Page 3 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

JULIAN

“You’re late,” I murmur, lifting my coffee to my lips, just to watch the way his brow tightens when I say it.

He leans in, subtle but sharp, irritation bleeding through the cracks in that carefully controlled exterior.

I live for this part: the unraveling.

Nico Vitale likes to pretend he’s all logic and discipline. But it’s a performance. A thin, stretched mask over a man ruled by emotion.

And I’ve seen him when the mask slips.

Beneath the tailored suits and cold glares, he’s chaos in a cage.

A coward with a crown.

A man so addicted to control he’d rather burn the world down than admit he’s lost it.

I’ve been watching him long enough to know the truth: he’s not the monster they make him out to be.

He’s something worse.

He’s unpredictable.

Just like Silvio said.

They all think Nico’s the dangerous one because he’s willing to get his hands dirty. But that’s exactly why he’s vulnerable. He needs the blood. The violence. The illusion of control. Ever since his father died, he’s been looking for a reason to keep going.

Turns out, his favorite one involves pain. Inflicting it. Taking it. I’ve seen the club he visits when he thinks no one’s watching. The kind of place where men go to punish themselves or someone else.

My guess? Nico hasn’t figured out which one he is yet.

Men like that? They make me sick.

Unstable. Reckless. Impulsive. Addicted to sensation.

I’ve pulled bodies out of bathtubs because of men like him. Sat with dying officers in alleyways because some psycho wanted to feel powerful for five seconds. That’s why I don’t let it get personal anymore. Why I stopped trying to be the hero.

I don’t need a mask. I don’t need chaos.

I need precision.

I kill when I’m paid to kill, which makes me the perfect man to take him down.

The plan is simple: pose as a private investigator with intel on the staged hit that’s dragging his name through the dirt. Get close. Feed Silvio what he needs. Bury the king from the inside out.

And Nico’s already falling for it.

He thinks he’s sizing me up, but I’ve had his whole life under a microscope for weeks. I know his patterns, his schedule, the way he smokes when he’s alone, the way his jaw twitches when he’s angry but trying not to show it. I know the names of every man he’s trusted, and everyone he’s buried.

He kills for power. For release. For the fucking high of it.

I kill for the paycheck.

That’s the difference.

He’s emotional. I’m efficient.

He’s reckless. I’m calculated.

And right now, his mask is slipping.

Good thing I never needed one.

I take another sip from my coffee, slow and smug.

God, he hates me already.

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” he says, his voice like velvet dragged across broken glass. “Bad habit. Someone should break it.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Someone should try.”

The muscle in his jaw tenses.

He slides into the seat across from me, measured and lethal, his eyes never leaving mine. Everything about him is sharp. Calculated. Designed to rattle. It would probably work on anyone else.

Too bad I stopped giving a shit five years ago.

He leans forward, elbows on the table, gloved hands folded like a king on judgment day.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Julian Cross. Freelance PI.”

I reach into my jacket, slow enough not to scare him, fast enough to keep it interesting.

His eyes flick to the movement.

I toss a flash drive onto the table. It spins once, then stops dead.

“Intel on the hit,” I say.

He doesn’t look down. Not yet. His eyes stay pinned to mine.

“You think I trust a stranger with perfect timing?”

“No,” I reply. “But I think you’re smart enough to hear me out before you put a bullet in my head.”

He’s quiet.

Then he moves.

One gloved hand slams flat on the table. The other grabs the back of my chair and jerks it forward, dragging me closer until I can feel his breath on my cheek—a combination of heat, expensive cologne, and murder barely restrained.

“You’re either incredibly stupid,” he growls, “or suicidal.”

“Or I’m the only one in this city with the balls to come to you directly.”

He stares into me, looking like he’s one breath away from snapping my neck, or maybe putting a bullet between my eyes. Hard to tell with men like him.

A beat.

Then he laughs, low and cruel.

There’s something like respect in it. Or hunger.

