Page 18 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

NICO

The sound of the door slamming behind Enzo echoes like a gunshot.

Julian’s footsteps fade on the stairs, each one scraping against my nerves. I should’ve kept him down here. Should’ve made him watch. But there’s only so much heat you can throw at a flame before it burns out of control.

And right now, I need control.

I descend the basement steps again, Luca trailing close behind me. The stench of blood hits first. It’s soaked into the concrete. Into the man still strapped to the chair, barely conscious, his breath rasping through busted lips.

He lifts his head when he hears us. One eye is already swollen shut. He knows what’s coming.

I pause in front of him, staring into the one eye that still works.

“There are holes in your story,” I say quietly. “Keep talking, or I start matching them. One bullet at a time.”

He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a cough and a string of blood.

Luca moves to the table in the corner, the one with the tools. He doesn’t ask what I want. He already knows.

“I gave you a chance,” I murmur, crouching in front of the bastard. “And you pissed on it.”

His mouth twitches like he’s going to be brave. Like he’s going to take whatever’s coming like a soldier.

But I’ve seen that look before. I know what it hides.

Fear.

Regret.

Weakness.

“Let’s start over,” I say, standing again. “This time, you don’t lie. This time, you tell me why Braga’s got a hitman pulling a trigger on my property. And why the fuck Julian Cross’s name is tangled in any of it.”

Luca turns, handing me the bolt cutters instead of the pliers this time.

I don’t say a word as I grip the bastard’s mangled hand, steady it against the chair arm, and sever his fourth finger like I’m trimming a dead branch.

He screams in agony.

“Talk,” I growl. “Before I start working my way up the arm.”

He spits blood onto the floor. “Fuck you.”

I sigh. “You never learn.”

I raise the cutters again, but he breaks before I even squeeze.

“Okay! Okay—just…fuck—just wait—”

I pause, breath steady, jaw tight.

“Start talking.”

He nods, gulping down pain. “Braga didn’t send me for you. He had no idea you’d be there. He’s moving product through your territory. I was there to keep eyes on your runners, not to pull the trigger.”

“Then why did you?” I ask flatly.

He hesitates. “I wasn’t supposed to. Wasn’t part of the plan. But when I saw your guy, Cross, I panicked.”

My blood stills.

“Why?”

The shooter laughs, or tries to. It comes out strangled and broken. “Because I know what he is. And if you weren’t so busy fucking him, you’d know it too.”

The words hit harder than any bullet.

Luca shifts beside me, but I hold up a hand. I want to hear this.

“What do you think he is?” I ask.

His smile is crimson and cracked. “You really don’t know, do you?”

I grab his jaw, force his head up. “Say it.”

“You think he’s just some P.I?” His voice drops, rasping. “You’re being played, Vitale. He’s not who he says he is.”

I stare at him.

“Then who the fuck is he?”

The shooter licks blood off his lip, like it might buy him time. “Ask Braga. Hell, ask Cross. But I’ll tell you this: whatever mask he’s wearing, it’s not his first. And it won’t be his last.”

I let go of his face with a shove. He slumps, spent, soaked in sweat and blood, his hand mangled and useless.

I should kill him. Leave his body in the alley like a warning.

But instead, I nod to Luca.

“Keep him alive. I’m not done with him yet.”

Luca wipes his hands on a rag and steps forward to secure him.

I turn toward the stairs, but the words echo again in my mind:

You really don’t know, do you?

And the worst part is, I don’t know who the fuck Julian Cross really is, but I think I’m starting to get the picture.

The second we step out of the basement, something twists in my gut, and instead of fury, what rises in my chest is laughter.

Low and bitter, crawling up my throat like bile.

I don’t even know why. I should be fantasizing about peeling Julian’s secrets out of him with a blade, should be raging about how close I came to trusting him. To liking him.

But I’m not.

Instead, I’m planning how to keep him close enough to burn. Keep him under my thumb until I squeeze the truth out of him, slowly, until there’s nothing left but wreckage and confession.

Beside me, Luca breathes in like he’s about to speak, and that alone pisses me off.

He knows better than to question me, but he opens his mouth anyway, then closes it.

I stop walking, tearing off my ruined shirt and tossing it aside.

Blood clings to my skin, drying against the scars and ink stretched across my chest.

I glance at him, fuming. “Got something to say, Luca?”

He pauses, sucking in a breath.

“I think,” he says slowly, “you should let me run a deeper background check on Cross.”

I stare at him for a beat too long, then scoff. “Yeah? No shit.”

He doesn’t flinch, but his posture shifts, and I turn away before the urge to knock his teeth in wins.

