8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

ELIO

It’s been three days since Orion came to my apartment and roughed me up in exactly the ways I’ve been craving. Three days, and my ass cheeks are still tender, filling my head with memories of that night and making my dick hard every time I so much as shift in my seat.

Lorenzo looks at his watch, then glances pointedly at the empty seat next to Xaviaro.

“He’s on his way,” Xav answers the implied question, his posture relaxed but always slightly alert, like he’s constantly ready to jump up and shoot a motherfucker if necessary. It’s a good quality to have in your trigger man.

“Sparrow’s made it pretty clear he’s an independent contractor. Why are we even waiting for him to start our meetings?” Alessio asks.

“Because he’s scary,” Salvatore answers with a chuckle.

“That it?” Les asks, a shit-eating grin spreading over his lips. “You scared of the crazy little twink, boss?”

Enzo snorts, not dignifying the question with a proper answer. My brother has seen worse shit in his life than a mouthy, Dommy psychopath like Xaviaro’s boyfriend, so I’m positive our newest contract employee doesn’t so much as spike his heart rate with all the bravado and violence he wears like a cloak. But Lorenzo is also exceptionally good at weighing the pros and cons of every decision he makes. No way is he scared of Sparrow, but I’m damn sure he doesn’t want to deal with the possible theatrics of making him feel slighted either. At least, not without a reason to do so.

Sparrow appears seconds later, saving Enzo the trouble of having to decide whether to start without him or not. He saunters through the club like he owns the place, subtly dragging his fingertips along the back of Xaviaro’s neck before pulling out the empty chair and taking his seat.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says breezily.

“Is that blood?” Xav asks, leaning over and dragging his thumb along the edge of Sparrow’s chin, a frown marring his usually stoic expression.

“Don’t worry. It’s not mine,” Sparrow assures him, tugging the collar of his shirt up to wipe at the spot.

“That’s reassuring,” Xaviaro mutters, and I notice a slight twitch in his lips. For our ice-veined hitman, it’s the equivalent of an emotional outburst.

My heart stumbles over its next beat. Before Sparrow sliced and diced his way into Xaviaro’s life, I was working on accepting that the kind of relationship I crave is unrealistic and out of reach. They gave me a fucked-up kind of hope that even twisted souls can have mates. I both love and hate them for that.

Sparrow bares his teeth in a feral grin and leans a little closer to Xaviaro, dropping his voice until it’s too low for any of the rest of us to hear what he’s saying. But based on the lusty droop of Xaviaro’s eyelids and the filthy smirk that stays on Sparrow’s face, I’m guessing he’s either saying something dirty, or giving him details of the murder he committed on his way to the meeting.

When he’s finished, Xaviaro takes Sparrow’s face in both hands and gazes into his eyes.

“You are a stunning, bloodthirsty creature.”

Sparrow rests his forehead against Xaviaro’s. “I love you too.”

“Gah, you two are seriously relationship goals.” Dante’s voice is unexpected. I was so absorbed with the distracting, too-intimate display they were putting on that I didn’t notice him approaching the table.

“Yeah?” Sal’s gaze traces a lazy path over Dante’s scantily clad body. “You looking for your own mafioso to warm your bed at night, angioletto ?”

“I don’t have any trouble keeping my bed warm, I have trouble finding a man who can keep up with me.” The skeptical look he gives Sal with his own slow once-over is more devastating than a direct insult.

Alessio laughs and I rub a hand across my mouth to cover my own amusement.

“You wound me,” Salvatore says dryly, putting a hand over his heart dramatically.

Dante rolls his eyes. “I think you’ll get over it, playboy. Now, can I get you guys some drinks or anything?”

“We’re fine,” Enzo answers for all of us.

“Here’s a little something for taking Sal’s ego down a few notches though,” Alessio says with a wink, pulling out a hundred-dollar bill and tucking it into the waistband of Dante’s red shorts, pulling his hand back quickly on instinct before he can end up on the long list of men with broken fingers, courtesy of our favorite violent little stripper.

Dante leaves us be, and now that Sparrow’s here, we launch into our meeting. It’s a lot of the same old, same old—collections updates, the Fitzpatricks caught doing more business right on the edge of the city, practically begging for an all-out war, and an uptick in underaged prostitution that we’re working to get a handle on.

“I’ve got something I wanted to bring to your attention,” Salvatore says as things are wrapping up. He turns on his tablet and clicks through some spreadsheets to pull up a specific one, then he nudges it across the table towards Lorenzo.

I lean in to get a look at what he’s showing us. From the looks of things, it’s rows of numbers showing someone making their regular weekly payments. Everything is in the black, no missed weeks. I frown, and Enzo does the same.

