Page 2 of Deadly Little Sparrow

“Tell me, or so help me, I will cut your fucking tongue out with this broken shard of glass,” the tiny bird growls the words so menacingly that a hot wave of electricity courses through my body.

Would it be inappropriate to propose to a man while he’s in the middle of threatening someone’s life? It would be a hell of a story to tell at our wedding, if nothing else.

While I’m positive that Travis and Taylor deserve whatever he has planned for them, I doubt Sid would be pleased with me if I let his pool table get stained with a pool of blood. My cock jerks again at the thought. Fuck, now is not the time.

I adjust my growing erection casually, the crowd parting around me without question. Taylor’s eyes go wide when he sees me, his face draining of color before he ducks for cover. Loyal brother you’ve got there, Trav. I wrap my arms around the tiny would-be assassin to haul him off his victim. The intoxicating scent of leather and bergamot tickles my nose, tempting me to bury my face in the crook of his neck and inhale deeper. Except this isn’t an intimate moment, as much as it might feel like one to my fucked-up brain. Maybe a marriage proposal is too much, but what’s the etiquette on buying a man a drink after stopping him from cutting out someone’s tongue with a broken bottle?

The feeling of his small body flailing in my grasp is distracting enough that I miss the cock of his arm until it’s too late. The sharp edge of his elbow slams into my nose, sending a surprising wave of pain through me, waking up all of my senses at once. It’s like sticking my finger in a light socket, my entire body humming to life at once. And fuck me, my dick gets even harder, twitching eagerly as I lose my grip on him, stumbling backward as hot, sticky blood pours from my nose.

SPARROW

I didn’t plan to end up on top of that rotting pile of garbage vaguely shaped like a human being. And assault with a deadly liquor bottle in front of dozens of witnesses probably isn’t the best idea I’ve come up with lately. But my patience is hanging on by a thread after three straight days of dead ends and being stonewalled at every turn.

I shouldn’t be surprised that no one in this fucking city wants to get on the bad side of the Sleepless Reapers, but I’m used to getting my way. People have gone so far as to call me a spoiled brat on more than one occasion. Fine, we’ll just call this little exchange a temper tantrum then. And there’s plenty more where that came from.

I wasn’t actually going to cut his tongue out… probably. He was seconds from giving me something useful. Either that or pissing his pants, it’s hard to say for sure. Regardless, whoever had the balls to pick me the fuck up and get in the middle of shit that’s none of his business deserves a hell of a lot more than a broken nose.

I spin on him with a snarl on my lips, the broken bottle still clutched tightly in my hand. The scabs on my knuckles from my failed attempt at intimidation from last night are broken open and bleeding again. My lungs burn with each ragged breath I drag in, the berserker rage slowly clearing as my eyes land on the Good Samaritan himself. Six feet of man wrapped in a designer suit that’s black as midnight right down to the shirt and tie underneath. His shoulders are broad, hinting at muscle under the suit. A strand of dark hair hangs out of place over his forehead, looking oddly unsettling in contrast to the rest of his put-together appearance. There’s an intense look in his hazel eyes and one hand cupped under his nose where it’s dripping crimson.

It might be an inappropriate first thing to notice about the man whose nose I just broke, but rawrrrr.

The metallic glint of a gun tucked beneath his open jacket catches the light. Half the people in this city are packing, so it’s not the gun itself that snaps me out of my violent rage. It’s more like the sight of the gun slows my brain down just long enough for me to really take in the man standing in front of me. He’s wearing a thousand-dollar suit in this bar, on the shady side of town—not that Wildcliff has a good side of town. And everyone seems to be giving him a very wide berth, eyeing him nervously and looking at me like I’m already in a casket.

“Fuck,” I mutter, letting the bottle slip through my fingers and fall to the floor, shattering on impact.

I can hear Benny’s voice in my ear, an urgent whisper full of concern, ever the worried little brother even now that he’s six feet under. Run.

My dead brother makes an excellent point. I didn’t come this far just to end up with a bullet between the eyes courtesy of this Mafia goon, even if he is a sexy Mafia goon. Dead is dead, no matter how hot your murderer is.

The man doesn’t make a move for his gun. It’s like he’s frozen in place just staring at me. Maybe this is an intimidation tactic, or maybe he’s stunned that anyone dared to fuck with him. Either way, I’m not going to wait around for him to snap out of it. I dart past him, ducking and weaving through the crowd still gathered around, all of them baying for my blood now. Well, they’re all going home disappointed, because I don’t bleed for anyone.

My heart is in my throat as I crash through the door and back out onto the unlit street. I’m half expecting to catch a bullet to the back of the head at any second. Is he following me? I won’t know unless I stop long enough to check, and no way in hell am I doing that. My pounding footfalls thunder in my ears, along with my heavy breaths and galloping pulse. Cars whizz by, but they’re like phantoms, soundless over my own ominous drumbeat.

I dart through an alley a block from my apartment, finally slowing down long enough to glance over my shoulder. I don’t see anyone coming after me, but I can’t convince myself that I’m safe.

I can’t die. Not yet. Not before I do what I came to Wildcliff to do.

Once my hands are drenched in the blood of the men responsible for Benny’s death, I’ll walk straight up to Mafia Hottie and invite him to put the cold barrel of his gun between my lips. But not yet.

There’s a beautiful kind of calm that comes along with losing the only person you ever cared about. I’m not afraid of anything anymore—not death, and certainly not consequences. The only thing I’m worried about is getting an eye for an eye. It’s not my fucking problem if the whole world is blind when I’m finished.

I stumble over the legs of a sleeping derelict, waking him just enough to grumble at me in irritation. I mutter an apology, glancing over my shoulder every few steps as I slip out of the alley and walk quickly home.

Home. I snort a derisive laugh at even the passing attempt to connect that word to the building I finally stop in front of. This isn’t home. I don’t have a home, and I’m not sure I ever will again.

Even that thought leaves me feeling oddly numb.

Where will I go when I’m finished here? Fuck if I know. I can’t think about later. All I have is now. And for now, this is home sweet home.

Chapter 2

XAVIARO

The silence in the bar rings in my ears like a reverberating gong. I give up on trying to contain the mess, dropping my hand and letting the hot, sticky blood flow freely from my nose and down my chin. Every man in the bar is afraid to say a word. They’re too scared to run but terrified of what’s going to happen if they get caught up in my rage.

Except, I’m not angry. I should be. Some little punk just broke my nose in front of a few dozen men who need to fear me if I’m going to keep doing my job effectively. And by ‘effectively,’ I mean without having to unalive every other motherfucker who causes trouble in Wildcliff or owes the Morettis money. But instead of the pulsing fury I expect to feel in the center of my chest, there’s something… else.

An image dances through my mind of his honey-colored eyes glowing with defiance and danger when he spun on me. I thought he might take another swing at me, and that possibility had excitement thrumming through my veins. My dick got way too fucking hard imagining the deadly little bird straddling me instead of that slimy scumbag, a hand around my throat, whispering threats into my ear…

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