Page 39 of Deadly Little Sparrow

“Do we need to talk about what inspired you to spend a night pickling your liver?” Xaviaro asks.

“Nope,” Elio answers simply.

“Good,” is all Xaviaro says, setting the plate down in front of his friend and returning to the counter to get his own before joining us at the table.

I shake my head at their deep heart to heart. Not that the conversation would’ve gone much differently if I’d been involved. Repress your trauma or use it to fuel a deadly vendetta, that’s what I always say. Let’s be real, deadly vendettas are so much more fun than therapy.

“So, who the fuck are you anyway?” Elio asks, digging into his eggs like a starving man. I’m more focused on the coffee Xaviaro set down in front of me, picking it up and gulping it down like it’s mana from the heavens, completely ignoring the burn in my throat and on my tongue.

“Sparrow. Who the fuck are you?” I arch an eyebrow challengingly, even though I already know the answer.

“Elio Moretti. Second in line for the throne if my big brother ever kicks it, and in this line of business, let’s be real, it’s a possibility.” He shrugs one shoulder casually and bites into a crispy strip of bacon.

“Enzo isn’t going to kick it. He’s too fucking stubborn to bother dying,” Xaviaro argues.

“Thank fuck for that,” Elio mutters. “Christ knows I couldn’t run a criminal empire with the finesse he does. I’m much better at playing nice with the people he pisses off and nodding along with all of his ideas.”

I listen silently, filing away the tidbits of information that might come in handy at some point.

“Speaking of,” Xaviaro says, tilting his wrist like he’s checking a non-existent watch, then flicking his eyes to the clock on the stove instead. “We’re going to need to haul ass pretty soon or we’ll be late for the morning meeting.”

The image of a bunch of mafiosos sitting around a conference table in a brightly lit corporate meeting room, sharing a box of stale donuts between them puts a smile on my face.

“Oh, yeah, Enz said to bring your man,” Elio says off-handedly, but the news freezes Xaviaro on the spot.

His relaxed expression hardens to the same blank, stony one that I’ve seen him wear when he’s on the job, his shoulders stiffening and his entire body going still.

“When did he say that?”

Elio shrugs again, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his cell phone. He taps the screen for a moment before answering. “He texted at four this morning,” he says, turning the screen towards Xaviaro, who frowns as he reads the displayed message.

“Let me see,” I demand, leaning across the table and snatching the phone out of Elio’s hand without waiting for a response.

LORENZO: I have something to discuss that pertains to X’s friend. Bring him this morning.

“Wow. A personal invite to gossip over coffee with the most powerful man in the city. Aren’t I the belle of the ball.” I flutter my eyelashes and toss the phone back to Elio. He fumbles but catches it before it can land face down on the table.

“What does he want to discuss?” Xaviaro asks, his voice just as cool and controlled as the rest of his body language.

“How the fuck should I know?” Elio asks, scraping the last of his eggs onto his fork and shoveling them into his mouth.

My plate is only half finished, but I stand up from the table and carry it over to the sink to scrape the remainder down the garbage disposal.

“Come on, Killer. It doesn’t sound like we have time to waste.” I keep the command gentle, tipping my head towards the hallway.

Xaviaro rises from the table, dumps his plate as well, and follows me. His easy shift from submissive boyfriend to Mafia hitman with ice in his veins is boner inducing to say the least. But I would be lying if I said that my hackles aren’t up just a little, wondering what the hell someone like Lorenzo Moretti would want to talk to me about. Whatever it is, I’ll handle it like I handle everything else—with an unearned sense of confidence and the bone-deep belief that I’ve already faced the worst moment in my life, which makes me indestructible.

XAVIARO

I ignore the feeling tightening in my chest as I follow Sparrow back to my bedroom. I pull the numbness around me like a blanket, fending off the panic that wants to creep in. It won’t help anything. If Lorenzo wanted Sparrow dead, he wouldn’t need to invite him for a meeting to do it.

The bullet I almost took to the back of the head yesterday is all the reminder I needed that I have to work harder to keep a wall up between all the distracting things Sparrow makes me feel and the deadly job I have to do day in and day out. I won’t last long otherwise, and my vengeful little bird will have a whole new killing spree to start on. It would be a bad time all around.

As soon as my bedroom door swings closed behind me, Sparrow stops in his tracks and spins to face me with controlled determination etched into his expression.

“You’re worried about me,” he says, taking a step forward and grabbing a fistful of the hem of my shirt, tugging it up without giving me a chance to answer. “But worrying about me is a distraction. You told me before that emotions get you killed, and I believe that’s true. For you.”

“For you too,” I argue, letting the weight of last night hang in the air without putting words to it.

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