“What am I looking at here?”

“These are the records for The Starlight, that bar on the corner of First and Van Buren, owned by Casimir Zelinski,” Sal answers.

“Mm,” Lorenzo hums in understanding, scrolling back to the top of the sheet to look it over again with fresh context.

The Starlight was on the verge of going belly-up last spring. When Casimir came to us for a loan to keep things afloat, we were happy to agree. With interest, of course.

It’s in a prime location, but the foofy, outdated name and the owner’s general lack of business sense haven’t done the place any favors. It was a vulture opportunity for us, just circling the corpse of his dying business, waiting for it to sputter out its final breath so we could swoop in and take it over ourselves. All we had to do was wait for him to start missing payments.

“Did he actually manage to turn the place around?” I ask.

Sal shakes his head. “It’s a ghost town. I’ve popped in there on Saturday nights and there hasn’t been a soul in the place. For a guy who came begging on his knees for this loan, he seems to have found some other source of income.”

“I’m not one to complain about someone staying on track with their loan repayments, but…” Enzo trails off, passing the tablet back to Salvatore.

“But if he’s up to some shit right under our nose, we want to know about it,” Xaviaro finishes for him.

“Exactly,” Lorenzo says.

“You want me to look into it?” Xav asks.

I’m sure he won’t have any trouble going in there and scaring the hell out of Casimir, knocking his head around until he spills any and all of his secrets. But I’m wondering if the direct approach is the right one. If he is up to something illegal in our city, he’s not likely to be doing it all on his own.

“I’ll handle it,” I volunteer before Lorenzo can answer him.

My brother raises his eyebrows in surprise, and he’s not the only one.

“Itching to get out on the streets and get your hands dirty?” Alessio asks with a smirk.

“Not everything needs to be messy,” I point out. “Some things require a scalpel rather than a hatchet.”

“And you’re a scalpel?” Xaviaro asks skeptically.

“You want to go and rattle Casimir’s cage that badly?” I counter instead of answering his question.

Xav shrugs. “Not particularly. If you want him, you can have him.”

“Generous of you,” I mutter.

“Keep me updated on it,” Lorenzo says. “And take some goons with you for muscle if you need to. Don’t be a hero.”

I’m more than capable of handling this myself, but I nod anyway to placate him. I don’t need to drag any of my soldiers around town to sniff out whatever’s rotten at The Starlight. But maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea to have a little backup.

The memory of Orion holding my gaze with an intense look in his eyes before he set the roll of bills down on my coffee table flickers through my mind, and a slow grin spreads over my lips. If he’s so eager to repay the debt I took care of, maybe I can convince him to do it this way instead.

ORION

My muscles burn with exertion, the feeling so deeply satisfying that I push myself even harder, leaning into the ache of it, drawing strength from the pain the way I learned to do long before I ever threw my first punch.

“Come on, kid,” I rumble, dancing out of the way of his flying fist. “Spit out the blood and bare your teeth. Find your inner savage and go down swinging. Every fight is life or death.” I land a body blow, and Fitz—the ‘kid’ in question—grunts before taking my advice and coming back even more fiercely.

“That’s it,” I say, ducking another attempted blow just before it can connect. He’s ready for my dodge this time though, coming back with a second swing in the other direction that catches me off guard and manages to knock me back.

I grin proudly, then take him out at the knees, knocking him onto his back and towering over him. His chest is heaving and his eyes are wild with the same adrenaline I’m sure is shining in mine.

“You’re getting there.” I shake off my glove and offer my hand to help him up.

“You knocked me on my ass,” Fitz points out, letting me haul him to his feet.

“But you managed to clock me for the first time. That’s a huge improvement.” I grab the towel I left draped in my corner of the boxing ring and uncap my water bottle to guzzle half of it down. Fitz does the same on the other side of the mat, blotting the sweat off his face and rehydrating.

The rhythmic sound of another fighter going a round with the speed bag in the corner is oddly soothing, creating a familiar soundtrack alongside the grunts and chatter coming from others who are sparring, the metallic clangs from the weight training corner, and the low rock music that seems to hold all the other sounds together in a neat little bow.

I’ve been training Fitz for the past two years, watching him go from a scrawny teenager who couldn’t knock over an old lady if he tried, to a half-decent fighter who’s nearly ready to climb in the ring against a real opponent. My stomach twists with the chronic guilt that’s lived there since the day Fitz walked in here. It’s a sick feeling that’s constantly warring with the pride that surfaces every time I see an improvement in him. Am I just raising this poor kid like a lamb to the slaughter? Am I feeding him into the same inescapable system of violence that pulled me in too young? One way or another, violence seems to be the only way to survive in Wildcliff. Does that justify the cycle?

