Chapter 17

XAVIARO

The bored indifference I usually wear as I make my way through the club is absent tonight. I sweep my gaze over each customer I pass, checking for any sign that they might be one of the Fitzpatricks, ready to start a fucking problem.

It would be stupid of Declan not to bring backup, but no one immediately pings my radar as I make my way past each table towards our usual quiet corner. The regular band of loveable jackasses won't be attending tonight's meeting. Just Lorenzo and Declan Fitzpatrick, head of the Irish mob, sitting down for a friendly chat about the Sleepless Reapers. It's a meeting I wasn't strictly invited to. In my defense, Lorenzo only glared when I told him I was coming, which is tacit agreement as far as I'm concerned.

The music thumps too loudly in my ears and everywhere I look is nothing but drunk idiots pawing at the strippers. For half a second I consider turning around and heading back home to Sparrow. He was curled up on the couch watching a movie when I told him I had to run out for an hour or so. I expected him to insist on coming along, but instead he made sure the knots in my harness were still tight enough, sucked a fresh bruise onto my chest, and told me to hurry home. It's laughable to think anything could keep me away any longer than necessary.

I spot Lorenzo through the crowd, standing up to greet Declan with a handshake. I pick up my pace, shooting a few well-placed glares to clear my path. I reach the table just as the two of them are taking their seats again.

Declan looks up when I pull out the chair at the end of the table, between the two of them. He's a tough-looking fucker, with a crooked nose worse than the one Sparrow gave me and a scar along the left side of his jaw, barely disguised by the red stubble on his cheeks. He eyes me with a furrow in his bushy eyebrows and a frown tugging at his lips.

"Didn't know your trigger man was coming tonight. I thought this was just a couple of buddies in the same line of work, shooting the shit." His tone is right on the borderline between amused and accusatory. He's holding his cards close to his vest as he no doubt reassesses the situation.

"Don't worry, I never shoot anyone at the club. The strippers startle easily," I say in a deadpan voice. "I have a vested interest in tonight's topic of conversation, that's all. You two can pretend I'm not even here." To prove my point, I cross my ankle over my knee and flag down the nearest server to order a drink. "My usual," I request, and he gives me a fleeting smile before hurrying off to get me a soda.

"And we're not friends, Declan," Lorenzo says flatly.

The Irishman lets out a booming, throaty laugh that makes Lorenzo's jaw tick as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"Not yet. But that's because you keep refusing all the invitations I send you," Declan says.

"Ah, yes, like the invitation you sent over last week." Enzo's tone is dark and deadly, piquing my interest. He never mentioned any invitations from the Fitzpatricks before.

"Exactly like that one. I didn't even get a thank you note for the gift I sent with it." Declan holds his gaze, his voice a low rumble that only seems to intensify the seething look in Lorenzo's eyes.

"Yes, how rude of me. I would return it to you, but it's already gone out with last week's trash."

"That's a shame. But I can always send another. I thought green might be more your color anyway." Declan doesn't waver from his friendly, dare I say flirtatious tone.

"We want to know about the Sleepless Reapers," I cut in. They can get back to whatever cat and mouse game they're playing once we have the information we need so Lorenzo can decide on our next move… so I can give Sparrow what he wants more than anything.

Declan tears his attention off Lorenzo and eyes me again like he can't believe I'm still sitting here.

"The Sleepless Reapers?" he repeats.

"The motorcycle club running meth and prostitutes on the north side of the city," Lorenzo clarifies, even though I'm positive Declan knows exactly who the fuck we're talking about.

"What about them? Sounds like your problem, not mine. It's your city, after all." He flashes a taunting grin.

"So, you're not in bed with them?" Lorenzo presses.

Fitzpatrick studies him silently for several seconds, his smirk unwavering. "I'm not in bed with anyone, Kitten. Not yet, anyway."

Even in the dim lights of the club, I can see a dark tinge creep into Lorenzo's cheeks. Is he blushing? I look back and forth between the two of them, trying to do math that refuses to math no matter how hard I try to force it.

"So, if we run them out of town and kill a few of them in the process, you're not going to cry foul on us?" I ask, wanting to be crystal fucking clear before I get up and go home to tell Sparrow we have the green light.

That gets Declan's attention. He swirls the drink in his glass and then takes a sip before answering. "We've been keeping an eye on them," he confesses. "Frankly, I was surprised by the shit you were letting them get away with in your territory. The quicker you run them out of the city, the better it'll be for everyone if you ask me."

