Page 24 of Deadly Little Sparrow

SPARROW

An icy kind of calm descends over Xaviaro on our way up the creaky steps to the second-floor apartment. I’m not sure how I notice the shift, but one minute he’s the Patron Saint of Battered Women and the next he’s the fucking grim reaper, here to collect. He stops in front of the third apartment door on the left and cracks his neck one way, then the other.

The sounds of the city outside seem to fade and everything feels dangerously still, like the calm before a storm. My insides sizzle and pulse, adrenaline pumping through me like a drug.

He raises his hand to knock, three sharp raps of his knuckles that sound like gunshots in the eerie silence. A year ago I might have flinched, but I’m not that man anymore. My breathing is just as even as Xaviaro’s, neither of us moving a muscle as footsteps approach hesitantly on the other side of the door.

There’s a muttered curse and a slow smile spreads over his lips. It’s not like any of the smiles I’ve seen him wear before. It’s not playful or dirty or cocky. It’s the kind of smile that must haunt the nightmares of the people who cross the Morettis.

“Open up, Reggie.” His voice is just as dangerously controlled as the rest of his demeanor, and fuck me, I’ve never been hornier in my entire life.

“I don’t got your money,” the same muffled voice answers from behind the closed door.

“You know that’s not what I want to hear, Reg. My boss is not a patient man and neither am I. In fact, I get a little less patient every second you don’t open the fucking door.”

A door behind us opens and a neighbor pokes their head out. Her eyes go wide as soon as she sees Xaviaro, and she ducks back inside immediately. The sound of her deadbolt being thrown echoes in the hallway.

“You’ve got until the count of three,” Xaviaro warns. “One,” he says, the number carrying a startling amount of weight as it falls crisply from his tongue. What exactly he’ll do at the count of three, I have no clue, and I doubt Reggie does either. But before he can even get to two, the door is flung open and the man on the other side puts his hands up in front of his face, his eyes screwed shut like he’s bracing for instant death. “Good choice.”

Xaviaro steps inside, grabbing Reggie by the front of his shirt and walking him backward while I close the door behind us. I glance around, wrinkling my nose at the apartment that makes my current place look like the Palace of Versailles. A rat scurries over Xaviaro’s shoes, but he hardly seems to notice as he releases Reggie but continues to tower over him, backing him up against the wall.

“I’ve been trying to get the money together, I swear,” he says.

My eyes land on a pile of used needles on the nearby table and a couple of guns. Xaviaro notices them too, chuckling darkly.

“Funny how you always manage to find money to fund your habits, but never to pay your debts or feed your wife.”

“What’s that bitch got to do with anything? It’s her fault I don’t have the money. No one wants to pay for a bruised whore,” he scoffs, as if he’s not the one who bruised her in the first place.

Xaviaro growls, the sound vibrating through my bones and settling in my gut with a pulsing heat.

“Keep talking,” he challenges, pulling out his gun.

Reggie’s eyes dart to his own weapons and I can see the calculation in his eyes as he tries to figure out if he’ll get there in time. I take a step closer to the table, blocking his path and drawing his attention to me for the first time.

“Who the fuck is he? You get a fucking intern? Or is it ‘bring your kid to work’ day?” he cackles at his own joke.

“He’s my date. Blood and gore makes him horny.” I know Xaviaro is just toying with the guy, but honestly, he’s not wrong. Maybe not the blood and gore part—I think I’d mark myself down as indifferent at this point. But watching the same man who whimpered on his knees for me a few nights ago go all heartless hitman is a fetish I didn’t know I had until this moment.

“You’re a fucking fa—” He doesn’t even get the word out before Xaviaro pulls the trigger, the gunshot ringing loudly through the apartment along with the distinct smell of gun smoke and blood. Reggie slumps to the floor with his mouth and his eyes wide open, and his blood painted along the wall.

Xaviaro tucks his gun away and runs his hands through his hair.

“I fucking hate that word,” he says through clenched teeth.

Everything happened so fast, it takes me several long seconds to catch up. But once I do, my heart slams wildly against my ribcage and my hands tremble with adrenaline. I close the space between us in three quick strides, stepping over Reggie’s splayed legs to launch myself into Xaviaro’s arms.

He catches me with a muffled oomph against my lips as I wrap my legs around him, tangle my fingers in his perfectly neat hair, and lick my way into his mouth. His hands find their way to my ass, holding me up with ease as he opens pliantly for me, just like he did the other night, offering me anything I want to take from him, and I fucking want it all.

I grind my throbbing erection against his stomach and he moans into my mouth, kneading my ass cheeks and panting around my tongue.

“I should call for cleanup,” he says between kisses, and I groan.

“My god, you have an obsession with disposing of dead bodies,” I grumble, unwrapping my legs from around him and getting my feet back under me.

He laughs and drags two fingers over his lips, not like he’s wiping the kiss away, but as if he’s trying to rub it in, to keep it tattooed on his skin.

“We can’t all leave our kills lying around the city wherever we please,” he counters.

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