Page 38 of Deadly Little Sparrow

“I forgot to clean this out last night,” he murmurs. “It stopped bleeding, so it must not need stitches.”

I tug my hand back, flexing it into a fist to check the pain level. There’s a bruise and a decently deep cut that seems to have scabbed over, but otherwise I’m no worse for wear.

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “I would do absolutely filthy things for a cup of coffee if you’re really desperate for a way to take care of me this morning though.”

“Oh yeah? How filthy?” he teases, rolling over to face me.

His hair is messy and his eyes are red and puffy from sleep. There are lines on his cheek from his pillow and his morning breath could stop a man in their tracks even faster than his deadly glare normally does. It’s like I’m looking at the alternate universe version of Xaviaro, without the expensive suit and careful grooming, every aspect of his appearance curated to have a specific effect on the people who dare to look at him at all. My heart stumbles over its own beats and I bring my fingers up to ghost them along the already fading lines.

“What?” Xaviaro asks, his eyebrows creasing.

“You’re beautiful,” I answer, which only seems to intensify his confusion.

He frowns and opens his mouth, maybe to argue, or maybe to ask if I’m just trying to sweet talk him into that coffee. I’m not sure because I cut him off with a kiss before he can say anything. It’s just a rough press of my mouth against his, chaste and demanding at the same time. He melts for me like he always does, parting his lips and giving me anything I want to claim, which happens to be all of him.

I graze my teeth over his bottom lip before releasing him. I comb my fingers through his hair to tame it, then climb over him to get out of bed, even though I could easily have gone the other direction. I can feel his eyes on my backside like a physical touch as I saunter towards the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to look at him over my shoulder. He’s sitting up in bed now, the sheets pooled around his waist, his neck and chest covered in the bruises I left all over him last night.

“I take my coffee strong. Please and thank you.” I flash him a cheeky grin before closing the door behind me.

My clothes are right where I left them last night—in a heap on the bathroom floor with my leather sheath and dagger lying right on top. There’s a damp washcloth on the sink that I tossed there after removing Xaviaro’s cuffs and cleaning us both up. I pick it up and drop it into the nearby hamper, then turn on the sink.

I don’t allow my eyes to linger on the bruises around my throat, focusing on the tenderness Xaviaro left behind instead while I wash my face and help myself to his toothbrush. Then, I dress in my clothes from last night, finding comfort in the weight of my dagger as I strap it to my body. When I step back out of the bathroom, the bed is empty and neatly made, everything perfectly in order, exactly the way I would expect from Xaviaro.

The smell of coffee brewing and the sound of murmuring voices beckons me down the hallway, leading me straight into the kitchen. I stop in the doorway, taking another second to appreciate the sight of Xaviaro relaxed and dressed down. He’s put on a pair of plaid pajama pants and a black t-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders in a way that should be criminal, his feet left bare. It’s all so casual, so strangely intimate. Which might be why my first reaction to remembering that we’re not alone is the inexplicable urge to gouge Elio Moretti’s eyes out.

Nothing personal, I don’t even know the man. But he’s sitting at Xaviaro’s table like he’s been there a million times, looking at my murder marshmallow with a smirk twisting his full, pretty lips, and my hand twitches immediately towards the knife tucked under my shirt. He sweeps his attention in my direction and a toothy smile stretches over my lips. Fine, it’s possibly closer to a snarl than a smile.

Elio gives me a once-over, his grin fading when he reaches the expression on my face.

“Huh,” he says, and I tilt my head to one side, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Problem?” I ask.

“No. You’re just not exactly what I was picturing,” he answers, his tone completely casual like it’s nothing more than an observation.

“Not what you were picturing?” I echo, walking over to the table and bracing my hands on the back of a chair across from where he’s sitting. “You mean when you had your ear pressed to Xaviaro’s bedroom door last night with your dick in your hand, listening to us fuck? I’m curious, do you make a habit of desperately humping his bedroom door when you stay over or were you just jealous?”

Elio’s expression is stoic for a moment before he snorts and then chokes on barely suppressed laughter.

“Damn, Xavi, you picked a scary one, didn’t you?” He folds his hands casually on the table, and now that I’m standing closer, I can see the effects of his drinking binge the night before. There are dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and a generally ragged look about his skin. Dude is hungover with a capital H.

Xaviaro’s only response is a chuckle, his back still towards us as he stands over the stove with a spatula in one hand.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say, spinning the chair around and straddling it, folding my arms over the backrest and resting my chin on top of them. “But seriously, stay the fuck away from his bedroom or I will fucking cut you. Capiche?” My bad Italian accent makes them both snicker.

“Relax, Cujo. He might as well be my brother. Besides, he’s the one with cuff-burn on his wrists this morning, which makes him even less my type than he already was.” He waves off my concern and then glances back at Xaviaro, wrinkling his nose at the smell of eggs and bacon now wafting from the stove.

“Good boy,” I say with a mixture of sweetness and teasing, getting up from my seat and crossing the kitchen towards the refrigerator.

Xav glances at me as I help myself, rifling around inside until I find what I’m looking for. Luckily, his spice cabinet is well stocked as well, offering everything I need to whip up a drink for Elio. I carry the glass back over to the table and set it down in front of him.

“What’s this?” He picks it up and sniffs it with another grimace.

“Tomato juice for the B-vitamins, salt and a dash of sugar for the electrolytes, and a sprinkle of curry spice for the turmeric. It tastes like ass but I guarantee you’ll be feeling good as new in half an hour.” I nudge the glass towards him. “Drink up.”

My bossy voice works just as well on Elio as it always does on Xaviaro. He picks up the glass, shooting me one more wary look, then gulps the contents down as quickly as he can. His color is already looking better and his eyes are more alert and fresh by the time Xaviaro sets a plate in front of me a few minutes later.

He stands over Elio, holding another plate in his hand and looking down at the disheveled mobster.

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