“Do it,” I mutter, my voice like gravel. “But don’t leave a trace. If he catches wind of it, I’ll be peeling your skin off before breakfast.”

Luca nods. “Understood.”

As soon as he turns to leave, my twisted thoughts begin to spiral.

If Julian Cross has been playing me from the start, if he’s got blood on his hands tied to Braga or anyone else…

He won’t need to worry about the bullet in his shoulder.

He’ll be begging for it by the time I’m done.

I shouldn’t care.

I keep telling myself that, over and over.

But the longer I stare at the closed bedroom door, the more I realize I’m not walking away from this.

Not until I understand him.

Julian Cross: Professional liar. Smooth-talking son of a bitch.

And maybe the only man alive who doesn’t flinch when I raise my voice. The only one who gets under my skin just by breathing near me.

He knew Braga.

He admitted it. Said he worked for him as a P.I, said he bailed because Braga was too controlling.

But the man I talked to in that basement painted a different picture.

And I’ve learned to trust two things in life: blood, and what comes out of a man’s mouth right before I cut off his fingers.

So now I’m standing outside the door to my own goddamn bedroom, trying to decide if I’m going to play this like an interrogation or a seduction.

Both have their uses. Both get results.

I open the door.

Julian’s pacing by the window, shirt wrinkled, sleeves rolled up. He glances over when I walk in, eyes tired but alert.

“I thought you said you didn’t need my help.”

I shrug, letting the door close behind me. “I changed my mind.”

“You never change your mind,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Should I be worried?”

“If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn’t see it coming.”

He scoffs.

“What do you want, Nico?”

I cross the room slowly, watching the way he tenses like he’s bracing for a blow that hasn’t come yet.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Braga.”

I keep my voice calm and even, like this is just a normal conversation.

Julian leans against the windowsill. “Yeah? And?”

I watch him closely.

“You said he was controlling.”

“He was.” A beat. “Is.”

“And that’s why you left?”

He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Among other things.”

“What other things?”

He lifts his gaze to mine, his brow furrowed. “Why are you asking me this now?”

Because you’re a fucking liar.

Because I know there’s more you’re not telling me.

Because I saw the way your eyes flared when I mentioned his name again.

Because something in your past with Braga made you bleed long before that bullet did.

But I just smile.

“Curiosity,” I say. “If he’s a threat to me, I want to know how he operates. Who better to ask than someone who worked with him?”

Julian’s mouth twists. He doesn’t answer right away.

I walk over to the bar cart, pour myself a drink, then gesture to him. “Want one?”

“No thanks.”

I take a slow sip, then lean back against the counter. “Tell me something, Cross. You ever kill for him?”

His eyes flick to mine, flat and cold. “Of course not. What kind of question is that?”

“An honest one.”

“You want honesty?” he says, his voice strained. “I’m not like you… I’m not a killer. But I’ve worked for a lot of men worse than Braga, doing things I’m not proud of. You wanna psychoanalyze me, put me under a microscope? Go ahead. But don’t pretend you’re any better.”

I smile. “Oh, I know I’m not.”

He pushes off the windowsill. “Then what the hell do you want from me, Nico?”

I want you to tell the truth for once in your fucking life.

“Dinner,” I say instead, downing the rest of my drink. “Tonight at six. We’re having guests. I expect you to look presentable.”

His brows furrow. “You can’t be serious.”

I shrug. “You’re under my roof. You eat when I say, bleed when I say, and play nice when I say. That wasn’t part of the deal?”

He’s quiet for a second too long. Then his gaze darkens. “You’re a real piece of work.”

I flash a grin. “So are you.”

And then I leave, closing the door behind me, knowing I didn’t get everything I wanted tonight.

But he’s slipping.

And when he falls, I’ll be the one holding the leash.

I knock once before pushing the door open. It’s just before six.

Julian’s by the mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt.

Tight black jeans. A gray t-shirt with a leather jacket tossed over the chair.

I let the door click shut behind me and lean my shoulder against the frame.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He turns, slow. “What?”

“That.” I nod to his clothes. “Take it off.”

He glares at me. “It’s clean. It fits. I’m not putting on one of your tailored-ass mafia suits just to eat dinner.”

I take a step forward.

He stiffens, eyes narrowing.

“Then I’ll rip it off you,” I murmur, voice low. “Piece by piece. Your choice.”

His jaw ticks. “You’re fucking insane.”

“Possibly.” I smile. “But the invite says formal. So unless you want Enzo and Luca watching you eat half-naked, I suggest you move.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then snaps it shut.