Chapter 14

SPARROW

Waking up as the big spoon to a big, tough mobster who's purring softly in his sleep is a kind of fucking heaven I probably don't deserve. But it's one I'll claim all the same. I nuzzle my nose against the warm skin between Xaviaro's shoulder blades and tighten my arms around him. He makes another sweet, sleepy noise that's almost enough to make me forget that anything outside this room exists for a few minutes.

There's an ache in my throat each time I swallow, but outside of that, most of last night feels like a fever dream. I fucked up, that much is clear. And I can't afford another mistake that big. I just want to put those last two assholes six feet under… or however fucking deep that ravine is preferably, because digging a human sized hole sounds like a pain in the ass. Once they're no longer tainting the air with every fucking breath they take, I'll finally be able to breathe properly again. I'll finally be able to think about what comes next in a real way.

"Murder thoughts should never come before coffee," Xaviaro murmurs in a sleep-rough voice.

I chuckle and brush my lips against his shoulder. "Who said I was thinking murder thoughts?"

"Weren't you?"

"Only vague ones. No blood or guts." I shrug. Vague murder thoughts shouldn't count.

He rumbles a laugh and reaches for my hand, stopping the absent circles I'm drawing on his thigh. A flicker of pain makes me tense as he pulls my hand out from under the covers.

"I forgot to clean this out last night," he murmurs. "It stopped bleeding, so it must not need stitches."

I tug my hand back, flexing it into a fist to check the pain level. There's a bruise and a decently deep cut that seems to have scabbed over, but otherwise I'm no worse for wear.

"It's fine," I assure him. "I would do absolutely filthy things for a cup of coffee if you're really desperate for a way to take care of me this morning though."

"Oh yeah? How filthy?" he teases, rolling over to face me.

His hair is messy and his eyes are red and puffy from sleep. There are lines on his cheek from his pillow and his morning breath could stop a man in their tracks even faster than his deadly glare normally does. It's like I'm looking at the alternate universe version of Xaviaro, without the expensive suit and careful grooming, every aspect of his appearance curated to have a specific effect on the people who dare to look at him at all. My heart stumbles over its own beats and I bring my fingers up to ghost them along the already fading lines.

"What?" Xaviaro asks, his eyebrows creasing.

"You're beautiful," I answer, which only seems to intensify his confusion.

He frowns and opens his mouth, maybe to argue, or maybe to ask if I'm just trying to sweet talk him into that coffee. I'm not sure because I cut him off with a kiss before he can say anything. It's just a rough press of my mouth against his, chaste and demanding at the same time. He melts for me like he always does, parting his lips and giving me anything I want to claim, which happens to be all of him.

I graze my teeth over his bottom lip before releasing him. I comb my fingers through his hair to tame it, then climb over him to get out of bed, even though I could easily have gone the other direction. I can feel his eyes on my backside like a physical touch as I saunter towards the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to look at him over my shoulder. He's sitting up in bed now, the sheets pooled around his waist, his neck and chest covered in the bruises I left all over him last night.

"I take my coffee strong. Please and thank you." I flash him a cheeky grin before closing the door behind me.

My clothes are right where I left them last night—in a heap on the bathroom floor with my leather sheath and dagger lying right on top. There's a damp washcloth on the sink that I tossed there after removing Xaviaro's cuffs and cleaning us both up. I pick it up and drop it into the nearby hamper, then turn on the sink.

I don't allow my eyes to linger on the bruises around my throat, focusing on the tenderness Xaviaro left behind instead while I wash my face and help myself to his toothbrush. Then, I dress in my clothes from last night, finding comfort in the weight of my dagger as I strap it to my body. When I step back out of the bathroom, the bed is empty and neatly made, everything perfectly in order, exactly the way I would expect from Xaviaro.

