Page 8 of Deadly Little Sparrow

I slow to a stop at a traffic light. The sun is starting to set, painting the sky pink and orange behind the towering gray buildings. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel and turn my head to watch the people on the sidewalk while I pass the time.

Even in the dusky light, surrounded by dozens of other pedestrians, my gaze manages to zero in on one man in particular, as if drawn by a magnet.

“Sparrow,” I murmur, tracking him with my eyes as he crosses against the light, shooting a glare at the car that dares to blare its horn at him.

A smile creeps slowly over my mouth.

“Got you,” I purr, switching my turn signal and keeping an eye on him so I don’t lose him before the light changes.

It’s John Crenshaw’s lucky night. He just got an extension on his loan, because I have something more important to attend to.

SPARROW

I tuck my hands into my pockets, keeping my head down and picking up my pace. Three corners in a row, and the black car with the tinted windows is still on my ass.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter under my breath, daring to glance over my shoulder just long enough to verify that I definitely can’t see jack shit through the jet-black tints.

Is that the same car that was parked outside the bar last night? I’m not sure. I really should pay better fucking attention to important details like that, but in my defense, I was running for my life at the time. It has to be the same car though. How many other people in this city can afford a luxury car and would have a reason to tail me?

The weight of the knife strapped under my shirt is a small amount of comfort. I don’t love the cliché of bringing a knife to a gunfight, but it’s what I have and I’m not about to roll over and die.

The light changes and the car slows to a stop right at the line. This is it, my chance to lose him. I take a sharp turn down the nearest alley. The Déjà vu of running down a reeking alley for the second night in a row to lose some mob thug grates on me. The last thing I want to do is waste energy looking over my shoulder every second when I could be focusing on the Sleepless Reapers. What I need is time to think so I can come up with a plan. I’ll figure out how to deal with this problem, and then I’ll get back to all the fun of becoming the worst nightmare of some big bad bikers.

I emerge onto the next street and when I don’t see the car, I duck into the first open bar.

As soon as the door swings closed behind me and the dim lighting of the dingy bar engulfs me, it’s obvious that my reputation is starting to get around town. A couple of guys at the nearest table put their heads together, casting sidelong glances at me as they whisper. Their matching tattoos give them away as members of the same gang… or best friends. Who am I to judge, either way? I flash them a dangerous, toothy grin and swagger past.

They aren’t the only ones whispering. I catch snippets of words like “pool cue” and “Moretti.” Wow. I’ve been in Wildcliff a week already and broken at least two different guys’ fingers in my quest to track down the Sleepless Reapers, but breaking one mob dude’s nose is what put me on the radar of every criminal in the city? Figures.

I claim one of the empty stools and flag down the bartender. I’m still feeling the tequila binge from last night, so I just order a soda. The bar top is sticky under my elbows, my knee bouncing involuntarily as I glance over my shoulder towards the door to see if I’ve been followed. When no one kicks through the door with guns blazing, I take a deep breath and try to get my head on straight.

So I broke the guy’s nose. It’s not like I did it on purpose. If anything, it’s his fault for getting in the middle of something that didn’t have a damn thing to do with him. I’m sure he’ll see it that way too if I can sit down and have a civil conversation with him. The thought makes me snort. I drag my fingers through my unkempt hair and give the bartender an appreciative nod when he sets my drink down in front of me.

Moretti. That’s the name I heard murmured on my way in. Is that who he works for? The name sounds vaguely familiar. If it’s some big-time Mafia family, I suppose it should. But it’s not exactly an uncommon Italian name either. I take a sip from my soda and swivel my head towards the man half slumped over on my left side.

“Hey. What do you know about the Morettis?”

He looks up from his drink with a bleary expression, blinking at me for a moment before a laugh bubbles up from his lips. “What do I know about the Morettis?” he repeats, laughing again, an edge of hysteria to the sound. “I know enough to stay the fuck off their radar. How’s that?”

“Come on, they can’t be that bad.” Sure, they’re a crime syndicate, but they’re still just people. Like the Sleepless Reapers? Benny’s voice whispers in the back of my mind.

That’s different.

“I’ve heard Lorenzo Moretti’s enforcer carves out the hearts of his victims and keeps them as trophies,” a deep voice says from my other side.

I startle and turn my head to find the man from last night. The person already occupying the stool to my right scrambles out of his seat without so much as a look from Tall, Dark, and Bandaged. For all the fear that’s been hot on my heels since I ran out of the bar last night, bracing for a bullet to the back of my head, a strange sense of calm washes over me as I watch him claim the now open stool for himself.

I drag my gaze over him. Even with his eyes swollen and his nose bandaged, he’s undeniably gorgeous in a perfectly tailored suit that accentuates his broad shoulders. His eyes are a warm, melted chocolate color, holding the same goose bump-inducing intensity that was there last night. His dark hair is longer on top, neatly tamed into place, but it’s all too easy to imagine how it would look messy from having my fingers run through it while he kneels for me. My cock tingles and I bite back the chuckle that swells in my throat. Leave it to me to notice how hot my potential assassin is.

“Is that the punishment you hand out for the egregious act of teaching you a valuable lesson?” I ask.

His eyebrows go up and his lips twitch in what I could swear is a ghost of a smile, but his expression remains otherwise neutral.

“What lesson did you teach me, Little Sparrow?”

I reach immediately towards the bird tattooed behind my ear, brushing my fingers over the spot and considering the man for a moment. If he wanted to kill me, he could have done it already. Unless he’s lulling me into a false sense of security before he whips his gun out. My eyes flicker towards the almost imperceptible bulge under his jacket. If I didn’t already know that’s where he keeps his weapon, I doubt I would have noticed.

He unbuttons the jacket and I tense, but my heart rate remains surprisingly even. I track his movements as he unholsters his gun. What does it feel like to die? Adrenaline courses through my veins, making my senses crystal clear as I brace for what’s about to come. But instead of pointing the gun at me, he sets it on the bar and nudges it towards me.

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