Page 19 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)
“I hate you,” he mutters as he brushes past me toward the closet.
“No, you don’t,” I say as I watch him drag a black suit off a hanger, all while cursing under his breath. “You just hate that you’re starting to like this.”
He flips me off without turning around.
He takes longer than necessary to get dressed, fumbling with the tie, muttering things I don’t catch.
Watching him in the mirror is entertainment enough.
The way his hands shake just slightly when the silk brushes his throat.
The way he tries to keep his expression blank when he catches me watching.
“Need help?” I ask innocently.
“Fuck off,” he snaps.
“Pity. I was hoping to get my hands on you.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You say that like it’s new information.”
When he’s finally done, he turns toward me, stiff in the suit, like he doesn’t belong in it. But he does. More than he knows.
“Better?” he grits out.
I let my gaze drag over him, slowly. I linger on the tie, the way it cuts clean down the center of his chest. The way the fabric hugs his hips. His throat flexes under my stare.
“Much.”
I walk toward the door without another word, and he follows.
He’s tense beside me as we head down the hall. The guards posted along the corridors barely look up.
Halfway to the dining room, he finally mutters, “Why are we even doing this?”
I smirk.
“You’ll see.”
“This is bullshit.”
“And yet you keep following.”
His laugh is bitter. “Because you don’t leave me much choice.”
“No,” I agree, letting my hand brush the small of his back for just a second too long. “But you never really try to run either, do you?”
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t pull away.
When we reach the dining room, the table’s already set—dim lighting, heavy silverware, red wine breathing in a crystal decanter. Two seats. Candlelight.
He pauses at the threshold. “Nico, what the fuck is this?”
I lean in, close enough for him to feel my breath against his jaw.
“A date,” I murmur. “Or an interrogation. Depends on how the night goes.”
He stares at me, stunned. Then finally speaks.
“You’re sick.”
I smile, pulling out his chair for him like a gentleman. And when he doesn’t move, I arch a brow.
“Sit, cagniolo.”
His eye twitches, but he sits.
And I sit across from him.
Because tonight, I’m going to unravel him thread by thread.
The silence stretches long enough to make him uncomfortable.
I watch the way Julian fidgets with the edge of his napkin, eyes flicking over the silverware like one of them might be a weapon. Maybe he’s wondering how fast I’d stop him if he reached for the steak knife.
He wouldn’t make it past the appetizer.
The chef enters with the first course: braised lamb shoulder on a bed of saffron risotto. A drizzle of blood-orange glaze darkens the meat, shining under the low light. On the side are charred asparagus and microgreens, arranged like they matter.
Julian doesn’t touch his plate right away. He just sits there, one elbow braced on the table, swirling his wine like he’s debating whether to throw it in my face or drink it.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and dry. “So what’s your game tonight?”
I lift my glass to my lips, sipping slow. “Who said anything about a game?”
He scoffs, stabbing a piece of lamb with his fork. “You always have an angle.”
He cuts a piece of meat and brings it to his mouth, chewing slowly, like he’s bracing for poison.
I reach for my own fork, tearing into the lamb as the dessert arrives—strawberries, glistening and red as fresh wounds, resting on top of a swirl of whipped cream so smooth it looks airbrushed.
A lace-thin sugar tuile leans against the rim like a blade.
The plate’s beautiful, but he barely glances at it.
I swirl my wine again, watching the way it stains the glass like blood in a basin.
“Tell me something, piccolino,” I murmur.
“Stop calling me that,” he snaps.
I smile like he didn’t speak. “What kind of man were you before this? Before Braga. Before me.”
His chewing slows.
Then he shrugs. “I don’t remember.”
“Funny,” I say, letting my voice drop just a little. “Because I asked your little friend in the basement about you.”
His eyes narrow, sharp as glass. “You talked about me?”
I tilt my head. “We had a conversation. A very productive one.”
Julian sets his fork down with a sharp clink.
“And what exactly did he tell you?”
