Page 6 of Beautifully Savage Butterfly

Enzo gestures towards my seat. I reach up to loosen my tie a fraction, then round the table to claim my place on his right side. Underboss and second in command. Successor to the Moretti throne if shit ever goes sideways and Lorenzo ends up ice cold on a slab in the morgue. I shudder at the thought, and not just because it hits too close to home.

There’s a comfort to the familiar cadence of the meeting once it gets going. There’s an accounting of the books, new business to discuss, like the bar that opened last week a couple of blocks over, and whose knees Xav had to break this week, and finally old business, which tonight mainly consists of Sparrow giving us an update about his continued surveillance of the Sleepless Reapers motorcycle club. I’ve been sitting in meetings exactly like this for as long as I can remember, since Enzo and I were both perched on our father’s lap as he casually ordered people killed and money collected.

Even then, as a barefoot five-year-old, I can remember people treating me like some kind of royalty. Everyone was afraid to deny us anything, and we ate that shit up like a pair of tiny dictators while our father reveled in it. Nothing gave him a bigger laugh than watching grown men piss themselves trying to keep a couple of spoiled Mafia kids happy. My lips twitch at the memory. I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like for someone to not give a fuck that I’m a Moretti, though. For someone to treat me as something other than a fragile bomb, bound to detonate at any moment. The memory of Orion getting up in my face last night sears through my veins and makes my pulse speed up.

“I think that’s everything,” Enzo says. “Unless anyone has anything else to bring up?”

No one volunteers anything, which means this meeting is officially over. I push my sleeve up an inch to check my watch, standing up at the same time. Mentally, I’m already halfway to the parking lot, but unfortunately, physically my brother snags my arm before I can get far.

Enzo stands up too, nudging me off to the side while Alessio launches right back into the conversation about kinks without missing a beat, as if the last hour and a half didn’t just happen.

“How are you doing?” Lorenzo asks in a low tone, letting go of my arm and pinning me in place with his worried, probing gaze instead.

“I’m fine.” I brush the question off. It’s not a complete lie. I’m fine in all the ways my brother needs to concern himself with. I’m sharp and in control, just like I need to be.

He hums, seemingly unconvinced. I’m not sure what he wants from me. I doubt he wants to hear me blather on about the pathetic, one-sided crush I have on Orion Barros. Does he want me to spill my guts to him about how desperately I want to get fucked by someone who won’t act like they’re either a hostage or auditioning for a Mafia version of The Real Housewives? Maybe I want to play the hostage for a change. Again, I suspect that’s the last thing Enzo wants to have a heart to heart about.

“I’m fine,” I say again, hoping my tone sounds more firm than petulant. “I haven’t had a drink all day.” I blow a heavy breath right into his face to prove it to him, and he just scowls. “Look, we both know that this job, this life comes with a hell of a lot of pressure. The occasional glass—”

He scoffs loudly and quirks an eyebrow at me.

“Bottle,” I amend, “of whiskey is how I let off some steam. You must have your own way of releasing the pressure valve.”

“Not all of us have the luxury,” he mutters.

“Well, maybe you should work on that.” I shrug and stuff my hands into my pockets.

He doesn’t bother to respond to that suggestion. Not that I expected him to. Maybe I’m deflecting. Maybe I just want to get the hell out of here and indulge in my favorite form of stress relief that doesn’t involve a drop of liquor.

“Why don’t you come home with me tonight? We can order takeout from that Vietnamese place around the corner and watch The Godfather.”

I snort a laugh, letting some of the tension slip from my shoulders.

“How about a rain check? I’ve got a… thing.” I’m not sure if I’ll lie if Enzo tries to pick apart my vagueness. The truth will only lead to more questions and embarrassing answers I don’t really want to give him.

Luckily, he doesn’t ask. He just nods, and I take that as a dismissal, turning on my heel and hustling for the door.

ORION

My muscles are still tight and sore from the fight last night. The bruise on my ribs has deepened to a dark purple that’s bound to be a neon target tonight. I’m not sure the bandage I wrapped around my ribs is much better. It’s a flashing sign telling my opponent exactly where I’m hurt. But I can’t do anything about it now.

I roll my head one way and then the other, loosening up my neck and focusing on the steady whoosh of my pulse in my ears, drowning out the roar of the gathered crowd and the loud instrumentals of the rock music that’s being blasted through the speakers of the underground bar.

Upstairs, there’s a perfectly respectable business—an upscale bar situated in the business district of Wildcliff, where anyone can stop in for an overpriced drink after work. But, if you know about the entrance around back, at the end of the unlit alley, and you happen to have the password to give the bouncer, you’ll find yourself in an entirely different world.

The smell of weed and cigarette smoke hangs heavily in the air, mixing with the scent of cheap alcohol and stale sweat. I drag in a slow, deep breath and block all of that out too.

Last night, I was a celebrity, or at least the closest thing to one. MMA is a brutal sport, but there are still rules, there are referees and press. There are bright lights and medics standing by if the need should arise. But tonight? Tonight is the human equivalent of a cock fight. Brutal, messy, dangerous. I could end up injured or in a bed just like Jack’s. If the cops were to show up—fat chance here in Wildcliff, honestly—I could be arrested. I could even end up banned from the Ultimate Fighting League for participating in an underground fight. Or I could walk away with a fistful of untaxed cash. That’s money I can use to pay down some of my debt to Elio and his big brother.

“You’re up.” The man with a bad combover and a stained t-shirt whose name I can’t remember gives me a little shove between the shoulders to push me towards the makeshift ring.

I grit my teeth, flexing my wrapped hands into fists. No gloves in a fight like this, just knuckles on flesh and bone. I step into the roped-off circle in the middle of the room. It’s the only spot in the bar with a light hanging directly overhead, illuminating the wooden floor stained with blood from past fights.

A big fucker steps over the rope on the opposite side. He’s a head taller, with at least seventy-five pounds on me. There’s a jagged scar down one of his cheeks, and two teardrop tattoos on the other. He flashes a smile, and I notice his canine teeth are capped with sharp silver fangs. If points were awarded for intimidation factor, he would be the one walking out of here with the payout tonight. I stare right back at him, stoic and unblinking. Unfortunately for him, it’s not about how scary you look, it’s about how savage you are. And he’s about to find out that size isn’t everything.

A bell rings from somewhere unseen, and every ounce of my attention snaps into crystalline focus. The whistling, jeering drunks surrounding the two of us don’t exist anymore. There’s nothing but the taste of adrenaline on my tongue and the familiar coil of my muscles, eager to hurt just a little bit more if it means bleeding some of this poison from my veins.

Unsurprisingly, he goes right for my bruised ribs, swinging wildly, trying to connect body blows. I’m expecting them though, dodging each one easily, weaving and floating out of his reach, moving so fast it’s like my feet aren’t even touching the floor. Every one of his missed swings energizes me a little more, amping me up until the beast inside of me is thrashing with bloodlust, hungry to pound him into nothing but crumpled, bloodied flesh.

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