Page 45 of Deadly Little Sparrow

I nod and press a kiss to his chin, feeling the sandpaper of his stubble against my lips.

“Okay. I’ll do my best.”

XAVIARO

Sparrow hands me a pair of black sweatpants and I step into them, studying him silently as I do. I believe him when he says he’ll try to be patient, I just don’t know how far that will stretch. Another few days? Another week? And what if nothing has moved forward at that point? At the end of the day, if he goes against Lorenzo, I’ll put myself between him and the bullet. But that’ll only buy Sparrow the time it takes to line up a second shot, and we’ll both be dead.

Call me idealistic, but I’d really fucking prefer a future that doesn’t end with the fish and birds picking the rotting flesh from our bones.

“I’m guessing you haven’t eaten.” The abrupt change of subject erases the pout from his lips.

“Didn’t get around to it,” he confirms my suspicion, his stomach chiming in with a loud growl seconds later.

“Good. Come on, I’m going to make you pork ragu over creamy polenta like my Nonna taught me.” I tuck him under my arm and lead him out of the bedroom, replacing grim thoughts with more pleasant ones as Sparrow hops up to sit on the island counter and I open the refrigerator to start pulling out the ingredients I’ll need.

“Nonna means grandmother, right?” he asks.

“Yes. She was tough as nails and didn’t take shit from anybody. And she could make a tiramisu from scratch that would make a grown man weep,” I reminisce with a soft smile.

“She sounds amazing,” he says. “I never knew any of my grandparents.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “My mom had some big falling out with her parents before I was born, so we never saw them. They used to send birthday cards every year, but eventually those stopped too. And both my dad’s parents died before I was old enough to remember them.”

“That’s a shame. Grandparents are the best. My Nonna taught me how to cook and how to sew. She said I couldn’t wait around to get a wife, I needed to know how to take care of myself. I was only about ten, but I think she knew even before I did that a wife wasn’t in the cards.” The prep is all muscle memory as I ready the ingredients and pull out the correct pans. “And my grandpa was the one who handed me my first gun and taught me how to shoot. Not sure he would have done that had he known where it would lead,” I say wryly.

“I take it they don’t know what you do for a living?” he guesses.

“Oh sure, I include my annual kill count in every Christmas card I send,” I say flatly, and he cackles. “They actually both passed a few years ago now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Sparrow puts a hand on my arm briefly, warming my bare skin with his touch and offering me comfort. “Is it over the line to ask how you started working for the Morettis?”

I snort. “I think we’re past having lines, Little Sparrow. You can ask me anything you want. Lorenzo and I met at Saint Sebastian’s when we were only yay high.” I lower my hand and gesture right next to my knee to make my point.

“Is that a church?” he asks, cocking his head.

“Catholic school. Nuns hitting you with rulers, teenage boys giving each other handies because there isn’t a girl in sight, that whole bit.”

Sparrow giggles. “I did not know about the handjobs. Now I’m kind of mad that my parents sent me to a prep school that allowed for gender mixing.”

“I didn’t hate it,” I agree.

“It’s weird. I can’t even picture you as a kid. Did you wear a cute little suit even back then?” he teases, reaching over to run a finger along the bare skin in between the ropes.

“I wore a Catholic school uniform, obviously,” I answer with a smirk. “And…”

“And what?” he says with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“And, I might have gone through a phase where I refused to wear anything other than Ninja Turtles footie pajamas.”

Sparrow squeals with amusement. “Okay, but which turtle?”

“Leonardo.” I scoff. As if there’s any other possible answer.

“You really are the perfect man. If you’d have said Raphael, we would have had to break up,” he says. “Okay, so, you’re BFF with the baby Moretti, then what happened? He just said ‘hey, you want to kill people for me?’ and you said ‘sure?’”

“Kind of. I guess it just sort of happened. He took over when his dad got iced and he was clearly drowning. It was a lot for him to handle and he didn’t know who he could trust outside of Alessio, Elio, Sal, and me. I was there for him. I helped him find his footing and figure out how to run the Family. The killing part never bothered me, so I just fell into that role.” I keep my attention focused on the food I’m working on, afraid to risk a peek at Sparrow’s face. He’s never seemed bothered by what I do, but there’s a seed of fear in the back of my mind that one day he’s going to realize how fucked up it is that other people’s lives don’t matter to me as much as they’re supposed to. Will he see me differently then?

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