Page 41 of Beautifully Savage Butterfly

“What’s that?” I ask, reaching for his hand and lacing my fingers between his like I did earlier in the elevator. Fuck, that feels like a lifetime ago right now.

“I just keep thinking about how much it’s going to cost me for them to drain his lungs. My brother could die and all I can worry about is the goddamn cost.”

I squeeze his hand. “Don’t worry about that, Boss.”

He huffs through his nose.

“Sure, I’ll just pretend money grows on trees.”

“You’ve been so fixated on the bad shit that comes along with dating a guy like me. But there are some upsides too.” I make soothing circles on the back of his hand with my thumb.

He finally tears his eyes off the bed and glances over at me, a furrow between his brows and a hard set to his mouth. I can tell he wants to argue. I’m sure it’s right on the tip of his tongue to tell me to shove my money and any help I’m about to offer him up my ass. He studies my face for a minute, then sighs.

“Are we dating?” he asks blandly instead.

I snort a laugh. “Yeah, Boss. We’re dating.”

Chapter 17

ORION

There’s something hypnotic about the rhythm I fall into delivering blows to the punching bag at the training gym. Left hook, right hook, roundhouse. Left hook, right hook, roundhouse. Left hook, right hook…

The steady tempo of it reminds me of the beep, beep, beep of Jack’s heart monitor that’s seeped into my dreams after too many nights of sleeping next to his hospital bed. He finally started to turn around yesterday after two days on an experimental antiviral treatment. He’s not totally out of the woods yet, but I might be able to convince myself to sleep at home tonight. Maybe.

I’m positive Elio had something to do with the specialist who showed up on Saturday morning and took over Jack’s care, all but shooing Doctor Ross out of the room and closing the curtain right in his face. She was no nonsense, rattling off a bunch of shit I didn’t understand to the nurses before switching his treatment. It’s not like his previous medications were helping, so I was up for trying anything. Whatever gets my brother off the ventilator and back to staring at the four walls of his Shady Oaks room rather than the four walls of the hospital room will be a fucking improvement.

There’s a familiar itch in the back of my mind, of course, creeping under my skin and tightening fresh knots along the back of my neck to replace the ones Elio massaged loose only a few days ago. Jack and I don’t need anyone’s charity. I’ve always found ways to take care of him and managed to pay his bills no matter what it cost me. Just like he did for me when we were teenagers.

Left hook, right hook, roundhouse. Left hook, right hook, roundhouse.

“Yeah, Boss. We’re dating.” That sweet, confident way he said it when I was spiraling, nothing to grab on to but his hand, has echoed in my ears for days now.

Is that why I didn’t argue when Doctor Hopkins showed up? I’m not just in bed with the mob anymore, I’m dating the mob. I can’t figure out how exactly I went from hate-fucking Elio to all this. I don’t know when I set my list of reasons to steer clear of the Morettis on fire and stepped into the flames without a second thought. But here we are. And I don’t have any plans to turn back now. I’m going to see this thing through, even if it means I end up burned.

Does being with Elio mean bending to the Mafia shit though? Can I have one without the other? Does taking this favor for Jack now mean I’ll owe something else later? I’d love to think relationships don’t work that way, but I left that kind of wide-eyed optimism behind a long damn time ago.

Left hook, right hook, roundhouse. Left hook, right hook, roundhouse.

My muscles ache the way I need them to, and sweat forms on my back, making my shirt cling to my skin as I huff out steady breaths in between each attack. But clearly, I need something more mentally stimulating to stay out of my head. Unless I want to spend all day chasing what-ifs and worries around my mind, I need an opponent who’s going to fight back and keep me on my toes. I catch the bag when it swings towards me, and drag in a slow breath, glancing around the gym for any potential sparring partners.

I zero in on Tito Vasquez, just coming out of the locker room, looking fresh and ready to go a few rounds. He’s been beefing up lately, spending a hell of a lot of time on speed drills and strength training. He might actually give me a run for my money this afternoon, which is exactly what I need.

“Yo, Tito,” I shout.

His steps stutter and he stops mid-stride to look over at me. “Barros, hey.”

“Jump in the ring with me.” I jerk my chin towards the ring, hoping the force of the demand will tip the scales better than requesting a sparring partner has lately. It’s been like pulling teeth. Fucking impossible to get anyone other than Fitz to go a few rounds with me.

“Uh…” Tito shifts his weight and I notice a few other guys slowing down or stopping what they’re doing altogether to eavesdrop without an ounce of subtlety. “I don’t think…”

“Okay, what the fuck is going on here?” The frustration in my chest bursts free, adding an edge of a growl to the question I bark. Even more people stop lifting, stop pounding away at punching bags or each other, turning to stare. “Did I do something to piss you all off?” I look around at all of them, not just Tito this time. “Your egos can’t take that I’m still undefeated? My deodorant isn’t up to par? Did I miss out on some circle jerk and now I’m out of the loop? What?”

A couple of the guys trade looks, and I get the feeling they’re all playing a game of waiting to see who cracks first.

O’Malley sits up on the bench press and wipes his hands on his shorts. “The whole belonging to the mob thing… Nobody wants to hit you too hard and end up whacked by your boyfriend, Barros.”

I blink once. Twice. A third time. But no amount of clearing my vision or shaking my head gets O’Malley’s words to make any more sense.

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