Page 2 of Beautifully Savage Butterfly

My nipples tighten and the hair on the back of my neck stands up, goose bumps rising all over my skin, hidden under my long sleeves and completely out of place in the humid building. I’d be happy to give him a productive outlet for the demons he didn’t manage to exorcise inside the ring.

Too bad I already know the answer he’ll give me if I make the offer. Not that it will stop me. The humiliation of being turned down by Orion over and over again is becoming its own kink.

“Elio,” Salvatore calls after me. I wave dismissively, letting him know they don’t need to wait for me, and I make my way through the crowd, keeping one eye on Orion until he disappears down the tunnel again.

ORION

My pulse rushes loudly in my ears, my muscles still coiled and quivering for more. I want to find a punching bag and wail on it until I’ve finished bleeding out this feeling through bruised knuckles and pure fucking exhaustion.

Instead, I’m forced to grunt out responses to reporters shoving cameras and microphones into my face while trying to pretend I feel the least bit human so soon after a fight. I drag a towel over my face to mop up the sweat, and when I pull it away, I notice a few streaks of blood soaking into the white terrycloth. Mine? Quinn’s? I won’t know until I actually get some goddamn peace to clean myself up, but it’s not like it matters much one way or the other. I’m no stranger to blood. I’ve been bathed in it for as long as I can remember.

When the press clears out, the quiet of the empty locker room rings as loud as an alarm in my ears, almost as unsettling as all the voices and questions were just a few minutes ago. I sit on the bench in front of a row of lockers meant for a whole team of athletes to crowd around, snapping towels and playing grab ass, doing whatever it is they do to celebrate a win. Me? I eye the door, my jaw set so rigidly it’s giving me a headache, waiting for the inevitable.

Maybe instead of sitting around, I should throw some clothes on, sweat and blood be damned, and get the fuck out of here. But I can’t seem to make myself move. I feel like a victim in a horror movie, everything inside screaming at me to run while I stand around like an idiot. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting…

I don’t flinch at the light rap at the door. I don’t call out a greeting either. I don’t need to. He’s not asking for permission to come in. Guys like him don’t know how to ask for permission, they only know how to take. My jaw clenches even tighter and I scramble to my feet, refusing to let him see me waiting for him. I put my back to the door, my towel slung over my shoulder as I rummage in my locker.

“In case you ever wondered, it’s considered polite in society to wait for the person on the other side of the door to actually invite you inside after you knock,” I growl at the shifting air that lets me know I’m no longer alone.

His low chuckle is the most grating sound I’ve ever heard in my life. Just like everything else about the man, it’s fucking privilege personified. I’m not sure how someone’s laugh can sound like a fucking ten-thousand-dollar suit, but his does.

“Is that right?” Elio drawls in a bored tone. “I guess I need to learn some manners.”

Goddamn right he does.

Elio fucking Moretti. I doubt he’s been told ‘no’ a single day of his life. Pompous prick that he is. Handed an empire of violence on a solid gold platter, and he expects us all to kneel like his loyal subjects. Fat fucking chance of that happening. I don’t kneel for anyone, least of all a goddamn spoiled Mafia prince.

I turn slowly to face him, hating the way my eyes rake over him from head to toe just once, taking in his rumpled, unbuttoned suit jacket and the piece strapped across his chest. His olive skin is flushed, and his hands are shoved into his pockets, his gaze roaming over me in a much slower assessment.

I cross my arms over my chest, vaguely aware of how naked I still am in nothing but my shorts. I don’t pretend to know how sociopaths and mobsters like the Morettis operate, but I learned early in my life that whether you’re staring down a hungry dog or a gang of street thugs, you don’t want to be the one to blink first.

“What do you want?” I’ve asked the same question after every fight within the city limits for the past two years. The dance has become so familiar, it might be comforting if it weren’t so unsettling.

Unsettling, because no matter how many times I’ve asked, I still don’t know what Elio Moretti wants from me.

A smile spreads slowly over his lips, his dark brown eyes boring into mine. He darts his tongue out and runs it along his bottom lip, tilting his head as he gives me another leisurely perusal.

“A lesson in manners?” he answers, but it sounds more like a question. It sounds hopeful, but exactly what he’s hoping for is still un-fucking-clear.

I scoff through my nose. “Great. I’ll dig out some Miss Manners articles before my next fight and have them ready for you. Anything else I can do for you? I already told three different Moretti stooges that I don’t want your fucking money to throw a fight.”

My rant seems to amuse him. The wider his grin gets, the more my muscles tense, until I’m sure he can see me vibrating, holding myself back from slamming him up against the nearest wall, getting in his face, and demanding to know what the fuck he wants already. Why is he up my ass like clockwork after every fight? Why am I seeing him out of the corner of my eye on the goddamn street? What exactly do the Morettis want from me?

My breath is coming faster the more I think about it. My lungs burn and the tightness in my gut is beyond ready to explode, but unlike in the ring, there’s nowhere for these feelings to go. Not if I want to live to see another day, anyway.

And that right there is what I think I hate the most about Elio goddamned Moretti. He shows up here, getting under my skin, crawling inside my head and messing with me, and I can’t fucking touch him.

“I’m going to make it really fucking clear for you,” I spit, stepping over the bench and crowding in on him. I expect Elio to take a step back, but he holds his ground, putting us nearly nose to nose when I get in his face. “I don’t want anything more to do with you or your fucking family. I’ll pay you the money I owe you, but I don’t want to be watched by you, I don’t want you at my fights. Stay away from me.”

He’s breathing faster now too, his pupils dilated and his lips parted wordlessly. Something dangerous crackles between us, and the sliver of self-preservation I have tells me that if I don’t back off, I’m going to end up nothing more than a rotting corpse, piled on top of the bodies of anyone else who dared speak this way to a Moretti.

I pull the towel off of my shoulder and throw it at Elio for good measure, hoping it will get my point across. I know better than that though.

However I landed on Elio Moretti’s radar to begin with, I’m fucked now.

Story of my fucking life.

Chapter 2

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