“Do some weight training before you call it a night,” I call over to him when he starts to climb out of the ring.

“You got it, coach,” he says, and annoyingly, it reminds me of the breathless way Elio said “ Yes, Boss, ” the other night.

The muscles in the back of my neck twitch and heat unfurls in the pit of my stomach. I have half a mind to go over to his place and spank him again for daring to take up so much of my thoughts this week. Memories of his keening moans and the way his ass jiggled and bounced with every slap have been living rent free in my head. I growl under my breath, ignoring the way my cock tries to swell behind my cup.

“Hey, O’Malley.” I saunter over to the edge of the ring and lean over the ropes to call out to the guy who’s still pounding away at the speed bag. He doesn’t stop, but he does turn his head towards me. “Want to spar?”

If I don’t wear myself out, I actually might end up at Elio’s apartment again after I leave here, and there isn’t any good that can come from that. A flicker of fear crosses O’Malley’s face and he loses his rhythm, missing the bag, then stopping all together.

“Uh, not tonight. I’m, uh…” He trails off without offering an actual excuse, instead just grabbing his towel and water bottle, then making a beeline for the changing room. He throws one more nervous glance over his shoulder at me before he disappears through the door.

“That was fucking weird,” I murmur to myself. Maybe I’ve been bringing too much fight to the training spars here. I definitely don’t go easy on anyone, even during practice, but no one has ever complained before.

I sweep my gaze across the gym, looking for anyone else I might be able to coax into a friendly bout or two, but everyone is either already engaged or avoiding eye contact like they’re as afraid of getting their ass kicked by me as O’Malley was. I huff out a breath and jerk my head towards the entrance when the chime sounds to announce a new arrival. Maybe it’ll be someone who isn’t afraid of a few bruises.

My eyes land on the newcomer, my veins instantly searing with heat. He’s definitely not going to shy away from bruises, but he’s also not likely to climb into the ring with me.

Elio’s dark eyes meet mine, and he grins slowly, his eyes smoldering as he looks me over like a piece of meat. A few guys glance in his direction before quickly focusing back on their workouts, trying to pretend the underboss of the Moretti family didn’t just walk into our gym like he belongs here.

I duck under the ropes, my heart hammering, awareness crackling in the air around me as I cross the gym towards him. The fluorescent lights suddenly feel harsher than usual, the stale smell of sweat and blood choking me with every breath, my footsteps loud in my ears, bringing me closer and closer to Elio with every step.

“Hey, Boss,” he greets me in a low voice, that word seeping into my chest and wrapping itself around my insides all over again. The memory of it was bad enough, but hearing it on his lips makes me want to press him up against the nearest wall and either choke him or kiss him. The fact that I can’t tell which pisses me off more than anything.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hiss, darting a pointed look towards all the other fighters still pretending not to notice Elio. “Are you looking to start a rumor that I’m taking money to throw fights?”

He barks out a laugh, slipping his hands casually into his pockets. “You’d have to actually lose a fight for anyone to believe gossip like that.”

I unclench my jaw and grunt. Fine, he makes a good point.

“What do you want?” I ask again.

“I want to take you somewhere. There’s something I want to show you.” He’s still smiling, like he’s just some guy asking me on a date, and not one of the most feared men in the city, coming back again and again no matter how many times I try to convince him to fuck off. If I didn’t hate him so much, I might find his stubborn persistence endearing.

“Why?” Maybe it’s a stupid question after our last two encounters, but I just can’t seem to figure him out. Is it really as simple as lust?

“Because I asked,” he answers, and then his eyes flicker with mischief. “And because you still owe me for the debt I paid off.”

My muscles tense and I grind my teeth together again. I take a step forward, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove the debt I never asked him to pay. Amusement dances in his expression, and I notice a slight blush creeping into his cheeks. He’s winding me up. He’s trying to get under my skin on purpose. Why? So, I’ll get rough with him again?

My cock twitches. I drag my tongue over my bottom lip, tasting the salty flavor of my sweat and weighing the words ‘fuck off’ without actually spitting them out. I don’t need a list of reasons to steer clear of Elio and his whole family, but I have one. There’s no doubt that giving in to this game he’s trying to play with me is going to end badly for me. Even so, I’m human and the curiosity is there. Where does Elio want to take me? What could he possibly have to show me? And why do I care?

“Fine,” I bite the word out harshly. “Let me shower first, and I’ll meet you outside.”