Page 33 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

JULIAN

I wake up alone in Nico’s bed. The sheets still smell like him, and the spot beside me is cold.

On the nightstand, there’s a folded note, a brand-new iPhone, and… holy shit. A black Amex.

The note reads:

Had business to take care of. If you need me, you can reach me on the phone. My contact’s already been added. By the way, I didn’t forget my promise to pay you, even if you are the world’s shittiest P.I.

I snort under my breath, flipping the paper over.

Your monthly limit’s ten thousand. If you need anything, ask the staff. Don’t order anything stupid, and don’t make me regret this.

— N.V.

My hands are actually shaking. Ten thousand a month? That’s one hundred twenty grand a year. Nico, you beautiful, arrogant, probably-psychotic bastard.

I power the phone on immediately, the screen flickering to life.

I call up my depressingly small list of contacts whose numbers I have memorized: my parents, a couple old friends from the force, and my brother, Cassian.

I haven’t spoken to him in years. Sometimes I wonder how he’s doing.

Sometimes I think about reaching out. Then I remember the look on his face the last time we spoke—the disgust, the anger—and I know he’d never pick up.

Still, the thought lingers like a splinter under my skin.

Maybe one day I’ll call, just to see if he answers.

Maybe one day he’ll come looking for me.

Shaking the thought, I back out of the contacts list and shoot a quick text to Nico.

JULIAN: Thanks for the phone… and the credit card.

NICO: Try not to max it out on hookers and blow.

JULIAN: Wow. I was thinking a new briefcase, but now you’ve given me ideas.

NICO: You already have a briefcase.

JULIAN: It’s ugly.

NICO: So are you, but I keep you around.

I stare at the screen, heat crawling up my neck. He’s not even here and he’s already under my skin.

JULIAN: You always this charming over text?

NICO: No. Usually I’m worse.

There’s a pause. Three dots flash, vanish, then return.

NICO: Wear something tight when I get back. And nothing underneath.

My pulse spikes. I tell myself not to respond, not to give him the satisfaction. Instead, my thumbs betray me.

JULIAN: Guess I’ll have to buy something then.

NICO: Good. I’ll enjoy watching you spend my money.

I click the phone off and dig through Nico’s closet for something to wear, his words still echoing in my head: wear something tight, nothing underneath.

My skin prickles like he’s standing right behind me saying it.

I settle on a black V-neck and brown slacks. They’re designer, but at least they’re not flashy. And, against every shred of common sense and decency, I follow his order and skip the underwear.

Maybe it’s the way he just handed me a small fortune like it was nothing. Maybe it’s because, deep down, I’m a masochist who likes testing how far I can push him. Or maybe I’m just losing my mind.

Either way, I tell myself it wouldn’t hurt to buy clothes that actually suit me.

Without thinking, I grab the phone and open .

It’s already logged into his account. I smirk.

I start small: jeans, plain T-shirts, a couple sweaters, a leather belt, a worn-in denim jacket.

Then I wander into “comfortable designer” territory.

High-end shoes, a new watch, a leather briefcase I definitely don’t need.

My cart’s already over five hundred bucks before I even blink. Then I remember…ten grand a month.

Fuck it. I hit the thousand mark and check out with same-day shipping. Is this what rich people do? Just throw money around until they’re bored?

A few minutes later, my phone buzzes.

NICO: Someone had a little shopping spree.

JULIAN: You stalking me now?

NICO: That’s rich coming from an actual stalker. And no, you’re logged into my account, remember?

I bite down on a smile.

JULIAN: Yeah, yeah. Just thought I could use some clothes that actually fit my taste.

NICO: Your tastes are definitely… unique. But I agree you could use a wardrobe upgrade. I went ahead and ordered you something. Check the app.

Curious, I click out of messages and reopen .

En route — Men’s sexy maid outfit.

That smug bastard.

JULIAN: Yeah, I’m not wearing that.

NICO: You should. It suits you.

JULIAN: In what world?

NICO: In mine.

JULIAN: Over my dead body.

NICO: That can be arranged.

JULIAN: Fuck off.

NICO: I’ll raise your monthly spending limit by two thousand this month if you wear it tonight.

I actually laugh. An extra two grand just to wear a fucking dress?

JULIAN: You’re an idiot, Vitale.

NICO: That’s not an answer.

I stare at the screen. Damn it.

JULIAN: …Fine.

NICO: Good boy. See you tonight.

I silence the phone and step out of the bedroom, the air in the hall feeling heavier than it did a minute ago. The guards at the bottom don’t stop me, but their eyes follow me all the way down the stairs.

