Page 30 of Deadly Little Sparrow

I slide my phone out of my pocket as I turn back to my shoes, using one hand to turn on the faucet, the rest of my attention on the screen and the notification that I must have missed at some point during the body disposal or my drive home.

LITTLE SPARROW: As much fun as it is sitting here with my dick in my hand, waiting for you to call me back, I’ve gotta run out for a bit. I’ll call you when I’m on my way home and I expect you to bring that sweet ass over so I can see how good it looks covered in my bite marks.

A hot shiver runs down my spine, followed by an icy feeling I’m not used to wrapping itself around my guts as I read his message a second time. Gotta run out. Where? My jaw ticks, the sound of the running faucet is nothing more than white noise, my shoes completely forgotten as I immediately think through which of the Reapers he’s after would be most easily accessible at this point. That has to be where ‘out’ is. Unless he’s just letting me know that he’s popping down to the nearest bar to get a couple of drinks, which I highly doubt.

“Fuck,” I mutter. But before I can get any further than irritation and concern over the fact that Sparrow’s off for another revenge killing without me, there’s a knock at my front door.

My first wild thought as I turn off the sink and stride out of the kitchen is that Sparrow somehow figured out where I live and took it upon himself to come over. But the way the knocking continues beyond a polite number of raps lets me know who it is before I even reach the door.

“Fuck,” I groan again. This is the last thing I need to deal with right now.

I throw the deadbolt and open the door, unsurprised to find Elio leaning against the doorframe wearing a sloppy smile, his tie undone and his shirt misbuttoned.

“Xavi,” he says my name in a tone of excited surprise, as if he expected someone else to answer my door. Or maybe he’s so blitzed he forgot whose apartment he stumbled to from whichever bar over-served him tonight.

I sigh and step aside, tilting my head in a silent invitation to come in. I’d ask how he got past the doorman, but no matter how much extra I offer to pay the man, he refuses to turn away any of the Morettis when they show up, no matter how drunk or stupid they might be.

He doesn’t bother to take off his shoes, but he does shrug out of his jacket, his favorite pistol strapped to his chest in a leather holster that matches mine.

“Got anything to drink?” he asks in a slurred voice as he shuffles towards my living room.

I snort and head back into the kitchen to get a water bottle out of my refrigerator. He’s made himself comfortable on my sprawling black couch by the time I join him in the living room. His shoes are in a heap on the floor next to the coffee table, and he’s stretched out like a Victorian woman having an episode, with one hand over his face.

“Here.” I uncap the bottle and nudge his hand with it. He startles at the cold, sitting up and reaching for the water.

While he gulps down a few mouthfuls, I park my ass in the armchair next to the couch. Elio wipes his sleeve over his damp mouth when he’s finished and sets the water bottle down on the coffee table.

“’Nzo tell you ’bout the Fitzpatricks?” he asks, still stumbling clumsily over his words like his tongue is too heavy to form them all properly. But my ears prick up immediately at the mention of the Irish mob that’s been trying to edge their way into our territory for over a year now.

“What about them?” I growl, not sure if I’m more pissed that there might be fresh trouble with them or that Enzo hasn’t told me about it himself. It’s my fucking job to be on top of this shit and I’m hearing about it secondhand from his drunk little brother.

He shrugs and flops back down. “Bunch of red-headed pricks sniffing around.”

My frown deepens. “Did something happen or are you just so wasted that you think the existence of the Irish cunts is news?”

“I’m not drunk,” he argues with an indignation that only drunk people can truly muster. He sighs and a miserable look comes over his face. “Do you think he hates me?”

“Who? Declan Fitzpatrick?” I’m trying to follow his train of thought, but I think I’m about ten drinks too sober for it.

“No,” he scoffs.

“Your brother?” I guess again.

Elio makes a frustrated sound in his throat. “He’s just so fucking pretty.”

“Okay, so not your brother. At least I hope to fuck you’re not talking about Enzo,” I mutter, and he laughs and then hiccups.

It looks like that’s as much as I’m getting from him. His eyes droop closed and he sags into the couch with a soft breath. I stand up and lean over him, pressing two fingers to the pulse point in his neck just to settle my own worry, then turning him onto his side. I grab him a second bottle of water, setting it on the table next to the first, along with a couple of aspirin and a wastebasket in case he needs to hurl.

Once he’s settled, my concern for Sparrow rises to the surface again. I pull my phone out of my pocket for a second time. There aren’t any missed texts or calls from Sparrow or anyone else. I open the app connected to the tracker I left in the lining of his jacket pocket last week, and my heart forces its way into my throat. He’s smack-dab in Reaper territory, at some apartment building on their side of town. I’d put even money on it being the apartment of one of the men he’s after.

The cool, logical side of my brain reminds me that he’s proven he can handle himself just fine, but all the logic in the world refuses to calm my unsteady pulse. I told him before that being too emotional is dangerous, and I got a firsthand reminder of that today. If Sparrow is in some Reaper’s apartment, I need to be there, even if it turns out that all I’m good for is hauling a dead body down the stairs for him.

With one last glance at the sleeping Moretti on my couch, my resolve solidifies. Elio will be sleeping off his bender until midday tomorrow, Sparrow needs me now. I tap each of my pockets to make sure I have everything I need, including my gun, still strapped to my chest. Then I grab my bloody shoes and slip them back on, tying them hastily before striding out the door.

SPARROW

Death metal is blaring from an unseen speaker as I step inside Riff Raff’s apartment. It’s a nice place with big windows and a decent view, but it’s obvious that upkeep isn’t exactly high on his list of priorities. There are more than a few fist-shaped holes in the walls and trash strewn about on most of the surfaces.

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