Page 6 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

JULIAN

I wait until I’m sure he’s gone, his footsteps fading down the hall, the soft click of another door closing somewhere out of reach. Then I flip open the laptop.

The screen flickers to life, sterile and silent.

Against my better judgment, I open the browser and type it in.

Cagniolo.

I butcher the spelling twice before autocorrect finally takes pity.

Cagniolo (noun): A diminutive form of “cane” (dog).

Translation: Little dog. Puppy.

I stare at the screen.

Then I slam the laptop shut, heat crawling up the back of my neck.

Fucker.

With nothing better to do and no windows to stare out of, I drag myself toward the en suite.

The second I step inside, the automatic overhead lights glow to life, bathing the black tile and gold accents in a muted shimmer.

Of course the bathroom looks like a goddamn showroom.

Cold, clean luxury made for a man like Nico Vitale, someone who bleeds power and expects the rest of the world to wipe it off his boots.

The mirror is spotless. The towels are folded like they belong in a fucking resort. And the floor—heated, because of course it is—warms my bare feet as I shed my clothes, one layer at a time.

I catch my reflection in the glass. The bruises on my ribs are blooming nicely. Some from old jobs, some new. I touch one just to feel it. Just to remind myself I’m still real.

After throwing my clothes in a heap on the heated marble, I step under the rainfall showerhead like I’m not about to scrub myself clean in a fucking murder palace.

The water hits hot. Too hot. Scalding, even. But I don’t flinch.

If anything, I lean into it, letting it sear the grime from my skin. The scent of expensive soap curls into the air. Cedar, smoke, and leather.

It smells like him.

The steam fogs the mirror behind the glass. The kind you can’t see into, but still feel watched behind.

I brace one hand against the tile, let the heat bite into my back, and try to think about anything else. Anything but him.

Nico fucking Vitale.

The knife he dragged down my neck like he was mapping me.

The glint in his eye when I didn’t flinch.

The way his voice dipped just slightly, curious, almost… hungry.

I grind my teeth.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I shouldn’t be turned on. I shouldn’t be hard. But the second I picture the way his gloved hand wrapped around my throat—in threat, in control—I’m gone.

Fucking hell.

My body betrays me before I can stop it. My cock hardens under the heat and memory of his voice.

Of his hand around my throat.

Of the way he looked at me like he could see through every layer of bullshit I’ve ever built.

I try to shove it down.

It doesn’t work.

My hand wraps around my cock without conscious thought, slow at first, just enough to ease the ache. Just enough to pretend it’s someone else doing it.

Someone with dark eyes and a sharper tongue.

Someone who threatened to kill me and somehow made it sound like foreplay.

I bite down on a groan and squeeze tighter, my pace picking up as the images flicker across the backs of my eyelids.

Nico with his knife, blade tracing my skin like he was signing his name.

Nico pressing me into the wall, breath hot against my throat, sliding a gloved hand over my mouth to drown the sound.

I stroke harder.

Faster.

My head tips back. A groan slips out before I can bite it back.

He’s inside my head, curling through the cracks, filling me with heat I can’t exhale.

I hear his voice echo in my skull:

“You think I won’t kill you?”

I stroke faster, jaw clenched, body flushed from the heat and shame and need. My thighs tremble slightly, my heart pounding in sync with the water hammering against the tile.

And when I come, it’s his name I curse under my breath.

The moment passes, but the guilt stays. Sharp and acidic.

I lean against the wall, panting, staring at the water swirling down the drain.

I should be repulsed. Furious. Anything but this… hunger.

But even now, I feel it coiled low in my belly.

This thing I don’t want to name.

This fixation I can’t kill.

I rinse off, run a hand through my hair, and step out into the fogged-up bathroom, trying to shake the sound of his voice, but it lingers in my head.

And no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to wash him off.

This is infuriating.

My plan was simple: get close. Win his trust. Slit his throat.

Easy.

But I didn’t account for this.

This sick, gnawing thing crawling under my skin.

This heat. This hunger. This—fuck, whatever it is—that’s eating me alive.

He locked me in here. Took my phone. Cut me off.

Left me stewing in silk sheets and luxury like I’m some pampered prisoner.

And I let him.

Fuck. That.

I pace the room, fists clenched, pulse hammering in my throat. I can’t let this spiral. Can’t let him gain the upper hand.

But every second I spend here, caged and stripped of control, he wins.

There has to be a way out, right? There has to be.

I just have to find it…before I lose myself entirely.

I tear through the room like there’s something I missed. A panel. A button. A flaw in the design.

Nothing.

The windows are reinforced. Bulletproof, no doubt. The lock on the door’s electronic, custom, no handle on my side. The vents are too small for me to fit through. I even check the floorboards like some kind of maniac.

Still nothing.

Who builds a room this airtight?

Oh, right. A fucking mob boss.

I press a hand to the wall, sweat beading at my temple. This is worse than prison. At least there you knew the rules.

Here? He makes them up as he goes.

Out of options and out of control, I stalk to the desk and flip open the laptop.

The message window’s already open.

JULIAN: Let me out. Need some fresh air.

A pause.

Then the reply comes through.

NICO: Didn’t I tell you to go to sleep, cagniolo?

I grit my teeth. My fingers fly.

JULIAN: Fuck off. I’m not your fucking dog.

NICO: Googled it, huh?

Look at you. Already following orders.

JULIAN: Cut the bullshit. Where are you?

NICO: Miss me already?

It’s only been a couple hours.

JULIAN: Answer the question, asshole.

NICO: I’m afraid that’s none of your business, cagniolo.

JULIAN: Die.

NICO: If I do that, who’s going to let you out?

