Page 28 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

Julian drops into the passenger side, slamming the door shut hard. He doesn’t look at me, staring straight ahead, his face set like stone. But his right knee bounces, sharp and fast. It’s the only tell he gives me.

Enzo slips behind the wheel of the blacked-out Benz without a word.

Luca swings a leg over his bike, leather gloves already on, engine snarling to life with a twist of his wrist. For a second, their eyes flick to me.

Luca gives the slightest nod, and Enzo cracks his neck and smirks through a crack in the window.

I shift into gear and pull onto the street. The tires spit gravel, and the Maserati roars to life beneath us. The city rolls out in front like a sacrifice.

A beat passes before Julian finally speaks.

“You didn’t have to hit him that hard.”

I shrug. “Didn’t like the way he talked about you.”

Julian exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Probably,” I say, smirking. “But you didn’t stop me.”

He doesn’t answer right away, staring out the window, his shoulders tense.

“You didn’t flinch,” I add after a moment. “When he called you that. You didn’t even blink.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he says flatly. “And I don’t give a damn what that piece of shit thinks.”

I glance over at him. “You care what I think?”

He looks at me then, his eyes sharp in the dark. “Do you want me to?”

I smile to myself and shift gears, pushing the car faster. “You already do.”

Another silence settles between us, heavier this time.

Julian finally leans back, his eyes flicking toward me again. “You gonna lose your shit like that when we see Braga?”

I give a low laugh. “Oh, I plan to do much worse than lose it.”

Julian hums, a low, thoughtful sound. “Good. Just… don’t make it quick.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I murmur, my knuckles tightening around the wheel. “Braga’s gonna beg to die by the time I’m through.”

We fly past the edge of the city, streetlights giving way to shadows. The clock on the dash ticks closer to midnight. The air inside the car grows colder, charged.

Julian glances at me again. “You ever think about what comes after?”

“After Braga?”

“After all of this.”

I keep my eyes on the road, the curve of my mouth turning bitter.

“No.”

He nods, like he expected that. Like it makes sense.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me neither.”

We pull into the docks at midnight sharp, the Maserati crawling to a stop beneath the cover of stacked shipping containers. The engine cuts off with a final snarl. Fog clings low to the asphalt, rolling in from the water and swallowing everything it touches.

Julian’s already on edge beside me, his eyes scanning the dockyard with that cold, surgical precision I’ve come to know too well. He’s a weapon when he gets like this.

“There,” he mutters, pointing through the haze. “Far end of the port. Red windbreaker. That’s him.”

I follow his line of sight. Braga, the arrogant son of a bitch, posted near a container crane, flanked by three men now instead of two. Laughing like he’s on vacation, like he doesn’t realize death is breathing down his neck.

I shoot a group text to Luca and Enzo.

NICO: Confirm visual. Far end of port. Red windbreaker.

LUCA: We see him.

NICO: Make some noise.

ENZO: On it.

A few seconds of silence go by. Then, all hell breaks loose.

A gunshot rings out, then another. Screams echo down the dock as Enzo floors the blacked-out Benz and plows it straight through a stack of wooden pallets, sending splinters flying.

Luca comes in on foot, fast and mean, shooting three rounds into one of Braga’s men.

Another guy pulls a gun. Luca grabs his wrist and drives a knife into his throat.

Panic spreads like wildfire. Braga’s men scatter.

Julian and I move.

We stay low, weaving through the shadows between crates and forklifts.

The air smells like oil and blood. One of Braga’s goons rounds a corner and spots us, raising his weapon, but Julian’s faster.

He puts a bullet in the guy’s chest before he can blink.

No hesitation, deadly precision, like he was made for this.

We don’t stop running.

Braga sees us coming and bolts, ducking through a side corridor between containers. He yells something in Portuguese, a warning I think, but it’s already too late.

“Braga,” I shout, my voice like thunder. “You picked the wrong city.”

We chase him across the yard, boots pounding pavement, gunfire sparking behind us as Enzo and Luca draw more attention. Braga ducks under a chain-link gate and disappears into one of the side loading bays.

“Fuck,” Julian pants beside me. “He’s trying to loop around the pier.”

We follow, fast and silent. There’s a flash of movement ahead. Braga’s men are waiting to ambush us.

They spring out with blades, two of them, one swinging wild at Julian. He counters with his forearm and buries his knife into the guy’s ribs, twisting hard. I duck under a punch from the other and drive my fist into his gut, then elbow his temple until he drops. Blood stains the dock.

Julian wipes his blade off on the dead man’s coat. “He’s heading for the boats.”

We cut him off just before he reaches the waterline.

I fire a warning shot at his feet.

He slips, skids, and slams into a steel drum, landing on all fours. His pistol clatters across the pier. I walk toward him slowly, like a fucking executioner.

He tries to crawl away.

I step on his ankle and drag him back.

“Going somewhere?”

“Fuck you,” he spits, his breath ragged, blood leaking from his mouth.

I grab him by the collar and slam him into the nearest crate. “You’ve been trespassing on my turf. That means you’ve either lost your mind… or someone gave you permission.”

Braga laughs, weak and cruel. “You think this is about turf?”

I punch him in the ribs. Something cracks. He howls.

“You working with Silvio?”

No answer.

“Who’s feeding you intel? Who’s protecting you?”

He just grins.

“Talk,” I growl, knife in hand now. “Or I open you up and find out myself.”

“Fuck you.”

I drive the blade shallow into his thigh. He screams, tries to fight, but I’ve got him pinned. Julian’s watching from a few feet away, his gaze cold and empty.

Braga coughs, spitting blood at my boots. Then he chuckles low.

“Y’know… it’s funny…”

I lean closer, fuming. “What’s funny?”

“You still don’t get it, do you? You’re asking the wrong questions.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He looks past me—at Julian.

“Ask him.”

The air stills.

I feel Julian tense behind me.

Braga grins wider. “You ever wonder how Silvio stayed two steps ahead of you? How he knew about the warehouse job? The shipment routes?”

I freeze. My blood runs cold.

“What are you saying?”

He leans in, whispers like a secret.

“Ask your little pet who he—”

BANG.

The gunshot is deafening.

Braga’s head snaps back, a perfect bullet hole through his forehead. He slumps, lifeless, blood leaking across the dock like spilled ink.

I turn slowly.

Julian’s holding the pistol, arm steady, face pale. His eyes are locked on the body.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I had to. Bastard had it coming.”

I stare down at Braga, then back at Julian. He won’t meet my eyes now.

And I know, without a doubt, what Braga was going to tell me.

But I don’t say anything.

Not yet.

I just holster my weapon… and walk away.