I freeze when I see Enzo. He’s leaning against the wall like he owns it, black jacket open, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other resting casually near the pistol on his hip. The way he’s watching me makes it clear… he’s been waiting for me.

My pulse stutters. “I… uh—”

“Relax,” he says, but there’s nothing relaxing about his tone. “Nico already told us.”

I hesitate. “How much did he tell you?”

Enzo smirks, but it’s the kind that says he’d smile just the same before breaking someone’s jaw. “Oh, not much. Just that you’re the hitman we’ve been looking for, you’ve been lying to our faces since day one, and you were planning to put a bullet in our boss’ head. Y’know, minor details.”

My breath comes out shaky and uneven. “I’m sorry.”

He laughs without humor. “Kid, I’m not your priest. Don’t confess to me. Honestly, I’m almost impressed you’ve still got a heartbeat. If Luca had figured you out first, we wouldn’t be having this conversation… you’d be fertilizer out by the roses.”

I swallow hard. “Where’s Luca now?”

“Out running an errand with Nico. They’ll be back tonight.” His gaze narrows slightly. “He told me to keep an eye on you, and I always follow orders.”

Something burns in my chest, hot and sharp. “They seem… close.”

Enzo raises an eyebrow. “They grew up together, survived a lot of the same shit. Luca’s practically family.”

My brow furrows, and he catches it instantly.

“You’re not jealous, are you?”

“What? No.”

He laughs under his breath. “Sure. Listen, you two ain’t exactly subtle.

You don’t need to sneak around—we really don’t give a shit.

And by the way, Luca’s married to a woman named Marisol.

She’s a saint for putting up with him, but she drives him insane.

You’ve got nothing to worry about… unless, of course, you give us a reason to start worrying. ”

My jaw clenches. “I wasn’t worried.”

Enzo tilts his head, smiling like a shark. “Sure you weren’t. Anyway…”

Enzo pushes off the railing and starts walking toward the kitchen.

I follow, because what else am I going to do? Sit around in Nico’s room smelling his damn pillow until he gets back?

“You hungry?” Enzo asks, rummaging through the fridge. “Chef’s off today, but we’ve got enough leftovers to feed a small army. Which is about right for this place.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, leaning on the counter.

“Suit yourself.” He pours himself a glass of water and pulls out a plate stacked with something pasta-adjacent and throws it in the microwave. “So. How’s sleeping in the big boss’s bedroom?”

My head jerks up.

His grin is all teeth. “What? You think we don’t notice when Nico actually lets someone in there? The guy guards that room like it’s the crown jewels. Hell, I’ve known him over ten years and I’ve been inside maybe twice, and one of those times was because I kicked the door in.”

“That’s not—”

“Not what? Not a big deal?” He props himself on the counter across from me, arms folded, watching me like he’s waiting for me to lie so he can call me on it.

I scoff, but it sounds weak even to my own ears. “You think I’m here because he likes me? Trust me, the guy hates my guts.”

Enzo smirks, slow and knowing. “I think you’re here because he hasn’t put a bullet in your skull yet. And with Nico, that’s practically a fuckin’ Hallmark card.”

The microwave beeps. He pulls out his plate and takes a slow sip of water without breaking eye contact.

“And before you start worrying I’m here to scare you off, you can forget it,” he says. “I’m just telling you, whatever the hell’s going on between you two? Don’t screw it up. Nico’s… different with you.”

My jaw flexes. “Different how?”

Enzo leans back, fork in hand. “For starters, I don’t have to drag his ass outta bars after he’s half-killed somebody.

He doesn’t walk around looking like he’s deciding who to strangle first. He even smiles now.

Creeps me the hell out, if I’m being honest. Last week, I pissed him off and he didn’t threaten to break my kneecaps. That’s growth.”

I snort. “You’re full of shit.”

“Maybe.” He takes a bite and shrugs. “But I’ve seen Nico put nine rounds into a guy and finish his drink before the body hit the floor. Then you show up, and suddenly he’s Mr. Fuckin’ Rogers. You’re under his skin, whether you like it or not.”

I turn away before he can see my expression. “No, I’m not.”

“Sure, cagniolo.”

The word hits me like a shot.

I whip back around. “The fuck did you just say?”

Enzo throws his hands up. “Easy. Just borrowing Nico’s nickname for you. Didn’t think it’d get this strong of a reaction.”

“That asshole put you up to this?”

He shakes his head slowly, like I’m amusing but also kind of pathetic. “Nope. He didn’t tell me shit. But like I said, you two ain’t subtle—I hear things.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll never understand how a word that literally means dog sounds like a compliment in another language.”

