Chapter 1

XAVIARO

Some nights nothing feels real. The burn I'm expecting on my tongue when I toss back my whiskey is deadened. The noisy chatter in the bar sounds muted, like I have cotton in my ears. Everything is numb. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, my brain just turning the volume down on everything to keep it from getting to be too much. Or maybe it's just the opposite. I've fried my senses and now I can't feel a damn thing.

I drag my fingertips along the smooth glass, watching the ice melt on the bottom. It's about as fascinating as watching paint dry, but I can't be fucked to look away. There's nothing more interesting to see in this damn bar anyway. I've been coming to Death Company a few times a week for at least ten years. If barstools could develop ass grooves, this one would be perfectly shaped to my glorious, rock-hard posterior. I don't need to look up from my drink to know where every spot of peeling wallpaper is or that there are cobwebs on the lights that hang over the tables in desperate need of a deep clean. Even with my eyes fixed on my slowly puddling ice cubes, I know that Sid, the bartender, is doing that thing where he nervously taps his fingers against his thigh while he sends deadly glares at the customers most likely to get out of line.

Not that he needs to worry about anyone causing trouble as long as I'm sitting here, nursing my one drink. He doesn't bother to offer me a refill because he knows I won't take it. One drink is just enough to settle my brain for the night, so I'll be able to sleep. Two drinks and I'll be tipsy. Even tipsy is too out of control as far as I'm concerned. Not that giving up control is always a bad thing. It's all about context, and let's just say that I don't trust whiskey to respect my safeword.

I drag my tongue along my bottom lip, vaguely aware of the salty flavor of sweat mixed with remnants of whiskey without truly tasting it. In the dim light, my gaze snags on the red-brown color of dried blood crusted in the bed of my thumbnail. I curl my index finger over to pick it loose. There's no tenderness or wound underneath, so it must not be mine. Murder is messy business. A stray drop of blood here or there is just part of the job. It's better than the time I found little bits of brain crusted onto my favorite Italian loafers. It took me ages to break those damn shoes in and they had to go straight in the trash. I wanted to fish that fucker out of the river and kill him all over again for costing me my favorite shoes.

The ice cubes clink against the inside of my glass as I lift it to my lips and take a small sip of the diluted remnants at the bottom. It's an absent gesture, meant to fill the space of a few seconds more than anything else. Soon, I'll have to accept that my drink is empty and it's time to go home to my empty apartment. I've always loved solitude, so why in the past year the reality of my vacant bed has started to keep me awake at night is anyone's guess.

A parade of nameless, faceless men to warm my sheets worked fine for a little while, but now I'm here again, numb and unsatisfied because to truly scratch the itch under my skin I need someone special. I need someone I can trust outside of The Family, and I'm really starting to believe a man like that doesn't exist. è la vita.

I set my glass back down and nudge it away, using my other hand to loosen the button on my suit jacket. It flutters open as I reach for my wallet, tucked into the inside breast pocket. I hadn't bothered to notice the man sitting on the stool next to me until he shifts away. I catch the movement of his whole body tensing out of the corner of my eye. Maybe he spotted the handle of my favorite custom snub-nosed Smith Wesson revolver holstered under my jacket. Or maybe he caught sight of my face through the mirror behind the bar for the first time and realized who he's been drinking next to for the past hour.

Criminals and lowlifes in Wildcliff have a few flattering nicknames that they whisper behind my back. The Grim Reaper, Sudden Death… Although most just mutter, "Oh shit,"under their breath when they see me coming. I don't mind any of it, although if we're being accurate, I'm nothing more than the trigger man for the most powerful man in the city. Lorenzo Moretti, The Devil in Armani himself. Enzo to his friends, of whom there are few.

I might bother to reassure the man next to me that if he needed to be worried about me, he would know it already. But the momentary amusement of watching him try not to shit himself at the sight of me chases away the nothing, and even if it's brief, I want to cling to it. So, I spur him on with a menacing glare while I fish my wallet from my pocket and toss some bills onto the bar.

I'm tucking my wallet away again when the door to the bar swings open. I'm not sure what it is about the movement that catches my eye through the grime covered mirror behind the bar, but it's the man who steps through it that keeps my ass unexpectedly glued to my seat.

He's never been in Death Company before, I'm sure of that much. And I would bet my new pair of Italian loafers that he's not from Wildcliff either. If he were, I would have seen him and I would have remembered him.

He pauses just inside the doorway, giving me the perfect chance to size up his hazy reflection. I'd put him at five-foot-nothing and a hundred pounds if he's wearing ten pounds of clothes. His dirty blond hair hangs messily over his forehead, partially obscuring his features, but not enough to hide his full, pouty lips or the dangerously slow way he scans the bar like a predator on the hunt. He's dressed in a black tank top and ripped jeans, with black line tattoos down the length of one arm. He turns his head sharply and I swivel in my seat to get a better look at him over my shoulder.

