Page 10 of Deadly Little Sparrow

“Because they took something from me,” I answer with a heated tremble in my barely controlled voice. “Do you have any brothers?”

“Not blood, but yes.”

I hold his gaze, letting him see the emotions burning behind my eyes like the eternal flames of damnation. “And I bet you would kill anyone who took one of them from you. Wouldn’t you?”

He doesn’t pause or hesitate this time. “Yes.” The conviction in his voice sends a thrill down my spine, raising goose bumps along my skin and hardening my nipples.

“Where can I find the Sleepless Reapers?” I ask again, putting the weight of authority I don’t actually have into my voice. I haven’t so much as blinked and neither has he, which means I can see every flicker of emotion that passes through his eyes, and there’s something heated that flares to life.

“They mostly hang out at their own clubhouse. But I’ve had to deal with them more than once causing trouble at Babylon on tenth street. They like to go in there and cruise for ass, consensual or otherwise.” The way his features darken and get stormy says all I need to know about his opinion on the subject.

Excitement quivers in my bones. I’m finally making progress. It’s a lead, at least. On reflex, I pat his thigh, the silky fabric of his pants heated through by his skin. I let my fingers linger longer than I should.

“Good boy,” I murmur, and he makes a choked sound in his throat. His leg trembles under my touch and he reaches for his drink again, gulping down a few swallows.

Interesting. Maybe my fantasy about having the deadly man on his knees isn’t that far off base. A guy can dream…

Not that I have time for those types of dreams right now.

“What’s your name?” I ask. The question feels bolder than my casual Domming. Casper would have killed a man where he stood for asking his name, hence the silly nickname I decided to use when calling him The Phantom became too much of a mouthful.

“Xaviaro Saviano,” he answers easily. “And what’s your name, Little Sparrow?”

I drag the tip of my index finger along the rim of my half-empty glass, my other hand still resting on his leg.

“Sparrow works just fine,” I say, sliding out of my seat. We’re close enough that I’m pressed up against him as soon as I’m on my feet, his legs spread on either side of me as I drag my hand up his thigh, drawing another half-bitten sound from Xaviaro’s lips. “I’ll also answer to Sir.”

His nostrils flare. Up close like this, I can see the purple splotches under his eyes and the strange urge to brush my lips against them in apology rattles through me.

“Don’t get in my way. I’d really rather not kill you.” I punctuate my request by brushing my lips briefly against the smooth skin of his cheek, just above the line of stubble on his jaw.

And then, for the second night in a row, I leave the bar with the feeling of Xaviaro Saviano’s gaze boring into my back.

Chapter 4

SPARROW

My muscles quiver with a mixture of nerves and excitement as I drag my index finger over the carved handle of my dagger. I check that the leather sheath is strapped snugly across my chest and then I drop my shirt to conceal the knife. I slowly lift my head and meet my own eyes in the smudged mirror that hangs over the sink, the water running on its twenty second timer to ensure that the user washes their hands properly. Somehow I doubt proper hygiene is the number one concern of the patrons of Babylon. I would guess that this sink has seen more lines of coke snorted off it than hands washed.

I expected to see ice-cold indifference staring back at me—or maybe hoped is a better word. The first time I watched Casper complete a hit by cutting a man from sternum to stem and letting his guts spill out onto the floor, it was the blankness in his eyes that struck me the most. Don’t get me wrong, seeing a man’s insides very much on the outside was something I had to get used to, but at least that part made sense to me. I suppose I thought all hitmen were Ted Bundy—excited by the kill, maybe even getting off on it. But watching The Phantom, it was obvious that taking a man’s life was no different to him than taking a shit.

“Death is an inescapable part of life.” That was what he said when I asked about it later.

The wild look in my eyes is anything but bored, and it’s as far from indifferent as a person can get. It’s pure, feral bloodlust. My heart is pounding so hard that the drumbeat of my pulse in my ears drowns out the music and chatter from the bar just outside the bathroom door. The water stops running and the lightbulb over the sink flickers. The bathroom door swings open and a man stumbles in, drunk and likely on something else as well. He swaggers over to the nearest urinal and I track him with my eyes, my attention lingering on the Reaper patch on his leather jacket.

He leans on the wall for balance and whips his dick out, missing the urinal more than hitting it. When he’s finished, he doesn’t bother to flush and he doesn’t so much as glance at the sink before shuffling back out and letting the door bang closed behind him again. I let out a slow, steadying breath.

I’ve been blending into the crowd at Babylon every night for three weeks, keeping a low profile, making sure not to do anything to draw attention to myself. Three weeks of watching and waiting. Three weeks of stretching my patience right to its breaking point.

Tonight’s the night.

One more breath and I push off from the sink, forcing myself to abandon my usual confident strut as I exit the bathroom a few seconds behind him. If I’m going to pull this off, I need to do it just right.

My attention zeroes in on the small, round table to the left of the bar. It’s the same table where the three of them have sat every Thursday since I’ve been staking out the bar. Three hulking, tattooed men who wear jackets with the Sleepless Reaper logo on them.

It’s where they drunkenly hold court, posturing like gorillas during mating season, picking out men and women alike to get them drunk before dragging them out of here barely conscious. Bile rises in my throat at how many people I’ve had to watch them led away like prey. Tonight, I’m finally going to start putting things right in the world.

The drunk one slams back another drink, throwing his empty shot glass and laughing when it shatters loudly on the floor. The man next to him is about as interesting as drying paint, but he picks up the tab most nights, so I’m guessing that’s why he’s always invited along. And then there’s Shit Stain. AKA, the only man at the table who was in the picture with Benny.

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