Page 4 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

NICO

It’s a dangerous move, bringing him here.

But danger doesn’t scare me. Being blind does. And right now, I don’t know enough to kill him.

He’s a loose thread I can’t afford to cut yet.

If I let him go, he disappears. If I put a bullet in his skull, I lose whatever intel he’s baiting me with.

So I do the only thing that makes sense:

I move the potential hitman into my home.

He’s either innocent, or playing a very good game.

Either way, I’m not taking my eyes off him.

If I had even a sliver of doubt that I couldn’t handle him, I’d put two in his chest and one in his head without flinching. But he’s not reckless, he’s calculated. Too smart to try anything stupid.

Which makes him more dangerous than a trigger-happy thug.

More dangerous than a man with a gun is a man with patience. And Julian Cross is the type to wait you out.

Still, he made one mistake.

He backed me into a corner.

And when you corner a viper, you don’t get a warning.

You get fangs.

So, I’ll let him in.

I’ll pour him a drink.

Hell, I’ll even offer him a room with a view.

But I’ll keep the knife to his throat the entire time.

Innocent or not, this man’s fate is sealed.

He just doesn’t know how it ends yet.

What’s that saying?

Keep your friends close.

Keep your enemies close enough to feel their last breath on your skin.

And Julian Cross?

He’s about to learn just how close that really is.

By the time we pull through the iron gates, the security team’s already clocked the vehicle.

Not that they needed to. Every inch of this estate is under surveillance.

From the moment you step on the gravel, we know what brand of cigarettes you smoke and whether you’re left- or right-handed when you pull a gun.

Julian doesn’t say a word as we wind past the olive trees and up the long drive, but I can feel him looking at the sharp stonework, the looming glass, the statues lining the garden path. He masks it well, but I catch the flicker in his eyes.

He didn’t expect this.

This isn’t some gaudy crime lord’s playground. This is old money. Old power. Cold, quiet control.

I lead him through the double doors, into a foyer framed in black marble and brass.

Allegra’s waiting in the sitting room, perched like royalty on the cream settee, her posture perfect and her expression unreadable. Luca stands behind her, arms crossed, jaw set. He’s already been briefed.

“Mother. Luca,” I say. “This is Julian Cross. He’s not our guy.”

I don’t elaborate. They don’t need me to.

Allegra doesn’t stand when Julian approaches, but that doesn’t stop him. He moves with the same calm arrogance I’ve seen in con men and politicians, the kind of charisma that makes you forget you’re the one holding the knife.

He reaches for Luca’s hand first, offering a firm shake. “Pleasure.”

Luca doesn’t blink. “We’ll see.”

Then, without missing a beat, Julian turns to my mother. He doesn’t bow, doesn’t grovel. He simply takes her hand and brushes his lips over her knuckles like he’s been doing it all his life.

“Mrs. Vitale,” he murmurs. “An honor.”

Her brow arches slightly, surprised. Then, for the first time in years, I see something close to amusement flicker across her face.

“You’re either very charming,” she says coolly, “or very foolish.”

“Can’t it be both?” he replies, with a half-smile that probably got him out of more arrests than I care to imagine.

I cut in before Allegra can start interrogating him like one of her chess pieces. “Let’s go.”

Julian follows me down the hall, hands in his pockets, looking like he owns the place while knowing damn well he doesn’t. I stop in front of the corner suite, not bothering to open the door.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” I say. “Leave your things by the door. You’re not here to nest.”

His gaze scans the hallway as he sets down his briefcase, again, that flicker of surprise he tries to bury. Looking at him, I can tell he’s used to shitty motel carpet and broken vending machines, not heated marble floors and blackout curtains imported from Milan.

He reaches for the doorknob, but before he can step inside, I lean my palm against the door, blocking him. “You’ll be joining me for dinner. We have more to discuss.”

“And if I say no?” he asks, arms crossed.

I meet his eyes, flat and cold.

His jaw tightens for half a second before giving a reluctant nod.

“Fine,” he mutters.

I say nothing, turning to walk away as he follows me down the hall.

The sun hangs low behind the clouds; the sky overcast in that moody, cinematic way I’ve always liked. This is the kind of weather that makes people uneasy, which is good. I want him a little uneasy.

We take our seats on opposite ends of the long stone table outside the east veranda, far from staff chatter, the house noise, or the possibility of wandering eyes. Privacy is the point. It always is.

