care.

But deep down, I’m not sure he was.

What if he wanted to take a hit? To prove something? To throw me off?

Is that who he is, or am I just losing my grip trying to figure him out?

I stare at him now, sprawled in my bed like a broken piece of art.

No cuffs, just skin and blood and silence.

The kind of silence that makes you question everything you thought you knew.

I lean closer, brushing the sweat-damp hair off his brow.

His skin is warm. Too warm. His lips part slightly as he exhales, twitching like he’s caught in some fever dream.

“Who the hell are you?” I whisper.

But I already know the answer.

A threat.

A temptation.

A distraction I should’ve put down days ago.

And the only person alive who still makes me feel human.

Even if he is the one sent to destroy me.

I watch him a moment longer.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

Still mine.

But it won’t mean a goddamn thing if I don’t find the bastard who pulled the trigger.

I rise from the chair with slow precision, my bones aching from hours of stillness. My hand lingers on the edge of the mattress, one last brush of fingers against his wrist. Still warm.

Then I turn, stepping out of the room and shutting the door behind me.

Two guards stand on either side.

“Don’t let anyone in. Don’t let him out.”

They nod.

“If he wakes up and tries to pull anything stupid, you don’t lay a hand on him. You call me. Understand?”

Another nod. No questions. They know better.

I head down the hall, fast and sharp, my mind already spinning through a dozen names and a dozen more ways I’ll make them suffer.

The chef’s in the kitchen prepping breakfast. The moment he sees me enter, he nearly drops the tray in his hands.

“When he wakes up, make sure he eats. Make him something he’ll actually want to put in his mouth. Protein. Carbs. Nothing fancy. I don’t care what it takes, get food in him.”

“Yes, sir,” the chef stammers. “Of course.”

I don’t wait for a follow-up.

I’m already on the move.

Phone in hand. Contacts open. I start making the calls, the kind that send waves through the city. The kind that pull rats from holes and smoke out ghosts.

Whoever set that trap at the docks thought they were slick.

They thought a shoulder wound was enough.

But they don’t know me.

And they sure as fuck don’t know what I’ll do for the people I decide to keep.

They made a mistake.

A fatal one.

And now?

Now I’m going to find the bastard who pulled that trigger—

And I’m going to make him bleed.

Because nobody touches what’s mine.

Not without paying for it in screams.

The city is quieter when I’m hunting.

Not literally. Sirens still wail in the distance, horns still scream through traffic, drunks still shout at nothing on the sidewalks. But in my head, everything else goes still. The noise fades. Time slows. And all I hear is the heartbeat of the man I’m going to find.

The one who pulled that trigger.

Enzo meets me out front, leaning against the blacked-out Benz, arms crossed, shoulders tense. He opens his mouth, but I cut him off.

“Tell me you got a lead.”

He nods. “One of our runners spotted a guy matching the description in Naples. Shitty bar off 42nd. He was asking around. Flashing cash like he’s invincible.”

I crack my neck. “He’s not.”

Luca pulls up beside us on a bike, the engine still rumbling under him. “Want him alive?”

“Barely,” I mutter, climbing into the driver’s seat. “I want him begging.”

We move fast. I’m not in the mood to linger. I want blood. I want him on his knees, coughing up names with a gun in his mouth and my fist around his throat.

He shot Julian.

And I don’t even fucking know why that pisses me off so much.

He should’ve been a liability. An asset. Maybe a ticking time bomb.

But now all I can picture is that son of a bitch’s body jolt when the bullet hit him.

And the way Julian’s eyes found mine just before he collapsed.

And now?

Now I’m driving like the devil himself is in the back seat, because he might as well be.

Enzo keeps eyes on the GPS while Luca gives me updates from our guy tailing the shooter.

“He’s still there. Drinks hard. Doesn’t look around much.”

“Good,” I murmur. “Makes it easy.”

We don’t go through the front when we get there.

We circle the block, cut through the alley, take the back entrance where the cook’s out smoking and doesn’t dare stop us when he sees my face.

Inside, it’s a sweat-stained dive. Smells like piss and bad decisions. Lights are low. Music’s loud. Nobody notices us until it’s too late.

And there he is.

The bastard.

Sitting at the bar like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just put a bullet through someone who mattered to me.

Like his hands aren’t still dirty with Julian’s blood.

I nod once.

Luca cuts the power.

The lights go black.

Screams go off.

And by the time the emergency lights flicker back to life, I’ve already got my gun at the back of the shooter’s skull.

“Move,” I say, voice low. “And I paint the bar with your teeth.”

He stiffens.

I drag him into the alley, Enzo flanking my side.

He tries to talk. I smash the butt of my gun across his jaw.

He won’t be talking unless I say so.

I lean in, close enough he can feel the rage rolling off of me.

“You shot the wrong man,” I growl. “And you’re going to tell me why.”

Then I crack my knuckles.

Because now, the real fun starts.

The bastard’s bleeding before we even get to the car.

A split lip. Broken nose. His left eye’s already swelling shut, and I didn’t even touch him with my gun yet, just my hands.

He didn’t answer my questions in the alley.

So now he’s coming with me.

Enzo pops the trunk. We don’t cuff him like the cops do. I slam the fucker in face-first, zip-tie his hands behind his back, and toss a tarp over his head.