He blows right past me without so much as a glance. I catch a quick glimpse of one more tattoo, a little sparrow behind his right ear, and my eyes linger on it. He carries himself like someone who's used to getting anything he wants, his shoulders squared, a swagger to his stride that turns a few heads as he crosses the bar, his attention fixed on two men playing pool in the corner. The Grayson brothers. A couple of petty criminals and minor nuisances who've never done enough to warrant more than a stern warning or two from me.

Sid stops mid-pour, watching the newcomer just like the rest of us. Is he here looking for trouble? If so, there's plenty to be found in a bar like this one—hell, in a city like this one. I drag my thumb mindlessly along my bottom lip, curiosity replacing the numbness even more effectively than the fun of terrifying the stranger with my little bitty snub nose did earlier.

The younger of the two Grayson's—Travis, I think—notices the little Sparrow first. He straightens up from his position bent over the pool table and elbows his brother. A smile twists his lips like the knots in a gnarled tree, exposing a mouthful of cracked and yellowed teeth. Travis tilts his head and says something I can't hear over the music and voices filling the bar, but by the way his brother, Taylor, starts to laugh, I'm guessing it was something crude.

That can't be why the pocket-sized stranger is here, can it? I can't picture a pretty thing like him tangled up in Travis's unwashed sheets. Not willingly, anyway. My fingers curl reflexively at the thought, my jaw ticking so hard I can hear my teeth click when they meet.

"I don't need this shit tonight," Sid murmurs, finally sliding the drink he was pouring down the counter to its owner and flinging a hand towel over his shoulder like this is Tombstone and there's about to be a shootout in his saloon.

Amusement twitches briefly on my lips. "Don't worry about it."

Knowing I have my eye on the situation seems to relax him. He only drums his fingers on the sticky counter once before returning to pouring drinks.

Whatever they're discussing, it has the people around them keeping their distance and darting nervous glances at the odd trio. Are the Graysons threatening the pretty sparrow, or is it the other way around? And how do they know each other? I can't put my finger on what it is, but there's something about him that doesn't fit with the unwashed, penny ante breed of criminal that the Graysons are. They're a pair of junkyard dogs that the real lowlifes in the city won't even toss scraps to. Maybe that's all the sparrow is too, but I don't think so.

I may not be able to hear from where I'm sitting, but I can read the three words that Travis forms, slowly enunciating them one by one. Suck. My. Dick. I'm not sure if I'm expecting the little bird to give him the finger and fire back or get fed up with trying to talk to him and simply walk away. But the small man snatching the pool cue out of Taylor's hand and breaking it over his knee in one swift motion definitely wasn't on my bingo card.

Someone gasps and silence falls over the bar like a heavy blanket. I doubt anyone in here gives a shit whether the Graysons bloody up his too-pretty face or if the brothers end up with half a pool cue through each of their chests, they just want to see a fight. But me? I'm dying to see whether he's got the follow-through to back up his bravado. I know I told Sid not to worry about it, but I'll stop shit before it gets too out of hand.

Sparrow tosses one of the broken halves over his shoulder, letting it clatter loudly to the floor at the feet of the crowd that's gathering around them. He swirls the remaining jagged piece in the air, whistling a jaunty, cheerful melody as he slowly approaches the brothers. My dick swells and I shift in my seat, craning my neck to watch things unfold without bothering to hide it anymore.

"Tell me where the fuck I can find them, or I'm going to shove this so far up your ass you'll be spitting splinters for the rest of your life…" He saunters closer, slinking like a tiger stalking its prey. "Which won't be long."

Travis's smile doesn't falter, but I notice the way his eyes dart to his brother, looking for backup. Predictably, his dumb but massive older brother steps in front of him, cracking his knuckles threateningly.

"You're in over your head, kid. Walk away before I make sure you can't walk away," Taylor rumbles, and Sparrow turns away from them.

Is he giving up that easily? I hate to use the word ‘disappointed'over an aborted bar fight, but a quick surrender isn't what I was expecting. Just once, I'd love to meet a man who knows how to back up all his bark with the right amount of bite. Maybe that's just the hopeless romantic in me.

I slide off my stool finally and a ripple of bored murmurs run through the crowd as it starts to disperse. The second half of the broken stick clatters to the floor, but before it even stops reverberating, it's cut off by the sharp sound of a glass shattering. It all happens so fast that I'm not sure anyone in the bar expects it, least of all Travis. One moment Sparrow seems to be retreating, and the next, he's straddling the greasy criminal on the pool table, holding a broken bottle to his throat.

"Tell me, or so help me, I will cut your fucking tongue out with this broken shard of glass," the tiny bird growls the words so menacingly that a hot wave of electricity courses through my body.

Would it be inappropriate to propose to a man while he's in the middle of threatening someone's life? It would be a hell of a story to tell at our wedding, if nothing else.

While I'm positive that Travis and Taylor deserve whatever he has planned for them, I doubt Sid would be pleased with me if I let his pool table get stained with a pool of blood. My cock jerks again at the thought. Fuck, now is not the time.

