Page 13 of Beautifully Savage Butterfly

“To mob life,” he laments, and I clink my rim against his.

“You said it,” I murmur before taking a sip.

ORION

I get out of my car in the well-lit parking lot of Wild, two rolls of bills clenched tightly in one fist, the crumpled remains of a letter from Jack’s insurance company clutched in the other. Apparently, they need proof of his ongoing disability if we want them to keep paying for the portion of his care they’ve been covering. The original letter from his physician stating he’d never so much as twitch a pinky again wasn’t enough for a bunch of suits with no medical training, I guess. But until I produce more proof, they’re not paying.

I ball it up with a frustrated growl vibrating in my throat, and I whip it at the ground before slamming my car door behind me. One more fucking problem I have to deal with. If I didn’t have to hand over this week’s payment to the Morettis, I could use it to cover more of Jack’s expenses. But I took out the loan, and I’m going to pay it back. Besides, something tells me the care home’s late payment policy is a lot more forgiving and less painful than the Mafia’s.

I make my way through the parking lot, pausing at the door to pay the ten-dollar fucking cover charge to get inside the club. Figure that one the fuck out. I grind my teeth together, grunting impatiently at the bouncer when he finally waves me inside. I realize I’m in a shitty mood tonight, but I’d also love to know whose classy fucking idea it was for the Morettis to set up shop in a strip club.

I scowl at the scantily clad men who attempt to approach me to offer a lap dance or a drink. I don’t have the patience for any of this shit tonight. I just want to make my payment and then maybe go find a way to blow off some of this steam. It pisses me off to no end that the first thing that comes to mind is an image of Elio on his knees for me.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

Going to find Elio is definitely not the way I’m going to exorcise my rage. Maybe I’ll make a few calls and see if there are any underground fights I can get in on. Or maybe I’ll swing by the gym and beat the hell out of a punching bag for an hour or so. Irritation bristles along the back of my neck though, neither of those options doing anything to satisfy the gnawing feeling in my gut.

I approach the table where Salvatore Moretti is seated by himself, his eyes fixed on the dancer up on stage—a petite, tan man wearing nothing but a G-string. In hindsight, the assumption that Elio was mocking me for being gay the other night was probably bordering on paranoia. The stereotype of old school mobsters putting a bullet between the eyes of any queers they find among their ranks clearly doesn’t apply to the Morettis.

Salvatore doesn’t even seem to notice me approaching the table, completely mesmerized by the way the dancer hangs upside down from the pole. I clear my throat and he bares his teeth in irritation at the interruption. He fixes the lapels on his burgundy suit, then looks me up and down slowly.

“Nice fight last week,” he says after a few seconds.

I jerk my chin in a nod. “Thanks.” The single word sounds harsh to my own ears, and I’m well aware that I need to rein in my attitude before I end up pissing off a mobster who isn’t likely to be so eager to choke on my cock.

My dick jerks at the flippant thought and the memory of Elio’s hot, wet mouth around me. Jesus, I really do need to fucking hit something tonight.

I set the two heavy rolls of cash down on the table in front of him and cross my arms.

“I should be halfway to paid off with these,” I say gruffly, knowing he’s going to count them and check his spreadsheet either way.

He does the latter first, picking up the sleek, expensive looking tablet in front of him and tapping at the screen to bring up his spreadsheet. I shift my weight impatiently from one foot to the other, antsy as fuck to get the hell out of this club and away from Salvatore, or anyone else with the last name Moretti.

After a minute, he sets the tablet down again and nudges both rolls of money back in my direction.

“Your balance is zeroed out.”

I frown. “What?”

“You don’t owe us anything,” he says, and I swear my brain makes a grinding noise like a fork stuck in a garbage disposal.

“What?” I ask again, sure I heard him wrong. Or maybe this is some kind of test. Do mobsters do that shit? Would he pretend I don’t owe anything just so they can tell me I’m behind later and break my knees? Or worse, force me to do the one thing I swore I’d never do—lose a fight on purpose.

“Your. Debt. Is. Paid. Off.” Salvatore enunciates each word slowly, like I’m some kind of moron.

I ball my fists and glare at the rolls of cash on the table. “That’s impossible. Check it again.”

Both his eyebrows jump up and he sits up a little straighter. “You think I don’t know how to keep my own damn books?”

My heart jumps into my throat and I take a step back, holding both hands up defensively on instinct. “No.” I glance at the money again, and then back to him. “I just… I don’t understand how it got paid off. I know what I owed, and I know I didn’t pay it.”

There’s a small voice in the back of my head telling me to shut the hell up, to shove the money into my pocket and get the hell out of here before he decides to keep it as a convenience fee, or whatever the fuck else he might want to call it.

He shrugs and turns his attention back to the dancer. “Somebody did.”

“But who…” I trail off, the answer forming in my mind with complete certainty. I slam my teeth together hard enough to rattle them, snatching the money off the table. “Thanks,” I mutter, seething as I stuff the cash into my pocket and turn on my heel to leave.

I need to figure out where Elio fucking Moretti lives.

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