Julian hesitates before sitting, like he’s expecting the chair to explode or the wine to be poisoned. Though, I can’t say I blame him. I might’ve done worse if I was in his position.

The table is already set with white linen, crystal glasses, silver flatware that gleams in the gray light.

My chefs emerge through the French doors, efficient and silent, like well-trained ghosts.

One pours two glasses of Brunello di Montalcino.

Another sets down antipasto: cured meats, burrata, olives soaked in garlic and oil.

Julian stares at the spread for a second too long.

“Something wrong?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

“I just wasn’t expecting… all this. This wine must cost a fortune.”

“What were you expecting?” I ask, my lips curving. “A sandwich and a lie detector?”

He smirks, but his posture stays stiff. He’s playing calm, collected. But I see the way his eyes flick around the terrace, tracking exits. Measuring distance. Always calculating in that head of his.

“I don’t really eat with people who threaten to kill me,” he says.

I break a slice of prosciutto with my fork. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be bleeding out before the appetizer.”

He picks up a fork, slowly. “That’s reassuring.”

I tilt my head, watching him. His suit jacket doesn’t fit right.

It’s a cheap cut, loose at the shoulders.

His hair’s tidy but not styled. Everything about him says washed-up detective trying to pass for someone important.

He’s muscular, though. Same build as me. Keeps in shape. That says something.

“I want to know who gave you the intel,” I say.

He blinks. “Thought we were doing pleasantries.”

“This is me being pleasant.”

He exhales and sets his fork down. “I told you, I’m a P.I. People pay me to dig. This city’s a goldmine if you know where to look.”

“You’re good at avoiding direct answers.”

“You’re good at asking loaded questions.”

Touché.

The second course arrives. Grilled lamb, rare. Charred and bleeding slightly on fine China. Julian eyes it like it might bite back.

“You don’t have to act impressed,” I say, sipping my wine. “But you could at least try not to look like you’ve never seen a plate without grease stains.”

“Guess I’m not used to five-star interrogations.”

I lean forward slightly. “And I’m not used to being tailed by ghosts with fake names.”

He looks at me, calm, but I can see the tension coiling behind his eyes.

“I already told you who I am.”

“No,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You told me what you want me to believe. There’s a difference.”

He lifts his wineglass but doesn’t drink. “So, this is how it’s going to be? You wine and dine me while waiting for me to slip up?”

“I don’t wait for people to slip up,” I reply sharply. “I make them.”

He nods slowly. “Then I’ll make this easy for you. I’m not the hitman.”

“And I’m not God, but I still decide who gets buried.”

We stare at each other over untouched food. No more posturing. No more pretending this is anything but what it is.

I press the knife into the lamb, cutting through with practiced ease.

“If you’re lying to me,” I murmur, “this will be your last meal.”

He picks up his fork and finally takes a bite.

“Guess I’d better enjoy this one, then.”

I watch him chew, unhurried. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t fold.

But I see it.

He’s not as indifferent as he wants me to believe.

The food. The wine. The house. The luxury. The attention.

He’s not used to it. And even if he won’t admit it, he likes it.

At least a little.

And that’s leverage.

He’s good, I’ll give him that. He doesn’t rattle easy. Sits across from me like this is just another client meeting. Like we didn’t meet under surveillance photos and threat-level tension.

But there are cracks forming. And I know just how to spot them.

He goes for the olives next. Safe. Small. Something you can pop into your mouth while avoiding direct eye contact.

“You ever do contract work for anyone else in this city?” I ask casually. “Before the hit?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He chews slowly. Swallows even slower.

“I’ve worked for all kinds of people,” he finally says. “Divorces. Missing persons. A few high-profile cheaters who paid well to stay anonymous.”

“Funny,” I say. “I don’t remember you filing for a P.I license here.”

He stiffens, just slightly. Most people wouldn’t catch it. But I’m not most people.

“I have contacts,” he replies.

“So do I.”

I let that sit. Let him squirm a little.

One of the waiters places a bottle of red between us. I wave him off. Julian watches the exchange like he’s cataloging it; who my staff is, how quickly they listen, how much control I wield.

He’s trying to learn me.

He doesn’t realize I already know him.

“You strike me as the type who likes control,” I say, folding my napkin neatly across my lap. “Is that what drew you to the job? The idea of crawling into someone’s life and pulling strings until they unravel?”

His eyes narrow. “I take jobs that pay.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He pauses.

“Sometimes people need to be exposed.”

I lean back, smiling slightly. “And who decides that? You?”

“No. The ones who hire me.”