Page 32 of Unhinged Little Angel

We end the call, and I have just one more to make before I can rest easy for the night. I do actually hesitate for half a second over whether it’s worth it to risk waking him, but I know I won’t sleep until I at least have the ball rolling on this, so I take my chances and hit the call button.

“If this is a call for help because your new husband has your balls in a vice or a gun to your head, I’m across town and can’t help you.” I guess I shouldn’t have worried at all. Sparrow is clearly wide awake, the sound of traffic in the background and a little puff to his breathing like he’s been exerting himself.

“Busy hunting down Reapers?” I take a guess, not that it’s much of a gamble considering stalking and picking off members of the lowlife motorcycle gang is all the little vigilante has done since he found his way to Wildcliff a year and a half ago.

“Not tonight.” I can hear a smile in his voice. “And if Xav manages to lose me just because you called and distracted me, I’m going to be extremely annoyed and sexually frustrated. So make it quick. What’s up?”

Who answers their phone during a kinky stalking game? I shake my head.

“Don Moreno. I need you to dig up everything you can on him.”

“Is this for Dante?” I hear the metallic rattle of a fire escape and Sparrow breathes a little harder.

“It’s about Dante, but it’sforme.” I growl just a little, tightening my grip on the phone.

“Consider it done. Gotta go.” The call ends abruptly, and I let out a small sigh, letting my shoulders relax and some of the tension ease out of me. That’s all I can do for tonight to keep Dante safe. And I can’t imagine anywhere he’ll be more secure than fast asleep in my arms.

I slip back into the bedroom and crawl into bed. Dante makes an annoyed grunting sound in his sleep as I drag him closer and wrap my arms around him before settling into a peaceful slumber again. With his back steadily rising and falling against my chest and his hair tickling my nose, I close my eyes and drift off too.

DANTE

There’s a delicious ache in my muscles and joints, from sleeping so hard or from the rough way Salvatore sank his fingers into my thighs and pressed me against the wall last night, or maybe a combination of the two. I bury my face in my pillow, fighting against the tide of consciousness dragging me out of peaceful sleep against my will. Memories from last night all fight for the prime spot at the forefront of my mind. The rasp of his stubble against my skin, the sound of our moans, the wild, animal way he pinned me and humped me, and worse, the way I gave in to it.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, waiting for shame or embarrassment to sour the warm feeling in my stomach, but it doesn’t come. I search for a hint, a single moment when Salvatore made me feel weak or pathetic for giving up the fightand letting him be the one in control for a little while. I’m coming up blank though. I’ve never thought anything gross or demeaning like that about the subs I’ve played with, so I’m not sure why I’m so afraid he will. Maybe the problem is more about the way I see myself.

I groan, rolling over and blindly chucking my pillow at the nearest wall just for the small moment of destructive, chaotic control. This is way too much psychosexual analysis before coffee.

What the fuck time is it anyway? Has Sal left for work already? I yawn and stretch, wondering what his day-to-day life looks like. The entirety of my knowledge about the Mafia is from watchingThe Sopranos, but there are way too many queer mafiosos around here for me to put all my faith in what I learned from Tony Soprano. I know they make money illegally, just like most corporations. Three cheers for capitalism. And they kill people if they have to, but I’m pretty sure it’s mostly just other criminals, so it’s hard for me to get too worked up over that either. I don’t know why I’m bothering to think about all of this now. I guess because we’re technically married, which makes me at least complicit in the crimes he commits.

Eh, so what? Who among us hasn’t committed a few felonies? We’re all just getting through this fucked up thing we call life however we can.

With another yawn, I fling the covers off and roll out of bed. I really need to go to my apartment today and get some of my stuff. I wipe the sleep gunk from the corners of my eyes and open Salvatore’s closet. I was in a hurry last night, so all I did was grab the first shirt I laid my hands on, but now I step inside the luxurious walk-in and take a few minutes to look through his wardrobe. I never bothered to think about the kind of person I would want to settle down with, but if I had, someone who could share my passion for style would’ve been at the top of my list.Not that I’m settling down with Sal, obviously, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the thought of my temporary husband with one of these corsets under his designer suits.

I thumb through them until I land on a black and gold vest with corset boning and a lace-up back. I slide it on and tighten it until it fits properly. I borrow a pair of his briefs and a lovely pair of crimson Versace pants too. They fit too loose, but that’s easily fixed with a belt. I check myself in the floor-length mirror. None of it is my style, but it’ll do for now. I imagine the heated look in Salvatore’s eyes when he sees me in his clothes again and my cock swells just a little.

I can hear the faint sound of someone in the apartment as I step out of the bedroom and make my way down the short hall to the living room.

“I need to go to my place and get—” I stop short, the words dying on my tongue.

It’s not Sal sitting on the leather sofa, and I don’t think he would appreciate the dirty pair of boots kicked up on the coffee table.

“Sure thing,Angel,” Sparrow purrs Sal’s nickname for me and shoots me a smirk. He sweeps his eyes over me and grins wider, as if he’s not wearing the same ratty jeans and leather jacket he always does. “Looking good.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, ignoring the teasing. “Oh god, don’t tell me you’re supposed to be my bodyguard.” I groan. “You probably weigh even less than I do.”

He snorts. “Want to compare body counts?”

Okay, he’s got me there. I bristle and cross my arms. Maybe that’s why Sparrow makes me feel so prickly and defensive, because a small part of me, like microscopic, wants to be more like him. Sure, I beat up perverts in the dead of night, but he’s been singlehandedly taking out the Sleepless Reapers one by one.

“Actually,” another voice I don’t recognize says from the kitchen, “I’m your bodyguard.” A second later, a man who looks like a younger version of Salvatore steps into the living room wearing a cheaper version of the kind of Italian suits the rest of the guys all wear and holding two steaming mugs in one hand and a plate of pastries in the other.

I look him up and down. There’s eager puppy energy radiating off of him in waves.

“Oh good. Let me guess, if you manage to keep me alive, you’ll get that promotion to second tier loafer licker you’ve been angling for?”

Sparrow sputters a laugh and my overeager bodyguard frowns.

“Jeez, Uncle Sal warned me you might break my hand, he didn’t tell me I needed to protect my balls too,” he mutters, setting the pastries on the coffee table, just a few inches from where Sparrow still has his dirty boots propped up, along with one of the mugs. “I’m Luca, by the way.”

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