Page 5 of Beautifully Savage Butterfly

Salvatore is the best threat he can come up with? Half the time our cousin ends up just as drunk as I am when he’s meant to be wringing me out. Enzo’s only solution is to pass me off to someone else. Alessio is too nice about it, making me scrambled eggs and putting cold compresses on the back of my neck, and Xaviaro is in the middle of the two of them, acting like everything is fine while I puke into a bucket next to his couch.

It’s fine. I don’t need any of them to babysit me anyway. I don’t need anyone around to shove me back into line when I stumble or spank my ass when I’m feeling out of control. I don’t need someone to see right through me and somehow know when I need to be coddled and when I need something rougher to help me get my head back on straight.

Even if I did need those things, the only man I want them from hates my fucking guts. There may be worse monsters in this city than us, but as far as Orion is concerned, I might as well be Satan himself.

Chapter 3

ELIO

The thumping beat of the music from inside the club throbs in my eardrums as I near the door. The bouncer sees me coming and practically falls over himself, grabbing the door handle to pull it open before it’s even finished swinging closed behind the last group of people who entered. I button my suit jacket with one hand and nod to him in thanks.

I think his name is Gio? Rio? Something that rolls right off the tongue like that. At least that’s the exact pickup line Alessio purred at him a few weeks ago. Not sure if that night ended with the towering doorman using all those bouncer muscles of his to manhandle Les or not.

He gives me a polite smile, but I notice the tick at the corner of his lips that gives away a slight case of nerves. He might be six and a half feet tall and chiseled out of pure stone, but he’s as scared of The Family as everyone else in this city.

“Sir,” he says, tilting his head as I pass.

I stifle the urge to snort at the honorific. Sir? I’ve never been a sir. I can hardly even take anyone seriously when they refer to me as Mr. Moretti. My father was Mr. Moretti, and Lorenzo is definitely Mr. Moretti. Me, though? Not so much.

“Elio,” I correct, even though I know it won’t change anything. He probably thinks it’s a test, like if he actually addresses me as ‘Elio’ the next time we meet, I’ll shoot him in the head.

My heart thuds in time with the pounding, sultry bass as I make my way through the club. Wild is Enzo’s pet project—the first and only all male strip club in the state. Clearly it was a good bet, because the place is packed night after night, regardless of what day of the week it is.

On the main stage, our most popular dancer, Dante, is working the pole in a pair of obscenely tight leather shorts. His ass cheeks hang out the bottom of them as he bends forward and shakes it, eliciting a round of horny cheers from the men clamoring to crawl up on the stage and worship the ground the little spitfire walks on. One of them makes the mistake of reaching for Dante as he struts close to the edge of the stage, unbuttoning his shorts and teasing the crowd with a peek at the lacy thong he appears to be wearing underneath. He dodges the man’s grasp, then slams his foot down, pinning the groper’s hand to the stage and grinding it under the heel of his shoe with a sweet smirk that’s completely at odds with the yelp his action elicits, loud enough to be audible over the music.

I can read the words, “No touching, baby,” on Dante’s lips.

I grin and keep walking, ignoring the way my brain hammers against the inside of my skull thanks to last night’s overindulgence, and the flutter of impatience already building in my gut to get this meeting over with so I can make it across town in time.

I’m the last to arrive at our usual table in the back corner of the club. It’s a spot with a perfect view of the main stage, but out of the way enough that no one is going to be eavesdropping on our conversations. Not that many people would have the sheer balls or stupidity to try.

Enzo is sitting with his back to the wall, looking every bit the Mafia Don, with an air of command that hangs around him effortlessly, a don’t-fuck-with-me stare, and a crisp black Armani suit that cost as much as some cars. The chair on his right is empty, waiting for me to claim it. The metaphor is too obvious and boring to even bother acknowledging. On his left, Salvatore is seated, wearing a deep purple suit tonight, with a black-and-gold vest underneath. It would be a joke on most people, but he always manages to look like he belongs on the cover of GQ. Across from Sal, Alessio is leaning back in his chair, his feet up on the table, his suit jacket unbuttoned. I can’t imagine anyone else daring to flout the Moretti image so blatantly, especially right in front of Lorenzo, but Les operates under a different set of rules than most people under my brother’s command. There’s a certain amount of privilege that comes with being childhood friends, I suppose. No one knows that better than Xaviaro—trigger man, enforcer, Moretti Family hitman, and Enzo’s best friend. He’s on Alessio’s left side, earning his nickname, Iceman, with a steely expression on his face that dares anyone to fucking try him. And finally, the newest addition to our inner circle, the unhinged little murderer Xaviaro went and fell in love with, Sparrow.

My brother notices my approach, looking me over slowly, no doubt searching for any signs that I’m still drunk after that call last night. His attention on me causes the rest of the guys to lift their heads or swivel in their chairs as well, five sets of eyes boring into me, trying to read my fucking blood alcohol like they expect it to be printed across my damn forehead. I resist the urge to give them all the finger. It’s not like I’m an alcoholic.

“I’d assure you all that I’m as sober as a judge, but I think we all know there are a few too many judges in Wildcliff who keep a bottle of Scotch in their top desk drawer,” I quip, patting Xaviaro on the back as I pass him, not sure if I’m hoping to get an icy scowl from him or if I’m angling to earn a few growly, possessive threats from Sparrow.

When my hand lands on him, I feel a strange knot under his clothes. I drag my fingers curiously along the protrusion. Is it a rope? A harness? Xaviaro shrugs me off and Sparrow tilts his head, flashing me a threatening, toothy grin.

“Is there a reason you’re pawing at what’s mine?” he asks with too much sweetness in his voice. If I hadn’t lost any sense of fear and self-preservation decades ago, I might shiver at the implied threat in his sugary tone.

“Bold claim, little bird.” I smile right back at him. “Do you have a leash you use to lead Xav around by his dick?”

The only reaction Xaviaro has to my crude statement is a slight hitch in one eyebrow.

“Jealous?” Sparrow asks. “Wishing someone would buy a dick leash for you too?”

I make an attempt to scoff at the suggestion, but the sound comes out too tight and strangled to actually get my point across. He leans back in his seat looking smug and satisfied, and I fumble to come up with a retort, even though I’m well aware it’s already been too long to fire back with any dignity.

“Can we put a pin in any further discussions of kinks and fetishes and get down to business? Or is that too much to ask?” Lorenzo asks dryly.

“Honestly, talking about kinks sounds more interesting.” Alessio shrugs and rocks his chair back onto its back legs. “I definitely noticed Sal panting when Dante did that routine last week where he wore nothing but a pair of cowboy boots and a riding crop.”

“Fuck off,” Sal mutters, and I think I notice a blush creeping over his cheeks even in the dim lighting of our cozy corner.

“Oh, are we supposed to talk about our own kinks?” Alessio flashes a shit-eating grin. “In that case, I keep having this wet dream where…”

My brother clears his throat, cutting off whatever horny description Les was about to launch into, and leveling him with a look that makes it clear playtime is over. As hard as he pushes the limits at times, he’s not a fucking idiot. He has the good grace to look mildly sheepish as he snaps his mouth closed and lowers his chair back onto all four legs, putting his own feet on the floor and sitting up properly.

---