The smell of coffee brewing and the sound of murmuring voices beckons me down the hallway, leading me straight into the kitchen. I stop in the doorway, taking another second to appreciate the sight of Xaviaro relaxed and dressed down. He's put on a pair of plaid pajama pants and a black t-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders in a way that should be criminal, his feet left bare. It's all so casual, so strangely intimate. Which might be why my first reaction to remembering that we're not alone is the inexplicable urge to gouge Elio Moretti's eyes out.

Nothing personal, I don't even know the man. But he's sitting at Xaviaro's table like he's been there a million times, looking at my murder marshmallow with a smirk twisting his full, pretty lips, and my hand twitches immediately towards the knife tucked under my shirt. He sweeps his attention in my direction and a toothy smile stretches over my lips. Fine, it's possibly closer to a snarl than a smile.

Elio gives me a once-over, his grin fading when he reaches the expression on my face.

"Huh," he says, and I tilt my head to one side, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Problem?" I ask.

"No. You're just not exactly what I was picturing," he answers, his tone completely casual like it's nothing more than an observation.

"Not what you were picturing?" I echo, walking over to the table and bracing my hands on the back of a chair across from where he's sitting. "You mean when you had your ear pressed to Xaviaro's bedroom door last night with your dick in your hand, listening to us fuck? I'm curious, do you make a habit of desperately humping his bedroom door when you stay over or were you just jealous?"

Elio's expression is stoic for a moment before he snorts and then chokes on barely suppressed laughter.

"Damn, Xavi, you picked a scary one, didn't you?" He folds his hands casually on the table, and now that I'm standing closer, I can see the effects of his drinking binge the night before. There are dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and a generally ragged look about his skin. Dude is hungover with a capital H.

Xaviaro's only response is a chuckle, his back still towards us as he stands over the stove with a spatula in one hand.

"I'll take that as a compliment," I say, spinning the chair around and straddling it, folding my arms over the backrest and resting my chin on top of them. "But seriously, stay the fuck away from his bedroom or I will fucking cut you. Capiche?" My bad Italian accent makes them both snicker.

"Relax, Cujo. He might as well be my brother. Besides, he's the one with cuff-burn on his wrists this morning, which makes him even less my type than he already was." He waves off my concern and then glances back at Xaviaro, wrinkling his nose at the smell of eggs and bacon now wafting from the stove.

"Good boy," I say with a mixture of sweetness and teasing, getting up from my seat and crossing the kitchen towards the refrigerator.

Xav glances at me as I help myself, rifling around inside until I find what I'm looking for. Luckily, his spice cabinet is well stocked as well, offering everything I need to whip up a drink for Elio. I carry the glass back over to the table and set it down in front of him.

"What's this?" He picks it up and sniffs it with another grimace.

"Tomato juice for the B-vitamins, salt and a dash of sugar for the electrolytes, and a sprinkle of curry spice for the turmeric. It tastes like ass but I guarantee you'll be feeling good as new in half an hour." I nudge the glass towards him. "Drink up."

My bossy voice works just as well on Elio as it always does on Xaviaro. He picks up the glass, shooting me one more wary look, then gulps the contents down as quickly as he can. His color is already looking better and his eyes are more alert and fresh by the time Xaviaro sets a plate in front of me a few minutes later.

He stands over Elio, holding another plate in his hand and looking down at the disheveled mobster.

"Do we need to talk about what inspired you to spend a night pickling your liver?" Xaviaro asks.

"Nope," Elio answers simply.

"Good," is all Xaviaro says, setting the plate down in front of his friend and returning to the counter to get his own before joining us at the table.

I shake my head at their deep heart to heart. Not that the conversation would've gone much differently if I'd been involved. Repress your trauma or use it to fuel a deadly vendetta, that's what I always say. Let's be real, deadly vendettas are so much more fun than therapy.

"So, who the fuck are you anyway?" Elio asks, digging into his eggs like a starving man. I'm more focused on the coffee Xaviaro set down in front of me, picking it up and gulping it down like it's mana from the heavens, completely ignoring the burn in my throat and on my tongue.