“You really think I won’t kill you?”

I don’t look away.

“I think you won’t. Not yet. You want to use me before you bury me.”

Another beat. His stare sharpens.

“And what do you want, Mr. Cross?”

I smile, slow and reckless.

“To see what kind of man Nico Vitale really is.”

He doesn’t blink.

And I know, in that moment, the game just changed.

He wants to dissect me.

And I want to watch him fall apart while he tries.

He doesn’t blink.

He just stares.

Like I’ve opened a door I wasn’t supposed to know existed, and now he’s deciding whether to shut it or drag me through it by the throat.

His eyes are steady. Cold. The kind of cold that doesn’t come from nature. It’s learned. Earned. A stillness that masks something far more feral underneath.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says finally, his voice low and unhurried. “And I don’t like games I didn’t start.”

I let that hang in the air a second longer than I should, testing him.

He doesn’t flinch. Neither do I.

He studies me, a slow drag of his eyes down my face like he’s trying to carve me into pieces without drawing a weapon. “You tail me. Show up uninvited. Hand me a flash drive like it’s a fucking business card.”

“You’re welcome,” I say with a smirk.

His jaw ticks, barely. But it’s there.

I push the drive a little closer across the table. He picks it up, turns it over between gloved fingers, and pockets it like it’s something dirty he doesn’t want to touch longer than he has to.

“I don’t trust men I can’t place,” he says.

“Then place me.”

A flicker of something passes through his eyes. Not fear. But curiosity, maybe. Or irritation. He glances around, taking in the customers surrounding us. He can’t touch me here. Not yet. Not with this many witnesses.

But I’ve already touched something in him.

He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh and sits back. The kind of laugh that sounds like a warning.

“You’re either out of your fucking mind,” he says, “or you’re desperate.”

I don’t answer.

He tilts his head, watching me like I’m a puzzle with a missing piece. Then finally, he stands, slipping the drive deeper into his coat.

“You want a job that badly?” he murmurs, his voice low enough that no one else in the room hears it but me. “Fine.”

He meets my eyes again, deadly calm.

“Come with me.”

And just like that, I know I’ve won this round.

He turns and walks out without a backward glance, expecting me to follow.

And I do.

“So where exactly are we going?” I ask, tailing him to the sleek, blacked-out Benz parked at the curb.

He doesn’t answer. Just mutters, “Get in,” like it’s a threat more than an invitation.

I smirk, pop open the passenger door, and slide inside. The moment it clicks shut, I hear the locks engage.

Of course.

Through the tinted glass, I watch him approach another vehicle a few spots down. Same model, same blackout treatment. He leans in, says something to the driver, and hands over the flash drive. I can’t see the guy’s face, but I know it’s Luca. It has to be.

When Nico returns, he moves like a man who owns the entire goddamn street. He slips into the driver’s seat with a scowl carved into his face like it was born there.

“So,” I say, casually, “this job you mentioned. What exactly does it entail?”

No response. He cracks open the window, lights a cigarette with a silver Zippo, and exhales like I’m not sitting next to him.

I tilt my head. “Can I bum one?”

He turns to me slowly, his expression flat. “Do I look like I share?”

I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Got it. No smoking for the help.”

He takes a long, measured drag, keeping his eyes on the road.

“I was going to take you somewhere off-grid and shoot you in the back of the head,” he says. “But now I’m not so sure you’re the one I’m looking for.”

I blink. “Comforting.”

He keeps going, calm as ever. “Until I know for sure, you stay where I can see you. Consider yourself on a very short leash.”

And there it is.

Exactly what I wanted.

“Fine by me,” I say, reclining in the seat and kicking my boots up onto the dash.

The slap comes fast, his gloved hand smacking hard across my thigh.

“Get your fucking feet off the dash,” he growls. “This car is worth more than your life.”

I scoff, dropping my feet with a grunt. “Wealthy pricks and their toys.”

