Page 28 of Beautifully Savage Butterfly

“I figured we could play a little ‘good mobster, bad muscle.’ I ask the questions all nice and understanding, and if they need a little encouragement, you knock them around a bit.” I watch his expression, bracing for him to lose it and go off on me with some platitudes about not wanting to get mixed up in Mafia business. The muscles around his eyes tense and his jaw ticks, but he doesn’t flip the table or tell me to fuck off, so that’s something.

After another beat of silence, he snorts. “If someone doesn’t want to answer your questions, why don’t you just shoot them? Better yet, why chase all around the city trying to threaten answers out of people when you can go to the source and hold a gun to Casimir’s head until he tells you where the money is coming from?”

“First of all, regardless of what you might think about me, I don’t solve all my problems with bullets. Taking someone out is a necessary, messy part of this life, but it doesn’t mean it’s always the best place to start,” I explain calmly. “And second, it’s called leverage, Boss. The more I know about what’s going on before I sit Casimir down for a chat, the better.”

He grunts again. The expression on his face is too neutral for me to guess which way he’s leaning. Time to pull out the ace up my sleeve.

“I know you don’t want your debt hanging over your head anymore. Well, this is how you can work it off.”

His eyes narrow and he leans back in his seat. He looks past me, not like he’s looking at anyone else, but with a faraway expression that suggests he’s thinking things over. I keep my mouth shut to give him some time. Eventually, his eyes flick back to mine, set with hard determination.

“You already paid off my debt. I don’t owe the Morettis anything.” He pauses like he’s waiting for me to contradict him. He’s right, he doesn’t technically owe anything, and I don’t give a shit about collecting anything from him. I figured his pride over it would be enough to convince him to take me up on the offer. If it’s not, I might need to come up with another angle to sell him on helping me. But before I can come up with a new way to convince him, he keeps talking. “I want to get paid for it.”

“You…”

“Ten thousand a week,” he says firmly.

I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to reconcile the man who didn’t want a damn thing to do with this world with the one who’s now demanding a fat paycheck to jump in with both feet. The panic in his eyes that I noticed when he walked in flashes through my mind again.

“Everything okay, Boss? Did something happen?”

He flinches and looks away from me again. “Wanting to get paid for selling my soul means something is wrong?” There’s a dark amusement in his voice.

“Agreeing to sell your soul without putting up a fight means something is wrong.” Pieces of a puzzle I hadn’t realized was incomplete start slotting into place in my head. Orion’s UFL paycheck should be able to buy him a better apartment than the rathole he’s living in. He’s risking his career at underground fights, taking out loans from a group of criminals he despises, and still barely getting by. Something tells me that nursing home, Shady Pines, is the piece right in the middle that makes the rest of the puzzle make sense.

“Is it one of your parents?” I guess, and Orion tenses.

He hisses out a venomous laugh. “Am I going into debt for the parents who kicked me out at thirteen years old, leaving me to live on the streets of this lawless city just because I’m gay? Hard no.”

Rage boils in my gut and I make a mental note to have Sparrow look into the whereabouts of Orion’s so-called parents. It sounds like they could use a visit.

“Then who?” I ask.

He shifts in his seat and stares across the table at me. Emotions flutter behind his eyes, too quickly to name them all. Anger, hurt, that momentary, desperate panic again, and at least a dozen more that are gone before I can latch onto any of them.

“My brother.”

ORION

“Your brother?” Elio repeats, sounding dumbfounded.

I’m not sure why I told him. Anxiety clenches around my chest, a fleeting fear that he’s going to find a way to use Jack’s injury as some kind of leverage to hold over my head. He wouldn’t even need to try. The fresh medical bills that are stacking up right now are doing all the work for him, twisting my arm and forcing me to my knees, a position I resent at the best of times.

“Jack,” I supply his name. “There it is. All the upper hand you’ll ever need over me. Want me to beat the hell out of someone? Kill them? Want me to lick your fancy Italian Oxfords for a few bucks so I can make sure his hospital bills are covered?” My throat is tight, each word dripping off my tongue bitterly, making Elio’s expression darken.

“Forget it,” he says, standing up and reaching into his jacket to pull out his wallet. He sets a twenty-dollar bill on the table and then pushes his chair in.

“Forget what?” My chair teeters behind me as I stand up too fast.

“The job. I’ve got soldiers who can play the part of menacing well enough to make it work. If you need the money, I’ll give it to you. But I’m not going to make you knock anybody around to earn it.”

Elio smooths a hand over his suit jacket and starts towards the door. I’m right behind him, my muscles vibrating with tension, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw aches. He steps outside and I grab him by the back of his collar, taking satisfaction in wrinkling the soft, expensive material in my fist as I drag him back. He doesn’t resist or struggle as I shove him up against the building, earning a few fleeting, curious looks from people passing by. In this neighborhood, I guarantee every one of them has seen a hell of a lot worse than this.

“I don’t want your pity money, Brat.” I press my body up against his, pinning him to the wall, holding him up by his lapels.

His pupils widen and his lips part. He darts his tongue out and drags it along the bottom one, drawing my eyes to the motion and stirring heat in the pit of my stomach. It’s been a long fucking day and everything inside of me feels untethered, desperately clawing for control.

“It’s not pity money, Boss,” he murmurs, sagging into me, trusting me with his weight. “I’m not going to hold your brother’s medical bills over your head like that.”

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