Page 4 of Beautifully Savage Butterfly

I sigh and give in, sharing the burger with him while I tell him about every detail of the fight. Of course, I leave out the visit from Elio that came after. Jack doesn’t need to know that even my fat fight paychecks aren’t enough to cover the cost of keeping him here with nurses on call twenty-four hours a day. He doesn’t need to know that I broke the pact we made a decade ago about never getting mixed up with the Morettis, no matter how bad things might get. He doesn’t need to know that I lie awake at night, wondering how much longer I’ll even be able to fight and where I’ll get the money to keep paying the medical bills after that.

Maybe I’m being a stubborn idiot, refusing to take a payout from the Morettis. I can’t keep up this winning streak forever, right? Sooner or later, I’m going to lose a fight, and it would be pretty damn nice to make a cool million for it. I grit my teeth at the thought though, my pride rearing up and thrashing inside me like an untamed beast.

Taking a dive is apparently the limit of what I’ll do to take care of my brother. At least, as long as I have other options.

We finish the burgers and spend another hour talking bullshit until Jack falls asleep. It’s past visiting hours, but no one hassles me on my way out. There’s no shortage of pity and special treatment for a thirty-five-year-old quadriplegic and his scrappy younger brother who’s literally fighting to support him. That’s some movie-of-the-week shit right there. Too bad there’s no happy ending to be had here.

ELIO

My footsteps echo eerily in my empty apartment. I sway, bracing my hand against the door to keep my balance until the room stops spinning. It’s possible I had a few too many drinks after slinking out of the locker room earlier, words stuck in my throat as I watched Orion disappear in a rage after throwing his towel at me.

The towel…

A sloppy grin spreads over my lips at the same slow pace as the tendrils of heat that weave their way through my veins. I slip a hand inside my suit jacket and pull out the folded towel. The droplets of blood that came from Orion’s split lip are rusty brown now, the cloth almost entirely dry after a couple of hours spent tucked under my jacket. This is a new low, I’m well aware of that. But that doesn’t stop me from bringing the towel to my nose and inhaling deeply.

The musky scent of his sweat fills the back of my throat and makes my head spin. I moan, my dick swelling rapidly. I sag against the door, using one hand to undo my belt while I hold the towel to my nose with the other. My eyes flutter closed, and I imagine having my face buried in the crook of Orion’s neck, feeling the slickness of his sweat after a fight, lapping at his salty skin with slow strokes of my tongue until he’s moaning and twisting his fingers roughly in my hair.

I shove my hand down the front of my pants and wrap it around the base of my thick, throbbing cock, drunk on whiskey and Orion’s scent, but most of all drunk on the fantasy of his hatred turning into passion. The door rattles at my back with the frantic pace of my hand on my cock, rough and unlubed, with just enough bite to keep me right on edge without tipping me over right away.

I grunt and gasp, the sounds muffled by the towel still pressed to my face. My balls tighten and Orion’s cold green eyes dance behind my eyelids, set in a harsh glare that makes me more desperate to please him every time he turns all that disapproval on me. I want to crawl on my knees for him. I want to hurt for him. I want to see his rage shift into desire until he can’t do anything but put his hands all over me, mark me with his bruises, fucking claim me.

I groan, curling my toes inside of my shoes and wrenching the towel away from my nose to shove it down my pants. I replace my hand with it, squirming and panting at the rough feeling of terrycloth on my throbbing cock, working myself harder and faster.

“Orion. Orion. Orion,” I murmur his name over and over, my hips snapping helplessly as I fuck the towel, the flavor of his sweat still thick on my tongue, mixing with the smooth taste of whiskey that’s lingering there. “Please,” I rasp, throwing my head back to bang against the heavy door and letting out a howl as my orgasm punches through me.

I fuck into the towel, shivering at the odd satisfaction of spilling all over something Orion pressed against his bare skin only a few hours ago. The image of his disgust and disapproval fills my mind, twisting my gut with burning hot shame that only makes me come harder, weakening my knees and clenching around my balls until I’m completely spent and out of breath.

I slide down the door until my ass hits the floor, one hand still shamefully down my pants, my chest heaving with my ragged breaths.

So much for being the big, bad second in command of the biggest crime family in the city. Too drunk to stand up, getting off on humiliation and pure goddamn contempt… Elio fucking Moretti, ladies and gentlemen.

I yank the towel out of my pants, wad it up, and toss it lazily aside. Now that the heat of the moment has passed, I kind of hate myself for ruining it. Then again, what was I going to do with it? Sleep with Orion’s sweaty towel tucked against my face like a security blanket? There’s a twinge in my chest at the thought.

Jesus, I am beyond pathetic.

I fumble in my pocket and pull out my phone, not giving any thought to who I’m calling until the familiar sound of my brother’s voice fills my ear.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is rough with sleep but already alert, ready for whatever horror I might be calling about in the middle of the night.

“Nothing,” I answer, and I hear an exhale of relief, followed by the faint shuffling of fabric. His bedsheets? Probably. “Do you ever just wonder what it would have been like to be a normal kid? Like, not raised knowing we were going to inherit an empire of blood and money?”

Enzo is quiet for several seconds, but I can hear him breathing, I swear I can practically hear him thinking, turning the question over, looking for the right answer to it. As if there is a right one.

“You’re drunk,” he says eventually, and I snort.

“’S still a good question.” I clumsily get to my feet again, bracing one hand against the door to help in the process.

“No, I don’t. We are who we are, there’s no changing that.” He’s full of the kind of certainty I would fucking kill for if I thought shedding blood over the matter might solve anything.

“Everyone thinks we’re monsters,” I mutter, shuffling through my apartment, flipping on lights on my way to the bar cart parked in the corner of my living room.

I pick up an expensive bottle of whiskey that Alessio gave me for Christmas last year and uncap it, bringing it to my lips to take a swig. It doesn’t even burn on the way down, which is a sure sign I’ve had enough. I take a second swig anyway, then drag my tongue over my lips.

“So let them think we’re monsters. You and I both know there are worse boogie men out there than either of us.” The venom in his words sends a shiver down my spine. “Do you want me to come over?” he offers more softly a second later.

“No. I’m going to sleep.” I wasn’t actually planning on it until the words left my mouth, but it sounds like a pretty damn good idea now that I think about it.

“Okay. Night, fratello. Don’t forget we have a meeting tomorrow. If tonight turns into one of your three-day drinking binges, I’ll have Salvatore so far up your ass you won’t be able to sit down,” he says, and I chuckle.

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