He checks his watch—a Rolex, of course—and mutters something in Italian under his breath before starting the engine.

“At least tell me where we’re going,” I say.

His lips twitch, just barely.

“To my estate.”

I turn to look at him fully. “Seriously?”

“You heard me.”

He shifts gears, peels away from the curb, and merges into traffic like it’s a racetrack. The engine roars to life, speed climbing fast.

I grip the door. “Jesus, man. You’re doing, like, a hundred.”

“Ninety-seven,” he corrects, then revs the engine louder, just to prove a point. “What are you, a cop?”

I grind my teeth.

If only he knew.

The city fades behind us in a blur of concrete and dying light. Neon signs flicker past the windows, casting brief glows across Nico’s jawline, bone-cut sharp, and unreadable.

I can feel him watching me out of the corner of his eye, not constantly, just enough to let me know I’m being assessed like a threat he hasn’t decided how to neutralize yet.

The silence is thick.

And it’s him who breaks it first.

“You don’t look like a PI,” he mutters.

I raise an eyebrow. “And you don’t look like a man who needs one.”

His mouth twitches again, only this time, it’s a smile... I think. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s supposed to be the truth.”

He hums low in his throat, like he’s trying to decide whether to be amused or annoyed.

“I’ve read your file,” I say after a beat. “Or one version of it. Son of Domenico Vitale, the heir with blood on his hands and a vendetta in his chest.”

He glances over, eyes narrowed. “You’ve been busy.”

“It’s my job.”

“No,” he says slowly, “your job was to deliver intel. You’re already doing more than you were paid for.”

A pause.

“Which makes me wonder… what else you’re doing.”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m just thorough.”

“Maybe you’re a fucking liar.”

He says it casually, like it’s a fact he’s already accepted. I watch the cigarette burn down between his fingers as he flicks ash out the window.

Then he flashes a wolfish grin. “But you’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”

“Good to know,” I mutter. “I’ll add it to my resume.”

He laughs under his breath, like he wasn’t expecting that. Like it surprises him that I bite back.

Then the grin fades.

“You’re calm for a man who just got in a car with a known killer.”

“I’ve been in worse cars. With worse men.”

“Really?” he says, turning toward me slightly. “Worse than me?”

I lean back in the seat, my eyes on the road. “You’re not that scary, Nico.”

His gaze cuts to me—sharp, dark, and heavy.

“I could prove you wrong.”

His voice is quiet now. Almost soft. That kind of softness that means something very, very bad is about to happen.

“I could take this car off the road. Put a bullet between your eyes. Make it look like you never existed.”

I exhale slowly through my nose. “Yeah, you could. But you won’t.”

“Why not?”

I turn to him then, meet his stare head-on. “Because you’re curious. And men like you don’t kill their curiosity.”

The tension thickens between us like smoke. I feel it coil in the space, tightening, pressing. Neither of us looks away.

He breaks first, but just barely. A huff of air. The faintest shake of his head.

“Fucking psycho,” he mutters. “You talk too much.”

“And you’re still listening.”

He doesn’t respond. Just floors the accelerator and lets the silence take over again, the engine snarling like it wants blood.

Outside, the city gives way to long stretches of forest and gated mansions. We turn onto a private drive that snakes through acres of manicured darkness, and my pulse finally ticks up.

We’re here.

The gates open before us like they’ve been expecting me. Like this place has teeth and I just stepped into its mouth.

The estate is sprawling. Stone and shadow. All sharp angles and quiet opulence, with more cameras than windows.

Nico pulls up to the front steps, kills the engine, and sits there for a second.

Then he turns to me.

“I hope you understand something, Mr. Cross.”

I arch a brow.

“If you’re lying to me…” He reaches across my body and opens my door from the inside. “… you won’t leave this house alive.”

I glance down at his hand still on the handle, at the glove, the strength beneath it.

Then I look him right in the eye.

“Noted.”

He leans in, close enough to smell the smoke on his breath.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Now get inside.”