"Sparrow. Who the fuck are you?" I arch an eyebrow challengingly, even though I already know the answer.

"Elio Moretti. Second in line for the throne if my big brother ever kicks it, and in this line of business, let's be real, it's a possibility." He shrugs one shoulder casually and bites into a crispy strip of bacon.

"Enzo isn't going to kick it. He's too fucking stubborn to bother dying," Xaviaro argues.

"Thank fuck for that," Elio mutters. "Christ knows I couldn't run a criminal empire with the finesse he does. I'm much better at playing nice with the people he pisses off and nodding along with all of his ideas."

I listen silently, filing away the tidbits of information that might come in handy at some point.

"Speaking of," Xaviaro says, tilting his wrist like he's checking a non-existent watch, then flicking his eyes to the clock on the stove instead. "We're going to need to haul ass pretty soon or we'll be late for the morning meeting."

The image of a bunch of mafiosos sitting around a conference table in a brightly lit corporate meeting room, sharing a box of stale donuts between them puts a smile on my face.

"Oh, yeah, Enz said to bring your man," Elio says off-handedly, but the news freezes Xaviaro on the spot.

His relaxed expression hardens to the same blank, stony one that I've seen him wear when he's on the job, his shoulders stiffening and his entire body going still.

"When did he say that?"

Elio shrugs again, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his cell phone. He taps the screen for a moment before answering. "He texted at four this morning," he says, turning the screen towards Xaviaro, who frowns as he reads the displayed message.

"Let me see," I demand, leaning across the table and snatching the phone out of Elio's hand without waiting for a response.

LORENZO: I have something to discuss that pertains to X's friend. Bring him this morning.

"Wow. A personal invite to gossip over coffee with the most powerful man in the city. Aren't I the belle of the ball." I flutter my eyelashes and toss the phone back to Elio. He fumbles but catches it before it can land face down on the table.

"What does he want to discuss?" Xaviaro asks, his voice just as cool and controlled as the rest of his body language.

"How the fuck should I know?" Elio asks, scraping the last of his eggs onto his fork and shoveling them into his mouth.

My plate is only half finished, but I stand up from the table and carry it over to the sink to scrape the remainder down the garbage disposal.

"Come on, Killer. It doesn't sound like we have time to waste." I keep the command gentle, tipping my head towards the hallway.

Xaviaro rises from the table, dumps his plate as well, and follows me. His easy shift from submissive boyfriend to Mafia hitman with ice in his veins is boner inducing to say the least. But I would be lying if I said that my hackles aren't up just a little, wondering what the hell someone like Lorenzo Moretti would want to talk to me about. Whatever it is, I'll handle it like I handle everything else—with an unearned sense of confidence and the bone-deep belief that I've already faced the worst moment in my life, which makes me indestructible.

XAVIARO

I ignore the feeling tightening in my chest as I follow Sparrow back to my bedroom. I pull the numbness around me like a blanket, fending off the panic that wants to creep in. It won't help anything. If Lorenzo wanted Sparrow dead, he wouldn't need to invite him for a meeting to do it.

The bullet I almost took to the back of the head yesterday is all the reminder I needed that I have to work harder to keep a wall up between all the distracting things Sparrow makes me feel and the deadly job I have to do day in and day out. I won't last long otherwise, and my vengeful little bird will have a whole new killing spree to start on. It would be a bad time all around.

As soon as my bedroom door swings closed behind me, Sparrow stops in his tracks and spins to face me with controlled determination etched into his expression.

"You're worried about me," he says, taking a step forward and grabbing a fistful of the hem of my shirt, tugging it up without giving me a chance to answer. "But worrying about me is a distraction. You told me before that emotions get you killed, and I believe that's true. For you."

"For you too," I argue, letting the weight of last night hang in the air without putting words to it.