Luca raises a brow as he slams it shut.

“No cleanup?”

I shrug. “Not yet.”

We drive in silence, the way back to the estate feeling longer than usual. The guy in the trunk moans once, maybe twice. I don’t care.

Julian’s blood is still on my shirt.

And the scent of it—copper and heat and sweat—is making me see red all over again.

He could’ve died.

Not from a neck snap or a clean kill. Not from a knife to the ribs.

No, some low-rent motherfucker pulled a trigger and nearly ended him without even knowing what he was worth.

I won’t let that go unanswered.

When we reach the estate, the guards at the front gate don’t even ask. One look at my face and they open the gate. They know the rules.

No one fucks with what’s mine and walks out breathing.

We haul him down into the basement. Concrete floor. No windows. Smells like bleach and bad intentions.

Luca flips on the light. It flickers, that annoying buzz that makes people twitchy.

I like it.

We zip-tie him to the old metal chair in the center of the room. I step into the shadows and wait. Watch him squirm.

When he finally lifts his head, I lean forward, arms crossed.

“Name,” I say.

He spits blood onto the floor and grins like he thinks this is a game.

“Fuck you.”

I smile.

Wrong answer.

I grab the edge of the table and slam it forward into his shins. The crack of bone isn’t loud, but the scream is.

“You shot a man who belongs to me,” I say evenly. “That means you didn’t just fire a bullet. You declared war.”

“I didn’t know he was yours,” he grunts.

“You didn’t ask either.” I crouch in front of him, eye to eye now. “So now, I get to ask the questions. And you get to answer. Or bleed. Your choice.”

He stays quiet. That same smug smile.

I nod once.

“Luca.”

Luca opens the cabinet and pulls out the case we only use when we want people to remember what pain feels like. Inside are knives, gloves, zip ties, and a roll of surgical gauze that never ends up getting used.

I slide the knife from my belt. A short, curved thing.

“Last chance,” I say, brushing the blade under his chin. “Who sent you?”

He flinches but still stays quiet.

And that’s fine.

Because I’ve got nothing but time.

And plenty of rage to spare.

The cement floor is slick with sweat, piss, and blood. I haven’t even asked the real questions yet.

By now, he’s probably thinking the pain gets easier after the first hit.

He’s wrong about that.

“Last chance,” I say, rolling up my sleeves to the elbows. My shirt’s soaked through, hands stained red. “Tell me who sent you.”

He just breathes hard. Spits blood at the floor near my shoe.

So I kneel.

And I grab his hand, shaking, twitching, still scraped raw from the zip ties.

“Index first,” I mutter, more to myself than him. I don’t need a reply. Just a grip. Just the right angle.

Snap.

The sound is sharp and final as the finger severs and falls to the floor

He lets out a strangled scream that turns into a cough. “FUCK—!”

I line his middle finger up with the pliers. “Two left.”

“I’m not talking,” he grits. “You’re wasting your time.”

“No,” I murmur. “I’m making you aware of it.”

Snap.

Middle finger gone.

He thrashes, kicking the leg of the chair against the wall, teeth bared like an animal. But he’s still not talking.

The third one, I take slower. I want him to feel it coming.

I wrap the pliers around his ring finger, meet his eyes, and hold them.

“Tell me who your boss is,” I whisper, deadly calm. “Or I take the whole fucking hand next.”

Then, finally, he breaks.

“I—OKAY! Okay! I’ll tell you.”

I pause, blood dripping off the pliers. “I’m listening.”

He swallows hard, his voice wrecked. “His name’s Paulo Braga. Works out of Rio. But he’s got people here. Said there was a shipment coming in: coke, weapons, money. He wanted your docks.”

“So he sent a gunman after me?” I ask.

“No,” he rasps. “Braga wanted a distraction. I was supposed to shoot close, just enough to rattle you. Make you look over your shoulder so his crew could move. But then he saw Julian.”

I go still.

“Braga knew about him?” I ask.

The guy nods, trembling. “Said he didn’t trust the setup. Said your boy’s loyalty was… complicated.”

My grip tightens around the pliers. My mind sharpens like a blade.

“So the bullet,” I say. “It was meant for Julian?”

“No,” he says, but it’s shaky now. “I—I mean… not at first. Braga said shoot close. Just a warning shot.”

My grip tightens on the pliers.

“That wasn’t a warning shot. That bullet went clean through his shoulder.”

“I missed.”

“You fired from twenty feet away.”

He stammers, eyes wild. “Braga changed the plan last minute. I just did what I was told.”

His story’s cracking.

“Funny,” I say, crouching beside him again. “You seem real confident for someone talking out of their ass.”

He shuts his mouth. Breathes hard through his nose.

I lean in, my voice like a knife against his ear. “You’re leaving something out.”

“I told you what I know,” he rasps.

I straighten, chest rising and falling like a fucking bomb just went off behind my ribs.

Too many names. Too many games. And somehow, every thread leads back to Julian Cross.

I hand the pliers off to Luca again. “Stitch him up. Keep him alive.”

“For how long?” Luca asks.

“Until I decide whether I want to feed him to the dogs or string him up on the pier.”

I don’t wait for a response. I’m already walking up the stairs.

I need answers.

And I’m done asking nicely.