Chapter 11

XAVIARO

I scowl at the flecks of blood on my shoes as I ride the painfully slow elevator up to my apartment. It had better wash out or I'm going to be adding the cost of a new pair onto the ransom note I send to Spanner's parents. Or maybe I should see if I can get Enzo to add a clothing budget to my compensation. Fuck knows I'm a decade past due for a raise.

I snort at the thought of Enzo's flat look of irritation if I were to suggest he give me some kind of corporate credit card to keep me in clean shoes. The elevator doors slide open smoothly, depositing me on the top floor of the building, the entrance to my apartment the only one in the small hallway.

I slip my shoes off as soon as I step inside, carrying them into the kitchen so I can try to clean them. I set them on the edge of the counter then reach into my pocket to pull out the baggie containing three fingers, including Paul's ring finger with a distinctive diamond tattoo just below the knuckle. There's little chance his parents will question whether the fingers are really his once they see the tattoo. And if they do, they're welcome to get them DNA tested before writing the Morettis a big, fat check.

I pull open my freezer and toss the baggie inside, right next to the freezer-burned tub of vanilla ice cream and a few bags of peas that have been in there since I bought the apartment five years ago.

I slide my phone out of my pocket as I turn back to my shoes, using one hand to turn on the faucet, the rest of my attention on the screen and the notification that I must have missed at some point during the body disposal or my drive home.

LITTLE SPARROW: As much fun as it is sitting here with my dick in my hand, waiting for you to call me back, I've gotta run out for a bit. I'll call you when I'm on my way home and I expect you to bring that sweet ass over so I can see how good it looks covered in my bite marks.

A hot shiver runs down my spine, followed by an icy feeling I'm not used to wrapping itself around my guts as I read his message a second time. Gotta run out. Where? My jaw ticks, the sound of the running faucet is nothing more than white noise, my shoes completely forgotten as I immediately think through which of the Reapers he's after would be most easily accessible at this point. That has to be where ‘out'is. Unless he's just letting me know that he's popping down to the nearest bar to get a couple of drinks, which I highly doubt.

"Fuck," I mutter. But before I can get any further than irritation and concern over the fact that Sparrow's off for another revenge killing without me, there's a knock at my front door.

My first wild thought as I turn off the sink and stride out of the kitchen is that Sparrow somehow figured out where I live and took it upon himself to come over. But the way the knocking continues beyond a polite number of raps lets me know who it is before I even reach the door.

"Fuck," I groan again. This is the last thing I need to deal with right now.

I throw the deadbolt and open the door, unsurprised to find Elio leaning against the doorframe wearing a sloppy smile, his tie undone and his shirt misbuttoned.

"Xavi," he says my name in a tone of excited surprise, as if he expected someone else to answer my door. Or maybe he's so blitzed he forgot whose apartment he stumbled to from whichever bar over-served him tonight.

I sigh and step aside, tilting my head in a silent invitation to come in. I'd ask how he got past the doorman, but no matter how much extra I offer to pay the man, he refuses to turn away any of the Morettis when they show up, no matter how drunk or stupid they might be.

He doesn't bother to take off his shoes, but he does shrug out of his jacket, his favorite pistol strapped to his chest in a leather holster that matches mine.

"Got anything to drink?" he asks in a slurred voice as he shuffles towards my living room.

I snort and head back into the kitchen to get a water bottle out of my refrigerator. He's made himself comfortable on my sprawling black couch by the time I join him in the living room. His shoes are in a heap on the floor next to the coffee table, and he's stretched out like a Victorian woman having an episode, with one hand over his face.

"Here." I uncap the bottle and nudge his hand with it. He startles at the cold, sitting up and reaching for the water.

While he gulps down a few mouthfuls, I park my ass in the armchair next to the couch. Elio wipes his sleeve over his damp mouth when he's finished and sets the water bottle down on the coffee table.

"'Nzo tell you 'bout the Fitzpatricks?" he asks, still stumbling clumsily over his words like his tongue is too heavy to form them all properly. But my ears prick up immediately at the mention of the Irish mob that's been trying to edge their way into our territory for over a year now.

"What about them?" I growl, not sure if I'm more pissed that there might be fresh trouble with them or that Enzo hasn't told me about it himself. It's my fucking job to be on top of this shit and I'm hearing about it secondhand from his drunk little brother.

