Page 1 of Madness & Mercy
CHAPTER 1 – THE BODY
NICO
They dump the body where they know I’ll find it.
Left it downtown, center stage beneath the Halston Bridge, where traffic snarls at 6 a.m. and city cameras never sleep. It’s not just a murder, it’s a message. A declaration of war dressed inmysignature: two to the chest, one to the head. Clean. Precise. Like a surgeon’s cut.
The only problem?
I didn’t pull the trigger.
The city won’t care. They never do. The Vitale name carries weight. Enough to crush a man, enough to bury a truth. I’ve built my empire on blood, fear, and efficiency. If there’s a corpse left with my calling card, it isn’t just a warning.
It’s aninvitation.
I step out of the backseat of the Rolls Royce, the scent of diesel and death curling in the crisp, morning air. Luca flanks my right, silent as always, his expression carved in stone. Sirens whine a few blocks out. Too slow. Too late. Just how we like it.
The body lies face-down on the asphalt, hands bound, throat slashed. It’s sloppy work. Excessive, even. Someonewantsthis to look personal. Someone wants the city whispering my name before the blood dries.
I crouch beside the body, my fingertips brushing dried blood on his broken jaw.“Figlio di puttana,”I mutter under my breath. “We know this guy?”
“Roman Falco,” Luca says. “Romano’s accountant. Went missing three days ago.”
I glance up, my eyes narrowing. “Romano sent his own man to die?”
Luca doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Silvio Romano never lifts a finger without weighing the profit. If he’s burning his own men, it’s because he’s got something better to gain.
Orsomeone.
I rise slowly, while my eyes scan the skyline, the shadows in the alleyway, the steel-lidded cameras I know are watching. “Clean this up. Quietly.”
“And the story?” Luca asks.
“Mugging gone wrong. Blame it on the locals. Make it dirty, not strategic.”
I turn away from the body, already thinking two steps ahead. “And find out who’s been whispering my name in city hall.”
Luca doesn’t move. “There’s more.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Of course there is.
He reaches inside his coat and hands me a black folder with no label, just weight.
“Found this on the dash of one of our tail cars,” he says. “Engine was still warm. Driver’s gone.”
I open the folder.
Inside, there are photographs.
Grainy. Surveillance stills. One man, captured over and over.
I commit every detail of him to memory:
Tall. Lean. Rough around the edges. Thick brown hair. Angular face. Glasses. Green eyes that look like they’ve seen the gates of hell and didn’t bother flinching.
In one photo, he’s standing against a brick wall with a cigarette between his fingers like he’s got all the time in the world. In another, he’s watching me step out of the nightclub I entered two days ago.