I adjust my growing erection casually, the crowd parting around me without question. Taylor's eyes go wide when he sees me, his face draining of color before he ducks for cover. Loyal brother you've got there, Trav. I wrap my arms around the tiny would-be assassin to haul him off his victim. The intoxicating scent of leather and bergamot tickles my nose, tempting me to bury my face in the crook of his neck and inhale deeper. Except this isn't an intimate moment, as much as it might feel like one to my fucked-up brain. Maybe a marriage proposal is too much, but what's the etiquette on buying a man a drink after stopping him from cutting out someone's tongue with a broken bottle?

The feeling of his small body flailing in my grasp is distracting enough that I miss the cock of his arm until it's too late. The sharp edge of his elbow slams into my nose, sending a surprising wave of pain through me, waking up all of my senses at once. It's like sticking my finger in a light socket, my entire body humming to life at once. And fuck me, my dick gets even harder, twitching eagerly as I lose my grip on him, stumbling backward as hot, sticky blood pours from my nose.

SPARROW

I didn't plan to end up on top of that rotting pile of garbage vaguely shaped like a human being. And assault with a deadly liquor bottle in front of dozens of witnesses probably isn't the best idea I've come up with lately. But my patience is hanging on by a thread after three straight days of dead ends and being stonewalled at every turn.

I shouldn't be surprised that no one in this fucking city wants to get on the bad side of the Sleepless Reapers, but I'm used to getting my way. People have gone so far as to call me a spoiled brat on more than one occasion. Fine, we'll just call this little exchange a temper tantrum then. And there's plenty more where that came from.

I wasn't actually going to cut his tongue out… probably. He was seconds from giving me something useful. Either that or pissing his pants, it's hard to say for sure. Regardless, whoever had the balls to pick me the fuck up and get in the middle of shit that's none of his business deserves a hell of a lot more than a broken nose.

I spin on him with a snarl on my lips, the broken bottle still clutched tightly in my hand. The scabs on my knuckles from my failed attempt at intimidation from last night are broken open and bleeding again. My lungs burn with each ragged breath I drag in, the berserker rage slowly clearing as my eyes land on the Good Samaritan himself. Six feet of man wrapped in a designer suit that's black as midnight right down to the shirt and tie underneath. His shoulders are broad, hinting at muscle under the suit. A strand of dark hair hangs out of place over his forehead, looking oddly unsettling in contrast to the rest of his put-together appearance. There's an intense look in his hazel eyes and one hand cupped under his nose where it's dripping crimson.

It might be an inappropriate first thing to notice about the man whose nose I just broke, but rawrrrr.

The metallic glint of a gun tucked beneath his open jacket catches the light. Half the people in this city are packing, so it's not the gun itself that snaps me out of my violent rage. It's more like the sight of the gun slows my brain down just long enough for me to really take in the man standing in front of me. He's wearing a thousand-dollar suitin this bar, on the shady side of town—not that Wildcliff has a good side of town. And everyone seems to be giving him a very wide berth, eyeing him nervously and looking at me like I'm already in a casket.

"Fuck," I mutter, letting the bottle slip through my fingers and fall to the floor, shattering on impact.

I can hear Benny's voice in my ear, an urgent whisper full of concern, ever the worried little brother even now that he's six feet under. Run.

My dead brother makes an excellent point. I didn't come this far just to end up with a bullet between the eyes courtesy of this Mafia goon, even if he is a sexy Mafia goon. Dead is dead, no matter how hot your murderer is.

The man doesn't make a move for his gun. It's like he's frozen in place just staring at me. Maybe this is an intimidation tactic, or maybe he's stunned that anyone dared to fuck with him. Either way, I'm not going to wait around for him to snap out of it. I dart past him, ducking and weaving through the crowd still gathered around, all of them baying for my blood now. Well, they're all going home disappointed, because I don't bleed for anyone.

My heart is in my throat as I crash through the door and back out onto the unlit street. I'm half expecting to catch a bullet to the back of the head at any second. Is he following me? I won't know unless I stop long enough to check, and no way in hell am I doing that. My pounding footfalls thunder in my ears, along with my heavy breaths and galloping pulse. Cars whizz by, but they're like phantoms, soundless over my own ominous drumbeat.

I dart through an alley a block from my apartment, finally slowing down long enough to glance over my shoulder. I don't see anyone coming after me, but I can't convince myself that I'm safe.

I can't die. Not yet. Not before I do what I came to Wildcliff to do.

Once my hands are drenched in the blood of the men responsible for Benny's death, I'll walk straight up to Mafia Hottie and invite him to put the cold barrel of his gun between my lips. But not yet.

There's a beautiful kind of calm that comes along with losing the only person you ever cared about. I'm not afraid of anything anymore—not death, and certainly not consequences. The only thing I'm worried about is getting an eye for an eye. It's not my fucking problem if the whole world is blind when I'm finished.

I stumble over the legs of a sleeping derelict, waking him just enough to grumble at me in irritation. I mutter an apology, glancing over my shoulder every few steps as I slip out of the alley and walk quickly home.

Home. I snort a derisive laugh at even the passing attempt to connect that word to the building I finally stop in front of. This isn't home. I don't have a home, and I'm not sure I ever will again.

Even that thought leaves me feeling oddly numb.

Where will I go when I'm finished here? Fuck if I know. I can't think about later. All I have is now. And for now, this is home sweet home.