He shrugs and flops back down. "Bunch of red-headed pricks sniffing around."

My frown deepens. "Did something happen or are you just so wasted that you think the existence of the Irish cunts is news?"

"I'm not drunk," he argues with an indignation that only drunk people can truly muster. He sighs and a miserable look comes over his face. "Do you think he hates me?"

"Who? Declan Fitzpatrick?" I'm trying to follow his train of thought, but I think I'm about ten drinks too sober for it.

"No," he scoffs.

"Your brother?" I guess again.

Elio makes a frustrated sound in his throat. "He's just so fucking pretty."

"Okay, so not your brother. At least I hope to fuck you're not talking about Enzo," I mutter, and he laughs and then hiccups.

It looks like that's as much as I'm getting from him. His eyes droop closed and he sags into the couch with a soft breath. I stand up and lean over him, pressing two fingers to the pulse point in his neck just to settle my own worry, then turning him onto his side. I grab him a second bottle of water, setting it on the table next to the first, along with a couple of aspirin and a wastebasket in case he needs to hurl.

Once he's settled, my concern for Sparrow rises to the surface again. I pull my phone out of my pocket for a second time. There aren't any missed texts or calls from Sparrow or anyone else. I open the app connected to the tracker I left in the lining of his jacket pocket last week, and my heart forces its way into my throat. He's smack-dab in Reaper territory, at some apartment building on their side of town. I'd put even money on it being the apartment of one of the men he's after.

The cool, logical side of my brain reminds me that he's proven he can handle himself just fine, but all the logic in the world refuses to calm my unsteady pulse. I told him before that being too emotional is dangerous, and I got a firsthand reminder of that today. If Sparrow is in some Reaper's apartment, I need to be there, even if it turns out that all I'm good for is hauling a dead body down the stairs for him.

With one last glance at the sleeping Moretti on my couch, my resolve solidifies. Elio will be sleeping off his bender until midday tomorrow, Sparrow needs me now. I tap each of my pockets to make sure I have everything I need, including my gun, still strapped to my chest. Then I grab my bloody shoes and slip them back on, tying them hastily before striding out the door.

SPARROW

Death metal is blaring from an unseen speaker as I step inside Riff Raff's apartment. It's a nice place with big windows and a decent view, but it's obvious that upkeep isn't exactly high on his list of priorities. There are more than a few fist-shaped holes in the walls and trash strewn about on most of the surfaces.

I plaster a friendly smile onto my lips and force myself not to tense or recoil as he drags his eyes over me slowly and licks his lips like I'm a piece of fucking cake instead of a human being. He's a lot shorter and skinnier than Velcro was, his clothes hanging loosely on his frame. His arms are covered in crude, faded tattoos that look like they were done in prison, or at the very least by someone who's been to prison and learned their technique there.

"You're even sexier than your pictures," he says, taking a step towards me with his hand outstretched. His fingernails are long and just as yellow as his teeth, and this time I can't stop myself from flinching. I duck away from his touch, and cover the movement with a lilt of shy laughter.

"Sorry, I'm a little nervous." I'm not sure if I sell the lie with my breathy tone or if he just doesn't give a fuck. My eyes land on the pipe on the coffee table and a couple of lines of white powder, and a third option occurs to me—that he's high as balls and might not have even noticed my twitchiness.

"'S'okay. I got the cure for your jitters," he says with a lecherous smile. Alright, so it was the first one. Maybe I'll take up a career in acting when this is all over. "You party?" Riff Raff asks, leading me over to the couch.

"Oh, um… it depends," I answer with another overly sweet tendril of laughter. "What is it?"

"Crystal," he says, picking up the straw that's on the table, stuffing it up one nostril, and snorting one of the lines. "Whoo," he shouts. "This shit is un-fucking-believable. It'll send you to another goddamn galaxy."

He holds the straw out to me and I shake my head, scrambling up off the couch. "Maybe just a drink?" I ask, and he stares at me blankly for several seconds like he really is on another fucking planet, before getting to his feet and stumbling into his kitchen.

Once I'm alone, I take a deep breath to steady myself and start a small lap around his living room while I come up with a plan. I've already got him here, alone, and I doubt any of his neighbors will blink at any loud noises coming from his place. Or if they'll even hear anything over the racket of this music.

