Page 15 of Deadly Little Sparrow

“Yeah, boss?” I answer, hoping my voice sounds more even to him than it does to me.

“We need to talk. I’m at the club.” The line goes dead.

Fucking great.

Chapter 6

XAVIARO

Wild is packed when I step inside, working to pull myself together. My lips are still tingling with the memory of Sparrow’s mouth on mine, and the sturdy wall of control I’ve spent a lifetime building brick by brick suddenly feels like a dam about to break. My cock won’t stop throbbing from the memory of his hand around my throat, and it feels like there’s a live wire under my skin.

I run my fingers through my hair to smooth it back and shrug my shoulders in an effort to get my suit jacket to fall correctly. It doesn’t work. My jacket feels askew… I feel fucking askew.

I shake my head wordlessly and skirt around each member of the half-naked waitstaff as they approach me on my way to Enzo’s table. I manage to pull a thin veil of indifference over the fracturing foundation of my control by the time I reach our usual table. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do for now. I can find out what’s got the boss so on edge, and then I’m going to go over to Sparrows and tell him he can’t tug at my seams without putting me back together again when he’s done.

At first glance, Enzo looks relaxed, with his tie loosened, one leg crossed over the other, and an arm stretched out over the empty seat beside his. But I’ve known the man long enough to know that relaxed is one wrong move away from unhinged. In public, anyway. He prefers to come across as in control at all times when it comes to people outside of his inner circle, so it’s never a good sign when he lets the mask slip.

He’s alone at the table, but I’m a creature of habit, so I pull out my usual chair anyway and take a seat. He doesn’t acknowledge me right away, his gaze fixed on the dancer currently up on stage, grinding and shaking his ass to some song with a pounding bassline and words like ‘tongue’ and ‘dirty’ in the lyrics. But it doesn’t look like Enzo is really seeing the dancer. It’s more like the bronzed ass framed by an electric blue thong is simply something to look at.

“Where’s the fire tonight, boss?” I ask when I get impatient waiting for him to speak first.

He answers without looking away from the show on stage. “Shouldn’t you already know that?”

I wince at his cool tone. “I’ve… been a little distracted lately.” I keep my own voice passive, smoothing a hand over my sleeve and quickly calculating just how badly I’ve been dropping the ball in recent weeks. It’s possible I’ve been more lax than usual with my collections, opting instead to spend my time following a certain little bird around the city.

The dance ends and Enzo finally turns his head to look at me, his eyes roaming over me silently for several seconds. I’ve spent a lifetime honing the skill of never squirming under pressure, but tonight it’s a damn near impossible task to remain still while he probes me with his gaze, taking me apart piece by piece.

He picks up a folder resting on the table and tosses it towards me. I catch it before it can slide off the smooth surface, and flip it open. There’s a stack of photos inside and all of them are of me. Pictures of me sitting in my parked car, staring off into the distance with timestamps showing days and times I should have been working. I push those aside and find another set, these ones are of me disposing of Velcro’s body last week. There are enough that you could turn it into a flipbook of my fuckup.

Getting rid of the body wasn’t a fuckup, but not mentioning anything to Enzo certainly was.

If I were anyone else, my heart might be pounding right now and my palms might be sweating. I lay the pictures down and calmly close the folder again.

“Should I have left the body in the alley? I figured it was better to get ahead of a potential problem rather than wait for it to fester,” I ask with a blank expression. “And since when are you having me followed? Is this some new policy to get more involved in all of your employees’ lives, or is this special just for me since we’ve been friends for so long?”

“Cut the shit, Xav,” he says, dropping the cool, formal tone. “Look, I’ve never been up your ass about what you do in your personal time. When I took over, I told all of you that it wasn’t going to be like it was before. Fuck who you want, how you want. But when you’re blowing off work to play stalker lapdog, it’s my business. And yes, we have been friends a long damn time. Which is why I’m a little fucking pissed that you’re hiding shit instead of talking to me about it.”

Another tan, toned dancer wearing nothing but a jockstrap saunters up to our table with a sway in his hips and his eyes fixed eagerly on Lorenzo. I’m half convinced that most of the men who take this job do it because they’re hoping to land the gorgeous, closed-off head of the Moretti crime family as their husband. As usual though, Lorenzo waves the man off with barely a glance, but not before tucking a generous bill into his waistband as a parting gift.

When we’re alone again, I lean back in my chair and look across the table at Enzo.

“Catch me up here. Am I getting Daddy’s belt because I’ve been dropping the ball on collections, or because you’re pissy that I didn’t pass you a note in class about my new crush?”

My flippant question earns a snort, followed by another flat look. “Both,” he mutters, but the way he says it makes it clear it’s mostly the latter. He tugs on his tie to tighten it and sits up a little straighter, blowing out a breath as he runs a hand along his lightly stubbled jaw.

“After he broke my nose, I was… curious about him,” I confess what I probably should have told him weeks ago. “So I’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

“Keeping such a good eye on him that you’re cleaning up his sloppy murders,” he notes dryly.

“Murder,” I correct, an idea sparking in my mind. “He’s got a vendetta against the Sleepless Reapers.”

He hums in the back of his throat, making a face like he smells something bad. It’s exactly the reaction I was expecting, and hoping for.

“I don’t see talking him out of it,” I say casually.

“Well, certainly not with your tongue down his throat.” His lips twitch with an almost-smile.

I clear my throat and press on, not about to get sidetracked thinking about the kiss again. “They’ve been a thorn in our side for years,” I remind him. “The meth empire they’ve been slowly building is bound to bring the feds around sooner rather than later. And I know you don’t like their reputation for sexual assault any more than I do.”

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