I lean back in my chair, tapping the rim of my glass with one finger.
“That you’re not who you say you are.”
He doesn’t flinch, but his throat works. I catch the way his Adam’s apple bobs, just once. And there it is.
The lie, blooming beneath his skin.
“That so?” he says, his voice thinner now. “Let me guess. He told you I’m some kind of monster. Or Braga’s golden boy?”
I smile, slow and sharp. “Golden boy?” I echo. “Cute. But no, that wasn’t the phrase he used.”
He grabs his wineglass, downs it too fast to enjoy the taste, then leans in, elbows on the table.
“You’re getting off on this,” he says. “Cornering me like this. Twisting the knife. You like watching me squirm.”
I reach across the table, letting my fingertips brush the inside of his wrist, just enough contact to remind him that I can take whatever I want. That he’s not as untouchable as he pretends to be.
“I don’t twist knives,” I murmur. “I drive them in slowly.”
His laugh is quiet and sharp, but he doesn’t pull away.
“You think I’m trying to break you.” My thumb glides along his pulse, steady and hot beneath his skin. “But I just want to watch you come undone all on your own.”
“I’m not pretending, Nico.”
“No?” I lean in, smile curling on my lips. “Then why are your hands shaking?”
His breath catches, just for a moment.
“I told you…” he starts. “I worked for Braga. Started as a P.I. Then he dragged me into the rest: smuggling, surveillance, dirtier shit. He kept me close. Used me. Drugged me—”
I stop him there, narrowing my eyes.
“Drugged you?”
He stiffens.
I don’t believe him at first. Just about everything that comes out of Julian Cross’ mouth is complete bullshit. But that moment, the shift in his gaze, the way he falters like he let something slip he didn’t mean to, that’s real.
And it makes me wonder:
What else is he hiding beneath that pretty mouth and all those carefully curated lies?
“What did he drug you with?” I mutter.
Julian tenses like I just laid a blade against his spine.
“Why the hell does that matter?”
I lean in. My gaze sharpens to a razor’s edge.
“Because I’m trying to decide what I’m going to drug Braga with before I carve his heart out. Eye for an eye, piccolino.”
His jaw locks.
“I’m not telling you shit.”
My grip shoots across the table and clamps down around his wrist. Tight. Bone-close. I feel the tendons twitch beneath my fingers.
“You’re going to tell me. Right fucking now.”
His breath comes fast, nostrils flaring.
“Jesus Christ—fine!” he snaps. “Coke. Pills. Whatever the bastard could get his hands on. He made me a junkie. Is that what you wanted to hear? He dosed me until I couldn’t think straight. Until I’d do whoever he wanted without question. You happy now?”
I don’t answer. Not right away.
Instead, I stare at him. Hard. Like I’m trying to see straight through his skin.
“Why the fuck would I be happy that some bastard abused you like that?”
He blinks, caught off-guard. A hint of something raw flashes across his face—shame, anger, maybe grief—but he tries to bury it too fast.
“He didn’t—” he starts, but the lie stalls on his tongue.
“Yes, he did.” My voice drops, almost a whisper. “I’ve seen what that kind of abuse looks like. And I’ve seen what it turns people into. That wasn’t your fault, Julian.”
His lips part, like he’s about to argue, but he doesn’t.
Something fragile and furious flashes behind his eyes before he turns his head away, like if he looks at me too long, he’ll shatter.
I don’t let go of his wrist.
“Look at me,” I say quietly.
He hesitates.
“Look. At. Me.”
Slowly, he does.
His eyes are glassy and guarded. Still defiant, but trembling at the edges.
I lean in, my mouth near his ear, breath just brushing his skin.
“He broke you. But I don’t want to break you, piccolino.”
A beat.
“I want to watch you claw your way back. I want to see who you really are when you stop letting ghosts pull your strings.”
He exhales, shaky and uneven, and I feel his pulse hammering against my fingers.
He doesn’t speak.
But he doesn’t pull away.
And that silence is more honest than anything he’s said all night.