A couple of photos lying loosely on his dining table catch my attention. They're strewn among the empty liquor bottles and crumpled aluminum foil that litter the table. I notice that Velcro is in the first photo, so I nudge the trash away from the others to get a better look. My stomach twists and my blood starts to boil again as the faces of my last two targets gaze up at me with drunken smirks from some of the other pictures.

"Here." Riff Raff's voice behind me startles me.

"Sorry," I say again, taking the glass he offers me. It looks like soda, but one sniff lets me know that it's more rum than soda, and fuck knows what else he might have slipped in there. I fake a sip, keeping my lips tight so none of the liquid touches my tongue. When I lower the cup, I tilt my head towards the photos again. "Friends of yours?"

"Yeah. Best fucking dudes alive," he says, and I just barely resist the urge to gag or rage at his painfully skewed idea of what makes a quality person. "That's Velcro," he points to the man I happily bled out in the alley already. "And that's Big Bass and Shit Stain."

My mouth falls open. One of them is actually called Shit Stain. Seriously, what are the fucking odds? Don't get me wrong, it suits the man in question, but the nicknames these idiots came up with are crimes all their own.

I fake another sip of my drink to cover my amused shock, and Riff Raff leans in to put his hands on my shoulders. This time, I manage to hold myself still as he drags his nose along the side of my throat, his rank, hot breath making my skin crawl. My fingers flex around the glass in my hand and everything inside of me stills like a snake coiling, preparing to strike when the moment is right.

"What's your name?" Riff Raff murmurs, dragging his dry tongue along my earlobe, making bile rise in the back of my throat.

"Benny LeBlanc," I answer with a chill in my tone that even Xaviaro would be impressed with.

Riff Raff pulls back and I look over my shoulder. Satisfaction swells inside of me at the ashen look on his face, his eyes wide with surprise and confusion. I don't look all that much like my brother, but the family resemblance is strong enough to convince a man who's stoned out of his head that I'm the ghost of his sins, here to drag him to hell with me. He's not far off, honestly.

I drop the glass, unbothered by the way it shatters at my feet, the sticky drink inside splashing over my shoes and jeans. I reach under my shirt and unsheathe the dagger in a swift motion, but Riff Raff is more ready for the move than I expected.

I lunge, but he throws an arm in front of my blade, blocking the swipe and not even reacting to the way the blade slices through the skin of his forearm like butter. Crimson blood flows from the wound as he flies at me in return, catching me off guard with some fucking crackhead kung fu move that lands me on my back before I have the chance to even blink.

Fuck.

I tighten my grip on my knife and slash at him again, catching his cheek this time. But he doesn't even blink as blood streams down his cheek. He clambers on top of me and wraps his hands around my neck.

Double fuck.

My heart pounds and my insides turn cold and electric, sending shockwaves of wild adrenaline through my veins. Thoughts of revenge fade, replaced by the wild animal instinct to survive. No fucking way is this how I die, with this piece of shit's hands around my throat in a filthy apartment with goddamn "Angel of Death"by Slayer rattling the walls. That's just too on the nose and I refuse to stand for it.

I flail my legs riotously, catching him between the legs more than once, but fuck knows how much meth he has pumping through his veins that even a repeated knee to the balls doesn't make him flinch. His grip around my neck tightens and my vision starts to swim, a veil of darkness creeping in around the edges. My lungs burn as I plunge my dagger into his shoulder blade.

Riff Raff grunts but doesn't loosen his hold, and now my knife is stuck in his arm where I can't seem to reach it again. Shit, goddamn. It's only because I'm pretty sure I'll be dead in the next five minutes that I'm willing to admit, even to myself, that Xaviaro might have been right. I should have let him help.

Killed by my own useless pride… and a hundred-and-twenty-pound meth head. Ain't that a fucking bitch.

Even knowing there's not much left I can do, I don't stop fighting. I dig my nails into his skin as hard as I can, tearing away chunks as I thrash and kick. The music fades out, the rush of blood in my ears the only thing I can hear. My oxygen deprived brain offers me the lovely auditory hallucination of the wood of Riff Raff's door splintering and a deep, rabid growl that could only be Xaviaro.