He tilts his head, amused. “You think that’s all it means?”

I frown. “I Googled it.”

He laughs like I just said something stupid.

“Ah, Google. The Holy Bible of street Italian.”

My eyes narrow. “Well, hurry up and tell me.”

He leans back in his chair, fork dangling between his fingers. “It’s from cane—dog—but ‘cagnolino’ is a diminutive. Means small dog.”

I cross my arms. “That’s literally what Google said.”

“Yeah, but here’s what Google didn’t tell you—it’s affectionate. Something you call someone you think is worth keeping close, worth protecting. Like calling someone ‘puppy’ in English. And for a hitman? That’s comedy gold.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “And cucciolo?”

“That’s ‘cub.’ Same deal. Instead of puppy, he’s calling you a little bear.”

I shift, not sure if I want to roll my eyes or… something else entirely.

“And piccolino?”

He smirks over the rim of his glass. “Little one.”

That crazy bastard. There’s nothing little about me. “What about piccolo puttano?”

Enzo nearly chokes, coughing into his water before laughing through it.

“Yeah… you might want to let Nico explain that one.”

Which, naturally, is the kind of answer that guarantees I’ll be thinking about it for the rest of the goddamn day.

Piccolo puttano.

I can practically hear Nico saying it in that low, lazy drawl of his, like he’s got all the time in the world to make it sound like both an insult and a promise.

I hate that it makes my pulse jump. I hate even more that my brain immediately adds in the detail of his mouth at my ear, warm breath curling down my neck.

It’s ridiculous. I should be insulted—hell, maybe I am insulted—but the word sits in my head like a live grenade, just waiting for the pin to get pulled. My brain’s already spinning it in the dirtiest way possible, conjuring up images I have no business entertaining before breakfast.

Enzo’s still watching me with that knowing smirk, like he’s reading my thoughts line for line.

“What?” I snap.

“Nothing,” he says, shoveling another bite of pasta into his mouth. But that grin says everything.

I shake my head, trying to evict Nico’s voice from my skull, but it just digs in deeper. I pivot fast.

“So… what, your whole job is just to sit here and watch me all day?”

Enzo nods like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Yeah. Those are the orders. But honestly, I don’t mind the break from cracking skulls and digging graves. Vacation days don’t exactly pile up in this business.”

I snort. “I’d take cracking skulls over sitting around doing nothing.” I tilt my head. “Can’t we just drive to wherever Nico and Luca are?”

He smirks, like I’ve just told a particularly funny joke. “And go against my boss’ orders? I look suicidal to you?”

“At least tell me where they are.” I lean in, lowering my voice. “Be honest… they’re going after Silvio, aren’t they?”

His posture goes rigid, that easy smirk of his gone like a light switch.

“I fucking knew it,” I snap, more to myself than him, already stalking toward the door. “That son of a bitch. How could he go without me?”

Before I can yank the garage door open, Enzo steps in like a damn brick wall. “He’s protecting you.”

I laugh, cold and bitter. “I don’t need protecting.”

He plants himself square in my path again and pushes me back. “Boss disagrees.”

I shove him hard enough to make him stagger. “I don’t give a damn what he thinks. I’m going.”

Three steps later, I’m in the garage, grabbing the Maserati keys with a pulse roaring in my ears. I know exactly where they are, and I’m going after them.

“Nico’s an idiot,” I spit, already moving toward the car.

“I know Silvio, he doesn’t. We could’ve had a fucking plan.

He could’ve used me as bait, drawn that bastard out, ended this once and for all.

But no, Vitale’s gotta play hero and charge in headfirst. They’ll be outnumbered. This isn’t brave, it’s suicide.”

Enzo’s hand twitches like he’s about to grab me, but I’m already halfway to the Maserati.

“If you’re dead set on this,” Enzo growls, ripping the keys out of my hand, “then I’m coming with. And we’re not taking your goddamn Maserati.”

“Fine!” I snap, stomping after him toward a blacked-out Benz SUV. I throw myself in the passenger seat as he slides behind the wheel. The engine roars, and we tear out of the estate, shrinking fast in the rearview.

“You know where we’re headed?” I ask.

He nods, his eyes sharp on the road. “Yeah. They said they had it handled. But if you’re right, if Silvio’s got them cornered, I’m not just gonna sit on my hands and watch.”

His grip on the wheel tightens like he’s ready to rip it apart. “I’m not letting them die without a fight.”

All I can think as we race toward what might be the end is:

Nico, you bastard. You better not fucking die on me.