"Good," Lorenzo bites off the word in a clipped tone. "And don't worry about what goes on in Wildcliff. This is my city and I have it in hand."

Declan hums thoughtfully. "You seem tense. Why don't I buy you a lap dance before I go." Lorenzo growls and Fitzpatrick gets to his feet with another booming laugh. "Good meeting you, Angel of Death." He tips his head in my direction. "And I'll see what I can do about a more suitable gift next time, Ennie." He winks, throws back his drink in a single gulp, then saunters off.

"Ennie?" I mutter once he's gone.

Lorenzo lets out another ominous growl of frustration. "What a fucking prick."

"Yeah, he's… something." I'm not quite sure to make of the Irish boss, but I don't give much of a fuck either. We got the answer we were looking for, and that's all that matters to me right now. "So, I can let Sparrow off the leash now, right?"

He snorts with amusement and picks up his own drink to take a sip. "I thought you were the one who wears the leash in the relationship."

The image of Sparrow leading me around by a leash and collar sends a spike of heat through me. I reach down to adjust the swell of my erection and clear my throat.

"The metaphorical leash," I amend.

"Yes, but Declan is right. We've put up with the Reapers long enough. I want them out of the city all together."

"In other words, hold fire." I sigh.

"Not much longer," he assures me. "Bring Sparrow around again tomorrow, we can discuss a plan of action."

A smile spreads over my lips and I cover it with a sip of the soda the server dropped off in the middle of all the posturing and sexual tension that I still haven't quite figured out.

"I'm sure he'll have some ideas on the subject," I say after I set my glass back down.

"I imagine that's putting it mildly," he says, and we both chuckle. "You've been different since you met him. I'm… happy for you."

I cock my head. "But?" I prompt, hearing the hesitation clear as day in his words.

He flattens his lips and for a second I think he's going to play dumb, but he surprises me by answering.

"But, the selfish part of me thought maybe you'd be alone forever with me. Alone together, I guess." He lets out a self-pitying kind of laugh and then downs the rest of his drink.

"Who says you have to be alone forever? Plenty of people in this city would crawl over a pile of bodies to get into Lorenzo Moretti's bed."

"That's the problem, isn't it?" he mutters.

"The bodies?"

"Yes. And the ‘Lorenzo Moretti'part of that statement. People want power and money, that's all." His mood is obviously soured as he glares at the nearest stripper, oiled skin glistening under the stage lights as he swings around the pole.

I'm not sure what to say. He's probably right. What the fuck do I know about it? So instead of saying anything, I enjoy the show for a few minutes with him without really seeing it. In my mind, it's my little Sparrow all oiled up and naked, grinding to the pulsing beat of an oversexed song.

Heat licks at my skin and the bruise on my chest throbs with the memory of his mouth on me before I left the apartment. Will he ride me again tonight? Tie me to the bed and fuck my throat until he's shaking and sweating with pleasure? Bind my hands and tease me with his tongue in my hole until I'm begging for release? A heated shiver runs down my spine.

"Go," Enzo says, flicking his hand dismissively.

"Go?"

"Go be with your Sparrow. I can watch pretty boys gyrate all on my own." His lips twitch with another restrained smile.

"Alright, boss. But call me if you need anything tonight. Got it?"

"Of course," he says, his attention still on the dancer. We both know he's not going to call unless the city burns down tonight.

On my way out, I pull out my phone and shoot a text to Alessio, letting him know that Enzo is in a mood and might want some company. If anyone can pull him out of his funk, it's Alessio.

I leave the deafening noise of the club behind, my footsteps crunching on the pavement of the parking lot. I stay alert, still not fully convinced that everything with Declan was above board. For all I know, the whole flirting thing was his way of trying to throw Enzo off balance. A distraction. Whether it worked on my boss, I have no fucking clue. What I do know is that ginger snake is on my radar.

My BMW comes into view and my shoulders tense at the shape of someone sitting on the hood. My hand is on my pistol between one step and the next, all my senses zeroing in on whoever has the balls to park their ass on my car. The bigger question in my mind is whether it's a coincidence or if it could be one of the Fitzpatricks.

I pick up my pace, my strides quick but even, my gun in my hand, cocked and ready but hanging by my side as I approach. It's not until I'm a few feet away that I stop in my tracks and let out a breathless laugh.

Sparrow swivels at the sound, a grin stretching over his lips as he turns his head to look at me over his shoulder.

