Page 32 of Deadly Little Sparrow

The panic slowly releases its grip on my brain and I yank my attention away from Riff Raff, dragging it slowly from the shoes to the familiar pair of sturdy legs wrapped in a midnight black suit, up to the broad, heaving chest, his jacket splayed open, and finally to his face. His expression is twisted with a thunderous rage that’s miles away from the unaffected look he wore when he put a bullet between the eyes of that homophobe the other day.

Right now, he’s nothing short of an avenging angel, and maybe it should terrify me, but it fills my chest with a warmth I never expected to feel again after my brother died. Xaviaro’s pistol is clutched in his hand as he glares down at Riff Raff like he wishes he could bring the man back to life just to kill him again.

Seeming to sense my gaze on him, Xaviaro tucks his gun away and meets my eyes, his expression softening in an instant.

“Are you okay, Little Bird?” He steps over Riff Raff’s awkwardly splayed legs and stoops to study my face.

I lick my lips and nod. “I would’ve had him if you’d given me another second,” I bluster in a raspy voice, and Xaviaro barks out an unexpected laugh.

“I’m sure you would have,” he agrees, wrapping his hands around my forearms and hauling me easily to my feet.

My legs are a little unsteady under me, my knees still quaking with the adrenaline coursing through my veins, and fine, maybe a tiny bit of fear. He puts a hand under my chin, tilting my face up towards his. Everything feels backward right now, too vulnerable and out of balance, but I’m too fucked up to do anything about it, so I just let him. He studies my face silently for a few seconds, then runs a thumb gently over the tender spot around my throat. Fresh rage dances in his eyes for a second before he slams his lips into mine.

In spite of the rough way he catches my mouth, the kiss is achingly tender, his mouth whispering against mine for just a moment before he releases me. I let out a trembling breath and he reaches into his pocket to pull out a white handkerchief that’s just as pristine as everything else he owns. He uses it to dab the blood off of my face, leaving macabre crimson and brown stains smeared over the fabric like a slaughter in fresh snow. When he’s done, he tucks it back into his pocket.

“Go wait in my car. I’ll deal with this and then I’m going to take you home. I have a first aid kit, so I should be able to patch up most of the cuts on your hands.” It takes me several seconds to realize that by ‘home,’ he means his home. I’m too busy processing the fact that he’s right, I do have a few nicks on my hands from slashing too wildly with my knife.

My knife.

“I need my dagger.” I make a move to bend over to retrieve it, but Xaviaro stops me with his arms still around me.

“I’ll get it. I’ll handle everything.”

I don’t have it in me to argue right now, so I just nod, pressing up onto my toes to brush one more kiss over his stubbled cheek before walking out of the apartment without a backward glance.

Xaviaro’s car is parked in front of the building, right next to the one I stole. I had planned to return it tonight, but no way is that happening now. Whoever owns it should count themselves lucky that it’s gone, as far as I’m concerned.

I slide into the passenger side of the BMW, dragging in a lungful of the fresh leather scent. There’s something particularly calming about how tidy his car is, just like everything else about Xaviaro. There’s no stale scent of fast food lingering in the air, no napkins shoved into the glove box. This baby might as well have been driven straight off the lot tonight.

It’s an inconsequential thing to think about, but it occupies my mind while I wait for my hitman to emerge from the building with a distinctly body-shaped rug rolled up and slung over his shoulder. The car bounces a little as he shoves Riff Raff into the trunk before getting in on the driver’s side.

“At least this one was a hell of a lot smaller than the last,” he says, and I chuckle.

“Sorry to tell you, but the last two are even bigger than Velcro was.”

Xaviaro starts his car and glances over at me. “Does that mean we’re skipping past the argument and you’re going to accept my help with the last two?”

I hesitate, but only for a few seconds before nodding. “Yes, but I have conditions.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he says, shooting me a wry smile before pulling out of the parking spot and merging into traffic.

Chapter 12

XAVIARO

Rage pulses in my chest like someone cranked up the bass. Even after tossing the body into the ravine and spending the past half hour glancing at Sparrow out of the corner of my eye every thirty seconds to reassure myself that he really is okay, I can’t calm down. I can’t shake the images playing through my mind of that piece of shit with his hands around my little bird’s throat.

Sparrow was understandably tense and pale on the drive out of the city, but with Riff Raff nothing more than fish food—sorry, fish—the color is slowly returning to his face. By the time I pull into my parking garage, he seems as relaxed as he always does, with the exception of the way he keeps twisting the hem of his shirt in absent, repetitive movements.

You don’t end up with a body count without being a goddamn pro at compartmentalizing… or a certified psychopath. But Sparrow isn’t that. Not that I’m qualified to make that diagnosis, but I just don’t see it.

I swing my car into my regular spot and kill the engine. His movements as he unbuckles and gets out are fluid and easy, almost too much so, like some part of him thinks that the more casual he acts about his near-death experience, the less real it will be. Who am I to argue with his coping mechanisms though? If the fake-it-till-you-make-it method works for him, I’m happy to go along with it. It’s better than crawling into a bottle or any of the other self-destructive, fucked-up ways I’ve seen people deal. I suppose my numbness is the same as what he’s doing, I’m just a hell of a lot better at it than he is.

We meet at the back of the car, and I put an arm around his shoulders, tucking his small body close to mine. He leans into me with a sigh that seems to work its way through his chest and straight down to the fractures in his soul.

“I need a shower,” he murmurs as I lead him through the lobby and towards the elevator.

I spare a quick nod for Parker, the doorman on our way in. His eyes flicker to Sparrow with curiosity. I’ve never brought anyone around before other than The Family, and even that’s rare. The little twitch at the corner of his lips makes me wonder if he’s winning a bet he made with himself about my sexuality. Or maybe he’s just relieved to realize I’m actually human and not some lifelike Mafia cyborg.

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