Page 29 of Deadly Little Sparrow

I’ve made enough laps around my tiny apartment that I’m surprised I haven’t worn a hole in the floor at this point. I drum my fingers against the back of my phone and do another lap, pausing to glance out the window, past the fire escape. I squint, not really expecting to see Xaviaro lurking down there in the darkness tonight. We’re past the stalker bit. At least I hope we’re past it.

I flip my phone over, hoping that I’ve somehow missed another call or text from him even though it hasn’t left my hand in the past hour. Maybe it’s for the best that he’s too busy to call me back. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours trying to come up with a plan to keep Xaviaro out of the way while I go after the next Reaper, but all of my ideas have sucked.

I dart a glance towards my bed and the set of soft red bondage ropes I picked up today lying in the center of it. Guilt creeps through my gut and I shake my head. I can’t tie him up just so I can go commit a murder without his interference. It wouldn’t be right. And yes, I’m extremely aware that my moral compass might be a little off if murder doesn’t move the needle but breaking Xav’s trust in a bondage scenario sends it spinning. Or maybe I’ve got my priorities just right. Fuck if I know.

I huff out a breath and finally tap on the notification that is waiting for me. It was almost too easy to get a hold of my next target. Riff Raff. Is that name any better than Velcro? I’m undecided. It certainly fits the man, with his unwashed hair and yellowed smile. His dating profile is… interesting, to say the least. It reads more like he’s trying to sell drugs than get his dick sucked. But as soon as I swiped to match with him, a blowjob was definitely the number one thing on his mind.

The messages started rolling in immediately and they were thirsty as fuck. They started off with compliments about my ‘beautiful mouth’ and were quickly followed by a handful of dick pics. I guess he figured one wouldn’t be enough? I can say with certainty that his dick did not become any more appealing by the fifth photo, no matter how artistically he tried to frame it.

The new message that stares back at me is his address. I scroll back up in our exchange, double checking that he said his roommate would be out of the apartment tonight. Just me and good ol’ Riff Raff. How romantic. A grin curves on my lips as I reach for my dagger, the weight of it in my hand sending an automatic thrill through me.

Fuck it. I’m not going to wait around all night to hear back from Xaviaro. He has his hands full, and that’s perfect as far as I’m concerned. I send a message to Riff Raff telling him I’ll be there in twenty, and another to Xav letting him know that I’m going out for a bit and I’ll call again later.

Xav’s remains unread for now, but Riff Raff’s is met with another flurry of horny replies that I mute before sliding my phone into my pocket and my knife into its sheath. I shrug my jacket on and grab the roll of duct tape and the garbage bags off the kitchen counter. I’ll behave and dispose of the body this time. Maybe that’ll earn me some extra points with my murder marshmallow. I’m sure it couldn’t hurt.

I don’t bother locking my apartment door. It’s not like there’s shit to steal in there anyway. The smell of weed lingers in the hallway, along with the sound of music being played too loudly and arguments going on behind several of the doors I pass. Moving out of this building can’t happen soon enough. Not that I have the first fucking clue what happens after I’m finished with these fuckers. One step at a time.

I reach the street below, the heavy building door swinging closed behind me loudly. I scan the parked cars, my eyes landing on a cherry-red Mustang that’s wildly out of place. The smart thing to do is to take one of the nondescript rust buckets that won’t be reported missing and won’t catch anyone’s attention at the murder scene, but damn, the Mustang is tempting.

I approach the car, running my hand along the spotless hood with an appreciative purr. I bet this girl can fly. I can picture myself cranking up the music and rolling down the windows as I floor it, weaving through traffic to the apartment building over on the side of the town that most of the Reapers call home. Xaviaro’s face drifts through my mind, all disapproving with a silently arched eyebrow.

“Fine,” I mutter, turning away from the car and settling for the shit-brown Camry parked behind it. I tug at the driver’s door and it opens without resistance. It only takes me about a minute to pry the plastic cover off the underside of the steering wheel to access the right wires and have the car rumbling to life.

It’s no Mustang, but I still roll down the windows and crank some music while I drive. I take in the city as I make my way through town. I’ve only been here a couple of months, but in a weird way, it feels more like home than anywhere else has. Maybe it’s because this is the last place Benny ever walked around. It’s the place he took his last breaths.

Grief and rage tighten around my throat until it’s difficult to breathe. Will killing these four assholes be enough? Will it finally put the memories of my brother to rest? Or will I have to keep going until I’ve spilled the blood of anyone wearing a Sleepless Reapers patch? I guess only time holds the answer to that question.

I roll to a stop in front of the right building a little while later. The place is nicer than mine by a mile, and that makes me irrationally irritated. Why should this drug dealing rapist piece of shit have heated water while I take ice cold fucking showers every morning? I slam my car door harder than necessary when I get out, drawing looks from a couple of people passing on the street.

“The drawback to all the emotions you have crashing through you every second is that they make you sloppy.”

I can hear Xaviaro’s words loud and clear in my mind, my lips burning with the memory of our first kiss that night. He was wrong—he’s not a machine. But he might have been right about my emotions.

I pull a few shaky breaths into my lungs, but they don’t do much to calm me. I don’t need to be fucking calm though, what I need to be is controlled. I draw on that steady feeling that Xav’s trust instilled in me the other night. I can’t shed my emotions, but I also can’t fuck up. If I do, it’s going to put him in a bad position, and I won’t do that to him.

Once I’m relatively sure that I’m not going to lunge at Riff Raff as soon as he opens his door, I make my way towards the building. When I reach the main door, I press the buzzer connected to the apartment number he gave me. It takes a minute or two, but eventually the intercom crackles to life.

“Yeah, who’s there?” a voice answers in a slur.

“Uh… it’s me, Craig,” I say in the most innocent, nonthreatening voice I can manage.

The chuckle that comes through the speaker in response sends a chill down my spine. “Right, right, right. Come on up, baby.” He sounds blitzed. His voice cuts off and the door buzzes loudly seconds later.

I reach for the handle, a momentary hesitation making my insides freeze. Who the fuck knows what this guy could be on right now. It could make this easier or it could make it a hell of a lot more difficult. I hold the door open, my knuckles aching with the tightness of my grip as I weigh the options.

If I bail now, I won’t get back in this easily again later. Who knows how long I’ll have to wait to get another chance. That seals it. I yank the door all the way open and step inside.

Chapter 11

XAVIARO

I scowl at the flecks of blood on my shoes as I ride the painfully slow elevator up to my apartment. It had better wash out or I’m going to be adding the cost of a new pair onto the ransom note I send to Spanner’s parents. Or maybe I should see if I can get Enzo to add a clothing budget to my compensation. Fuck knows I’m a decade past due for a raise.

I snort at the thought of Enzo’s flat look of irritation if I were to suggest he give me some kind of corporate credit card to keep me in clean shoes. The elevator doors slide open smoothly, depositing me on the top floor of the building, the entrance to my apartment the only one in the small hallway.

I slip my shoes off as soon as I step inside, carrying them into the kitchen so I can try to clean them. I set them on the edge of the counter then reach into my pocket to pull out the baggie containing three fingers, including Paul’s ring finger with a distinctive diamond tattoo just below the knuckle. There’s little chance his parents will question whether the fingers are really his once they see the tattoo. And if they do, they’re welcome to get them DNA tested before writing the Morettis a big, fat check.

I pull open my freezer and toss the baggie inside, right next to the freezer-burned tub of vanilla ice cream and a few bags of peas that have been in there since I bought the apartment five years ago.

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