He doesn't acknowledge my comment, he just takes my shirt with him, stuffing it into the hamper next to my dresser and then bending over to open the bottom drawer. It only takes him a few seconds to find what he's looking for—a bundle of red nylon ropes, knotted exactly the way they came out of the package a year ago.

All the careful indifference in the world can't keep my heart from speeding up as he approaches me with the rope, unraveling it with a single expert tug at one end. It feels like there's a metaphor there. Am I the rope?

He stops in front of me, holding my gaze silently for several beats, a steady confidence in his eyes.

"Arms up," he says, and I do as he says, my attention still on him with curiosity as he loops the rope around the middle of my chest, just below my nipples. The material is soft against my skin and the deftness of his fingers as he wraps it around, creating loops and knots to secure it into place is distracting. Enough that I manage to forget for a few minutes that Lorenzo specially requested his presence for a meeting this morning.

"Your protective instincts are hot as fuck and I know this is your world, not mine," he says eventually, his voice just as controlled and even as his movements, twisting and tying the rope into a harness around me. "But I'm not your damsel in distress and I refuse to be the reason you get yourself killed. I got your gun off of you without you noticing, I've had blood on my hands, and even before I came fucking unglued, I've never had a problem bringing men to their knees."

The slide of the rope against my skin and the smooth venom in his tone have my cock swelling and, surprisingly, my focus crystalizing.

"So, is this some kind of exposure therapy? Tie me up and make me horny, then send me into this meeting to be the emotionless mobster I need to be?" I ask with a twitch of amusement.

"No." Sparrow finishes the last knot and then strides to my closet, throwing the door open and plucking out the first black button-up hanging there, still wrapped in plastic from the dry cleaners. He tears into the plastic then slides the shirt off of the hanger, carrying it over to me. I reach for it, sliding it on with a shrug of my shoulders.

"What then?" I ask as he starts on the buttons, working his way down, hiding the red rope harness behind the facade of my usual uniform.

"It's to remind you that I'm in charge and I'm telling you to keep your head clear when you're working. When this suit comes off at the end of the night, that's when you're allowed to worry about me again." The authority in his tone sends a hot shiver down my spine, and I nod.

"Yes, Sir."

A slow smile spreads over his lips and he presses himself up onto his tiptoes to catch my lips in a bruisingly rough kiss.

"Good boy," he murmurs. "Finish getting dressed, I need a second cup of coffee before shit jumps off."

He leaves me alone with the ghost of his touch still on my skin and his scent lingering in my bedroom. I don't know if he actually wanted more coffee or if he could tell that I need a few minutes to let his words fully sink in and get my head right once and for all. The rope harness under my suit is the perfect metaphor, actually. I can have all the dangerous vulnerability that Sparrow offers, but to the rest of the world, I'm the same deadly Mafia hitman I've always been.

I join him in the kitchen a few minutes later, fully dressed and no longer clawing for the safety of deadened emotions. That never served me anyway. I don't need to be numb, I just need to be controlled.

"Ready?" I ask, my gaze flickering between Sparrow and Elio, grinning like old friends over fresh cups of coffee.

"Let's do it," Elio says, pushing back from the table, letting the coffee in his mug slosh over the sides and splash onto the marble surface.

"Hey," Sparrow barks before Elio can get too far. "Respect Xaviaro's place. Come back here and clean this up."

I flatten my lips to fight off a grin at the way Elio's expression goes from incredulous to defiant to sheepish in seconds flat under Sparrow's stern gaze, his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't move a muscle until Elio's cup is cleared, washed, and put in the dish rack by the sink, and the spilled coffee is wiped off the table.

"Thank you," Sparrow says, picking up his own mug and carrying it to the sink to clean as well.

Amusement and affection war inside of me. My little bird wasn't bluffing, he really can bring any man to heel with a snap of his fingers. Let's just hope he can charm Lorenzo Moretti as thoroughly.