Page 7 of Deadly Little Sparrow

“No stress, boss. I’ve got the kneecap list. I swear.” I tap my temple, assuring him that I’ve got it taken care of.

He waves a hand dismissively. “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “It’s a broken nose. I think I’ll live.”

He stares me down for several long moments. It’s the intense, probing look that has most men in this city tripping over themselves to tell him whatever he wants to know. Unfortunately for him, I’m the one who actually breaks the bones to inspire that reaction. Not that Enzo isn’t capable of doing his own dirty work, but I’m not worried about it. I stare right back at him, keeping my face blank as I wait him out.

He breaks first, huffing through his nose. “You seemed distracted during the meeting today. Anything I should know about?”

“Like what?”

“If I knew that, would I waste my breath asking?” The rumbling edge to his tone hints at his patience fraying.

“I don’t know what you want, Enzo. I told you everything last night. Pretty boy walks into Death & Company, picks a fight with the Grayson brothers, and manages to land an elbow when I try to break it up. That’s it.” I shrug, dragging my tongue along my bottom lip as memories from last night come into sharp focus. The violent gleam in his eyes when he spun on me, The warm weight of his body thrashing in my arms, the coppery taste of blood spilling over my lips.

Lorenzo studies me silently and I hold still, refusing to squirm under his gaze and give away the fact that I’m still thinking about the man with the sparrow tattoo.

“You’re thinking about hunting him down,” he guesses, and I grunt in response. “But not to kill him.”

“If I go around wasting bullets on anyone who so much as looks at me wrong, my workday will never end,” I say blandly. “Speaking of which.” I get to my feet, ready to be done with the probing. “I have the fear of god to strike into a few people.”

His mouth twitches with amusement again. “The fear of Lorenzo Moretti,” he corrects.

“It’s what I do best,” I agree, pushing the chair in and shooting him a wink. “Don’t worry about me. Broken noses heal and beautiful, violent twinks are a dime a dozen.”

Lorenzo’s response is a ghost of a chuckle as I leave him behind.

*****

Reggie Greenwell’s pathetic whimpers vibrate through my palm as I hold him against the wall by his throat. He kicks his legs wildly, not managing to land a single one in spite of the fact that I’m standing perfectly still, staring at him coldly. It’s like waiting for a toddler to finish their temper tantrum. You can’t react to the theatrics, it only encourages them.

“Reggie,” I say his name calmly when he finally tires himself out. “You know why Lorenzo sent me, and by your reaction, I’m sure you know how the Moretti family feels about your behavior. If your kids weren’t in the next room, your brain would already be blown all over the floor.”

He shrieks and claws at my hands, the acrid smell of piss reaching my nose.

“Jesus, Reggie,” I mutter, maintaining my even tone. “Did the girl you forced yourself on last week piss herself too? Would it have stopped you if she had?” I let a growl weave itself around my words as I spit the last sentence at him, tightening my grip around his throat. “You told her not to call the cops,” I go on, bringing my face close to his with a snarl on my lips. “She listened. Unlucky for you, she called us instead. You know how we keep the law out of Wildcliff? We handle scum like you ourselves.”

I whip out my gun in a fluid, practiced motion, pressing the barrel to the middle of his forehead. He winces at the sound of the hammer being cocked, screwing his eyes closed and making another attempt to free himself by flailing his body.

“Daddy?” A small voice comes from the doorway, giving me pause.

I loosen my grip on the man’s throat and he slides down the wall, cowering at my feet.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, holding his hands up. “I won’t cause trouble again. She just looked so good, I couldn’t help myself. Take my daughter for your trouble, if you want.”

The numb feeling I was sitting with last night is a distant memory as a white-hot flash of rage tears through me. What a fucking prize this prick is. He managed to fake an apology for raping someone, blame the victim, and offer up his six-year-old daughter to be trafficked all in one breath. I’m doing his kids, and the rest of the fucking city, a favor.

I squeeze the trigger without so much as a twinge of guilt, tucking the gun back into its holster before the sound of the shot has even finished reverberating in my ears. I spin on my heel, and luckily the girl is no longer in the doorway. The regret that was missing moments ago tastes bitter on my tongue. I glance down to check that I avoided the gruesome visual of blood spatter or brain matter on my suit, then cross the kitchen to push through the swinging door to the living room.

My nose wrinkles instinctively, the bandage tape tugging at my skin. The place is filthy, with empty beer bottles and drug paraphernalia piled on every surface. The windows are covered with cardboard and there’s graffiti on the walls… in the places that actually have drywall, that is.

I reach into the pocket of my pants, the crinkle of candy wrappers making both kids peek their heads out from behind the tattered couch they're hiding behind.

“Don’t go into the kitchen. Someone will be here to help you soon,” I tell them in a voice that I know is overly formal for the situation at hand. “Your life is about to vastly improve. I promise.” I set the candy down on the floor near their hiding place and pull out my phone as I make my way out of the apartment.

By the time I’ve reached the street, I have a friend from Child Services already on their way over to take care of the kids, and a couple of foot soldiers coming to clean up the body. Although, I instructed them to wait until after the kids have been cleared out. The last thing they need is to see their sorry excuse of a father carried out in several trash bags.

I slide into my car and pull away from the curb, already compartmentalizing what I just did and running through the details of my next stop. The next man, John Crenshaw, just owes the Morettis some money, so it’s unlikely to end the same way this one did, unless he does something exceptionally stupid when he sees me.

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