Page 111 of Madness & Mercy
“Good,” I say, already turning for the exit. “Let’s head back. We’ve got a long night ahead.”
The drive back is thick with silence. Julian sits beside me, arms crossed, his gaze fixed out the window like he’s pretending this is just any other ride. Like I didn’t just watch him freeze at the sight of that cocaine. Like I didn’t catch the way his pupils dilated, the flicker of something animal beneath his calm exterior.
But he doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.
When we finally pull into the estate, gravel crunching beneath the tires, I kill the engine.
“Stay in the car,” I say, cold and flat, slamming the door behind me. His head whips toward me.
“Seriously?” he mutters.
But I’ve already hit the lock.
Luca and Enzo are waiting outside.
“Be ready by eleven,” I tell them. “We move at midnight.”
They nod in sync, but Luca’s eyes flick to the passenger seat, where Julian sits glaring through the windshield.
“You sure you don’t want to look over that background check now?” he says. “Be nice to know who’s really sitting beside you.”
My fists curl.
“Later,” I grunt, already turning toward the house, but Enzo steps into my path.
“Boss… we really think you should see this.”
I stop dead in my tracks.
I glance back at Julian, still locked in, tapping his fingers on the console like he’s waiting for a damn coffee.
“Fine. Enzo, keep an eye on him. Luca, make it fast.”
Luca gives a tight nod, and we move.
The office is cold and sterile, all stone and glass. Luca doesn’t say a word as he pulls a USB from his coat and slides it into the port. The monitor flickers to life, photos filling the screen.
The first one hits like a punch to the ribs. A young Julian Cross, clean-shaven and sharp-jawed, wearing a police uniform and fuckingbadgeon his chest.
Then come the mugshots…
Three separate lineups. The photos are grainy but clear enough. In the first, he’s tense and defiant, like he still thinks he can fight his way out. In the second, the anger’s dulled; his eyes darker and heavier. And in the third, he looks desperate, like he’d doanythingto get out of whatever hell he’s in.
But it’s the final image that guts me the most.
He’s standing beside Paulo Braga in what looks like a warehouse, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, bricks ofcocaine laid out across the table. Julian’s in a fitted black suit, but it can’t mask how hollow he looks. He’s holding a clipboard, scribbling something down while Braga counts cash beside him.
It’s not his eyes that hold me this time. It’s thebruises.Faint, yellowing, scattered along the inside of his arms. I can’t stop staring. They don’t look fresh, but they’re deep, like they’ve been layered over time. Evidence of needles, fists, or worse. My stomach twists. He’s trying to look composed in the photo, trying to play the part, but the bruises give him away. They tell a story I can’t unsee. And for a second, I forget to be breathe, because all I can think is:what the fuck did Braga do to him?
My hand shoots out before I can stop myself, gripping the edge of the table so hard the wood groans beneath my palm.
“Where did you find these?”
“Took some time,” Luca replies. “Had to pull from closed systems, scrubbed archives. But it’s legit. Surveillance footage, mostly. All timestamped. Before Braga scrubbed him clean.”
I stare at the screen like it’s a knife to the chest. Everything I suspected has been confirmed.
Julianwasa cop.