I slam the laptop shut with a sharp crack, teeth clenched so hard it hurts. My blood is boiling, fury pooling under my skin.

I hate him.

I hate that he’s winning.

I stare at the sealed door, seething.

Let me out.

Three simple words, and he just talked his way around them like the smug bastard he is.

Fine.

If he wants to keep me locked up like some caged animal, I’ll have to fight my way out.

I storm over to the keypad, scanning it for weaknesses. Maybe it’s cheap tech beneath the high-end gloss. Maybe there’s a failsafe. A wire I can strip. A panel I can pry open.

I grab the closest thing with weight: a small marble statue from the bookshelf and slam it into the panel.

Crack.

Sparks fly. The screen glitches, then comes back on with a blink.

Still locked.

I hit it again. Nothing.

“Son of a bitch,” I growl, tossing the statue across the room. It smashes against the wall and shatters like my last thread of patience.

I press my forehead to the cool surface of the door, breathing hard.

Okay.

New plan.

I turn slowly, eyes falling to the call button near the bed. The one Nico so graciously told me would summon the chef.

Of course.

I straighten, my lips curving.

I press the button, request a sandwich, and sit on the edge of the mattress like I’m behaving. Like I’ve accepted my fate. The perfect little captive.

Ten minutes go by, maybe less.

Then I hear it: the soft beep of the outer lock disengaging. The door swings open, and a man in chef whites walks in carrying a silver tray, head ducked, polite and professional.

He doesn’t see it coming.

The moment he steps into range, I slam the tray out of his hands, grab him by the collar, and drive my knee up into his gut. He wheezes, his eyes wide.

“Sorry, Chef,” I mutter. “Nothing personal.”

I shove him face-first against the wall and deliver one sharp blow to the side of his neck. His body slumps before he can scream.

I catch him mid-fall, lower him to the floor, and yank the key fob from his apron with a tight grip.

Click.

The lock disengages.

My heart slams hard against my chest as I crack open the door just wide enough to slip into the hall.

Carefully, I shut the door behind me and press my back to it, listening.

Muffled voices echo faintly down the corridor. There’s two guards, maybe three. The usual rotation. I clocked their routines on night one of gathering observations, burned it into memory.

I start moving, taking soft steps and careful breaths. I duck past a set of tall windows, their thick curtains spilling angled strips of moonlight onto the marble floor.

There’s a security camera just ahead. I time its rotation, wait for the subtle click as it swivels the opposite way… then move fast, sliding low behind a pedestal holding some grotesque marble statue I’ll never understand.

I glance up at the camera. Red light. Still active.

I need to cut left, toward the west hallway.

The garage is on the other side of the estate, past the gallery, near the armory. If I take the central corridor, I’ll be seen. I cut through the side hall instead—tight, dark, and lined with abstract paintings and motion sensors I pray stay dead.

I freeze when I hear footsteps.

Shit.

I drop to a crouch and slip behind a decorative screen just as someone rounds the corner. Someone with black boots and a familiar presence. I let out a quiet exhale when he speaks, and I realize it isn’t Nico.

It’s Luca.

My lungs go still. He’s maybe ten feet away.

He stops.

My fingers twitch toward the chef’s keys. If I have to knock him out, I will. I just need one good strike. One clean—

But then, he turns, heading back the other way, muttering into his phone.

I don’t breathe again until his footsteps fade.

I wait five more seconds, then peel out of hiding and move fast.

I spot another camera, this one by the stairwell. I stay tight against the wall until it glances away, then bolt down the last hall and finally reach the garage door.

The key fob shakes slightly in my grip as I scan the lock.

One beep, and the deadbolt unlatches with a satisfying clunk.

I slip inside the garage.

It’s quiet. No movement.

Rows of sleek black vehicles gleam under recessed lights: Rolls Royce, Lamborghini, Maserati.

I smirk.

Nico must’ve taken the Benz.

Each car is spotless, all of them ready.

I snatch the keys to the Maserati hanging on the wall in the garage.

One more beep. The lights flash. I slide into the driver’s seat, my heart still hammering, and press the ignition.

The engine purrs to life like a beast waiting to devour something.

I hit the garage remote and the door lifts, the car rolling out quiet as a whisper.

I don’t know how long I have before they realize I’m gone.

But I already know where I’m going.

I’m willing to bet he’s at the club, the one I tailed him to two nights ago. It’s exclusive. Discreet. The kind of place that caters to violence disguised as pleasure.

If Nico’s there, it’s the perfect setup to finish the job.

The only problem? Too many fucking witnesses.

I can’t take the shot with a crowd breathing down my neck.

No, it’ll have to wait.

I’ll wait until he leaves, until he’s alone,

then it’ll just be him and me.

And this ends.

For good.

I drive through the city like a shadow, weaving through traffic until I reach the club.

Nocturne.

It’s the kind of place that pretends to be underground even though everyone knows it exists. A red-lit corner of the city soaked in secrets and sin. The name glows in flickering neon above a black door with no windows, tucked behind a brick alleyway like a bruise.

I kill the headlights and park across the street, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers.

The smoke steadies me. The waiting doesn’t.

I’ve been sitting here for two hours. Watching. Waiting. It’s raining now.

People come and go—slick bastards in suits, women with collars, couples with the kind of tension you can feel from across the pavement.

All kinds of fucked up wander through that door like it’s a church and they’re the faithful.

But still no sign of Nico.

I shift forward in the driver’s seat, my eyes fixed on the entrance like it owes me answers. My knuckles go white around the wheel.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe he’s not here tonight.

Maybe I missed him.

Screw it.

I crush the cigarette out in the ashtray and swing the door open. The moment my boots hit the pavement, I’m locked in.

No more waiting.

It’s time to go inside.