Page 2 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

I should be the one putting that body in the ground. But I’ve got a different ghost to chase.

One that walks like he’s got nothing to lose.

I tap the wheel once, tension riding just beneath my skin. “Keep eyes on him. Don’t make contact.”

“You think he’s working alone?” Luca asks.

“No,” I murmur. “I think he’s a fucking trap. And I want to know who set him.”

Silence hums through the line. Then Luca exhales. “You want backup?”

“If I need backup,” I say, “I’ll be dead.”

And I hang up.

This isn’t a conversation anymore.

It’s a reckoning.

And whoever that man is, the one watching me like he’s already counted my bones?

He’s about to find out what happens when you mess with the king.

You get seen.

You get followed.

And then you fucking disappear.

Just like everyone else.

The Benz idles three storefronts down from the corner café, windows steamed, a neon sign flickering like it’s half-asleep. I park in a red zone and kill the engine. If someone wants to ticket me, they’re welcome to try.

I lean back, my eyes narrowing through the windshield.

There you are.

Tucked into a corner table near the front. Mug in hand. One elbow on the table, the other slung over the back of the seat like he’s got all the time in the world.

He looks casual. At ease.

It’s a fucking performance.

He’s watching, even when he’s not looking. I can see it in the angle of his head, the way his eyes skim the café window every few minutes like he’s just admiring traffic. Like he doesn’t know I’m parked right here, staring at him.

Except I think he does.

His thin-framed glasses are half-fogged from the steam drifting off his cup. His jaw is unshaven, a few days past respectable, and there’s a scar just beneath his right cheekbone, faint, but not accidental. Old damage. The kind that leaves a man either careful or reckless.

This one’s both.

He’s got that ex-detective look. Thin, but broad-shouldered. Solid build under the worn leather jacket that probably hasn’t seen polish in five years. There’s still some weight to him. Ex-military maybe. Ex-cop, more likely. Definitely not just some hired eye.

He’s not twitchy. Doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t sip like a man in a rush. He just watches the world pass by, like he’s waiting for a ghost to walk through the door.

Or for a king to walk through the fire.

I pull out my phone and call Luca.

He answers on the first ring.

“Already here,” he says calmly, like he’s just giving me a traffic update.

My eyes flick toward the black SUV idling a block down, mirrors tilted just enough to see the café windows.

“You’ve got eyes on him?” I murmur, keeping my gaze locked on the man through the windshield.

“Since he walked in.” A pause. “Didn’t notice me.”

“Or he did and doesn’t care,” I mutter. “Either he’s cocky, or suicidal.”

Luca exhales through his nose. “He’s been here for the past twenty minutes. Ordered one coffee, black. No phone, no distractions. Just waiting.”

“Watching?”

“Not directly. But he’s clocked every car that’s passed. Every person who’s come and gone. He’s trained.”

I stare harder through the glass. “Armed?”

“Most likely. Looks like a shoulder rig under that jacket. His hand’s never far from it.”

I nod to myself. “Glasses. Brown leather. Scar on the cheek.”

“That’s him.”

“Still no ID?”

“Nothing solid. Face doesn’t ping on any system. I had Benny run him through every database we’ve got: cop, fed, merc. Came up empty.”

My jaw tightens.

That means one of two things: either he’s a ghost, or someone wants him to look like one.

“You going in?” Luca asks.

“I want to look him in the eye.”

“You want backup?”

“If I need backup in a coffee shop, shoot me yourself.”

Luca lets out a low breath that might be a laugh. “You just say the word.”

“You’ll know if I need you.”

“Text me when it’s clear,” Luca says. “If it’s not—”

“You’ll hear it.”

I hang up, sliding the phone into my coat.

Then I step out of the car and cross the street, my boots echoing in the quiet.

The bell above the café door chimes softly as I step inside.

Warm air hits my face, along with the smell of burnt espresso, old books, something faintly sweet. The kind of place that tries to look cozy but never quite shakes the feeling of performance. Small tables. Exposed brick. A barista with red hair pretending not to glance at me twice.

I don’t take off my gloves.

My coat stays buttoned.

I clock every exit, every reflective surface, every possible angle of ambush.

And him.

He’s sitting at a corner table, back to the wall, legs stretched out like he owns the floor beneath him. Glasses low on his nose. Leather jacket creased at the elbows. One hand wrapped around a coffee cup, the other resting near his side, close to the weapon I’m sure is holstered under that coat.

He doesn’t look up when I approach.

But I notice the tension in his jaw.

I stop two feet from his table, clearing my throat.

He perks up, his eyes meeting mine. Brown, sharp, bruised from too many sleepless nights and just enough fire to be dangerous. He’s studying me. Measuring. Not afraid, not quite relaxed either. Like a man who’s lived with violence long enough to know exactly how close he is to it now.

Something flickers in his gaze as I reach up and slowly remove one glove, laying it on the table between us.

His lips part, just slightly, like he’s about to speak.

That’s when I notice it.

A twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Not fear, not smugness, but something else entirely.

Interest.

I lean in closer.

“You’ve been watching me,” I murmur. “Your turn.”

I pull out the chair.

It creaks beneath my weight.

His eyes track my every move.

Then finally, he speaks.

His voice is low, dry, and steady.

“You’re late.”