Page 21 of Madness & Mercy
“Luca takes out your kneecaps.I take what’s left.”
He crosses his arms. “Message received.”
I start to close the door, then pause, looking back at him.
“I’ve got some unfinished business to take care of,” I murmur.
And by unfinished business, I mean going to get laid before my cock explodes.
“Sleep well,cagnolino.”
He blinks. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
I smirk as the lock clicks into place behind me.
“Google it.”
CHAPTER 4 – TRAPPED
JULIAN
Iwait 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.