All at once, Riff Raff goes still on top of me, his hands around my neck loosening. I don't even have time to register the splatter of his hot blood over my face before he slumps to the side, completely limp.

I drag in a gasping breath, kicking his dead weight off me and scrambling away. A pool of blood blossoms under his head as I gulp air into my lungs. Unable to tear my eyes away from the dead body of my would-be murderer, it's a distinct pair of Italian loafers that I notice first.

Xaviaro.

The panic slowly releases its grip on my brain and I yank my attention away from Riff Raff, dragging it slowly from the shoes to the familiar pair of sturdy legs wrapped in a midnight black suit, up to the broad, heaving chest, his jacket splayed open, and finally to his face. His expression is twisted with a thunderous rage that's miles away from the unaffected look he wore when he put a bullet between the eyes of that homophobe the other day.

Right now, he's nothing short of an avenging angel, and maybe it should terrify me, but it fills my chest with a warmth I never expected to feel again after my brother died. Xaviaro's pistol is clutched in his hand as he glares down at Riff Raff like he wishes he could bring the man back to life just to kill him again.

Seeming to sense my gaze on him, Xaviaro tucks his gun away and meets my eyes, his expression softening in an instant.

"Are you okay, Little Bird?" He steps over Riff Raff's awkwardly splayed legs and stoops to study my face.

I lick my lips and nod. "I would've had him if you'd given me another second," I bluster in a raspy voice, and Xaviaro barks out an unexpected laugh.

"I'm sure you would have," he agrees, wrapping his hands around my forearms and hauling me easily to my feet.

My legs are a little unsteady under me, my knees still quaking with the adrenaline coursing through my veins, and fine, maybe a tiny bit of fear. He puts a hand under my chin, tilting my face up towards his. Everything feels backward right now, too vulnerable and out of balance, but I'm too fucked up to do anything about it, so I just let him. He studies my face silently for a few seconds, then runs a thumb gently over the tender spot around my throat. Fresh rage dances in his eyes for a second before he slams his lips into mine.

In spite of the rough way he catches my mouth, the kiss is achingly tender, his mouth whispering against mine for just a moment before he releases me. I let out a trembling breath and he reaches into his pocket to pull out a white handkerchief that's just as pristine as everything else he owns. He uses it to dab the blood off of my face, leaving macabre crimson and brown stains smeared over the fabric like a slaughter in fresh snow. When he's done, he tucks it back into his pocket.

"Go wait in my car. I'll deal with this and then I'm going to take you home. I have a first aid kit, so I should be able to patch up most of the cuts on your hands." It takes me several seconds to realize that by ‘home,'he means his home. I'm too busy processing the fact that he's right, I do have a few nicks on my hands from slashing too wildly with my knife.

My knife.

"I need my dagger." I make a move to bend over to retrieve it, but Xaviaro stops me with his arms still around me.

"I'll get it. I'll handle everything."

I don't have it in me to argue right now, so I just nod, pressing up onto my toes to brush one more kiss over his stubbled cheek before walking out of the apartment without a backward glance.

Xaviaro's car is parked in front of the building, right next to the one I stole. I had planned to return it tonight, but no way is that happening now. Whoever owns it should count themselves lucky that it's gone, as far as I'm concerned.

I slide into the passenger side of the BMW, dragging in a lungful of the fresh leather scent. There's something particularly calming about how tidy his car is, just like everything else about Xaviaro. There's no stale scent of fast food lingering in the air, no napkins shoved into the glove box. This baby might as well have been driven straight off the lot tonight.

It's an inconsequential thing to think about, but it occupies my mind while I wait for my hitman to emerge from the building with a distinctly body-shaped rug rolled up and slung over his shoulder. The car bounces a little as he shoves Riff Raff into the trunk before getting in on the driver's side.

"At least this one was a hell of a lot smaller than the last," he says, and I chuckle.

"Sorry to tell you, but the last two are even bigger than Velcro was."

Xaviaro starts his car and glances over at me. "Does that mean we're skipping past the argument and you're going to accept my help with the last two?"

I hesitate, but only for a few seconds before nodding. "Yes, but I have conditions."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," he says, shooting me a wry smile before pulling out of the parking spot and merging into traffic.