Page 41 of Deadly Little Sparrow

I round the table towards the man, my eyes narrowed as I point a finger right at his face.

“Hey, I don’t know who the fuck you—” I’m cut off by Xaviaro’s hand across my mouth. He yanks me back against his large, sturdy body.

“Lorenzo Moretti,” he answers the clearly rhetorical question I didn’t get the chance to finish asking.

I shove his hand away, my hackles still up and my blood still rushing in my ears. Seriously, I don’t care who this asshole is. Lorenzo Moretti is about to find out who the fuck I am.

“I don’t give a fuck.” I step towards Lorenzo again, setting my jaw and glaring at him. “You think keeping the people who work for you afraid for their lives is the only way to hold on to power? It’s weak as fuck, dude. Loyalty isn’t earned through fear and threats.”

He furrows his brow and flattens his lips. Weeks ago, I ran scared from Xaviaro, terrified that he was going to murder me for breaking his nose. But I’m not that version of myself anymore. I thought I was tough shit then, and compared to the pampered, soft man I used to be, I was. I’ve killed a man, I’ve stared down my own mortality, and I’ve learned that the only way to survive among criminals and killers is to swing your ego around like you have the biggest dick in the room.

There’s a single beat of silence before I notice amusement dancing in Lorenzo’s hazel eyes. He barks out a laugh, his eyes flickering over my head towards Xaviaro.

“Is he fucking insane?”

“A little bit,” Xaviaro answers.

“Excuse you,” I scoff. At Xav’s answer or maybe at the big, bad Mafia boss for asking it, I’m not really sure.

“You realize I could have you killed, right?” Lorenzo asks matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave a hand dismissively. “Either do it or give up the intimidation bullshit and tell me why you wanted to meet me.”

The other men are holding their breath, and I can practically feel Xaviaro’s unnatural stillness behind me, all of them waiting to see if their boss is going to pull his gun or let me live to tell my tale of mouthing off to the one and only Lorenzo Moretti. Another chuckle slips out of his mouth and he takes his seat again, picking up the steaming mug in front of him and taking a sip.

“I get it,” he says, the statement seemingly directed at Xaviaro. “Sit.” That one is for me as he gestures at the chair to his right.

I pull it out and take a seat. My muscles quiver but I hold back the relieved breath that wants to rattle from my chest. Xaviaro pulls out the chair on my other side and sits down as well. The other two men are still watching with silent caution. The one in the peacock suit is looking anywhere but at Lorenzo, and the other one, who was previously reclining with his feet up on the table and his chair tilted back, is now sitting up straight like a kid afraid he’s going to be called into the principal's office. Elio finally joins us as well, completely oblivious to the guarded tension lingering around the table as he approaches with a big, dopey grin as if he wasn’t half dead from a hangover an hour ago.

“I’m Sparrow, by the way.” I thrust a hand towards Lorenzo. His lips twitch again and he takes it in a firm handshake.

“I know. And Enzo is fine,” he says. Based on the way Peacock Suit’s eyebrows jump up, I’m guessing that the privilege of calling the boss by a nickname is a rare one.

I grin and lean back in my seat, crossing one leg over the other and glancing around the table again. Xaviaro takes it upon himself to introduce the others now that it’s clear this meeting isn’t going to turn into a bloodbath.

“Salvatore Moretti,” he says, pointing to the man in the teal suit, who inclines his head and then reaches across the table to shake my hand. “Alessio Bianchi.” Alessio flashes me a charming smile and shamelessly gives me a once-over. “And Elio Moretti.” Xaviaro introduces the underboss like I didn’t already threaten him and then mix up a hangover cure for him this morning, so I pretend it’s our first time meeting and shake his hand as well.

“Do I have to pay for a lap dance to get one of those lattes or what?” I ask once introductions are completed.

A deep chuckle rumbles behind me and I turn my head to see a gorgeous man with copper skin and even darker hair and eyes than the rest of the men at the table. He’s not wearing anything but a pair of tight leather shorts that show off an impressive bulge, and he’s waxed bare save for a strip of black hair that starts just below his belly button and disappears into his shorts. Most importantly, he’s carrying a tray with three more steaming mugs that smell like heaven on earth.

“If you still want that lap dance, just come find me after the meeting,” he says, shooting me a wink as he sets one of the mugs down in front of me, offering the other two to Xaviaro and Elio.

“Watch it, Dante. Xaviaro’s already pissed a circle around this charming little psychopath,” Alessio says. “Figuratively speaking… I’m assuming.”

Xaviaro neither confirms nor denies, keeping the same stony expression he’s been wearing since I tied the harness under his clothes. I smirk at Alessio, leaving him to wonder what types of kink we get up to behind closed doors, and take a sip of my latte.

“Shame. He’s a pretty one,” Dante says with a sigh, giving me another flirty look before strutting away with a sway that jiggles his half-exposed ass cheeks with every step.

Lorenzo clears his throat and we all drag our eyes away from Dante’s ass. Well, all of us except for Xaviaro, who seems like he hardly would have noticed if the gorgeous stripper had been fully naked. Damn, when he’s in stone cold mode, he’s unflappable. Why is that so fucking hot?

“What’ve you got for us, boss?” he asks, jerking his chin towards the tan folder on the table in front of Lorenzo.

He flips open the folder and slides it across the table towards us. I lean over to get a look at the photos. At first, I have no clue what exactly I’m supposed to be seeing other than a bunch of unwashed dudes talking to some other, much more put-together dudes. But it only takes me a minute to notice the Sleepless Reapers patch that the unwashed dudes are wearing in every picture. My pulse speeds up instantly and I search the faces for either of the two men who are left on my list. None of them are familiar though.

“Goddammit,” Xaviaro mutters, shoving the photos away again and scowling. “The Fitzpatricks?”

“The Fitzpatricks,” Lorenzo confirms solemnly.

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