I come around the front of the car, and his smirk widens. He leans back, bracing his hands on the freshly waxed hood, no doubt leaving handprints that I would straight up kill anyone else for. He spreads his legs, beckoning me closer without words, and I step between them.

"Stalking me, Little Sparrow?" I tease, cupping his jaw and dragging my thumb along the smooth edge of it.

"Maybe," he answers coyly. His attention snags on the gun still clutched in my other hand. "Were you going to shoot me?"

"This parking lot needs better lighting." I shrug, tucking the gun away and buttoning my jacket. "And you were supposed to be at home."

There isn't a single thing apologetic about the look in his eyes as he toys with the knot in my tie. "I was worried you might be up to something fun without me."

I chuckle. "It was fun-adjacent."

"Oh yeah? Top notch lap dance in there or what?"

"Much better than a lap dance." I lower my voice suggestively, leaning in closer until our noses touch and Sparrow's eyes dance with that beautiful spark of mischief and violence I can't get enough of.

"How much better?" He licks his lips and wraps the length of my tie around his hand. I know what he wants to hear, but it's only a partial victory tonight.

"The Fitzpatricks don't give a fuck what we do with the Reapers." I give him the good news first.

He moans and yanks my tie forcefully, slamming his lips into mine with a hunger that heats me instantly, consuming my insides and searing my veins. He drags his tongue over mine, the hot, wet feeling of it going straight to my cock.

Sparrow breaks the kiss, my tie still clutched in his fist, his chest heaving with panting breaths, lips swollen, and his eyes wild.

"Let's go. Can we do it now?" he asks breathlessly.

"You want to just storm into their clubhouse and start shooting?" I arch an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs.

"Fine, quick strategy session and then let's go fucking do it," he concedes.

"As hot as your bloodlust makes me, we have to wait just a littlewhile longer."

He groans in frustration. "You're killing me."

More amusement rumbles in my throat. "I know, my little bird. I'm sorry." I duck my face into the crook of his throat and press a kiss to his thundering pulse point. "Tomorrow morning, we're going to have another sit down with Enzo and the guys and make a plan. Can you wait that long?"

"It's like murder edging," he complains. "But yes, fine."

"I thought you liked edging." I grin, kissing my way back up towards his lips, feeling the hard shape of his arousal with his legs wrapped around me.

"I like edging you. I want instant gratification." He catches my bottom lip between his teeth and bites it sharply. The ripple of brief, stinging pain makes my balls clench and draws a moan from deep in the pit of my stomach. "I'm all keyed up now. Let's go do something."

I cast around for a moment, trying to think of something that will feed his craving for violence. Preferably just enough that he's desperate to get rough with me when we get home later.

"I've got just the thing. Get in." I take a step back and Sparrow arches an eyebrow at me, that dangerous look in his eyes that never fails to make my knees quiver with the urge to kneel for him. "Get in, please, Sir. You're going to love this."

SPARROW

The smell of sweat and blood is so heavy in the air it nearly chokes me. Thunderous cheering and applause somehow doesn't manage to drown out the wet, thudding sound of fists on flesh and the animalistic grunts of the men in the ring.

"For our first date you took me to a murder. Our second date is watching men beat the living hell out of each other," I muse as Xaviaro leads me down the aisle to our seats.

I shouldn't be surprised that even though we showed up halfway through the night, without any prior notice, we still got front row seats in a sold-out arena. The man out front was absolutely tripping over himself to make sure Xaviaro had whatever he wanted. Not gonna lie, it was pretty hot. My parents' privilege bored the hell out of me, but there's something different about the way people in this city rush to fall at Xaviaro's feet. It's not privilege because he just happens to have money, it's respect. It's fear.

It's intoxicating.

"It seemed appropriate," he says, shooting me a smirk over his shoulder. "The main fight should be next. You won't believe this guy. He's a fucking animal."

I bounce on my toes excitedly, following him down the row to our seats. Apparently, this is the hottest show in town tonight if you're a Moretti. Enzo is absent, but Alessio, Salvatore, and Elio are filling the seats next to ours, dressed in their usual suits—Sal's is royal purple tonight—fixated on the violence a few feet away.

"I thought you were going to keep Enzo company," Xaviaro says with a frown.

Alessio tears his attention off the ring where one man is now straddling the other on the ground, pounding his fist into his jaw.

"I called him and it sounded like he was with someone. He told me to piss off," he explains with a shrug.

"Ooh, does the boss have a lady friend?" I ask.

Alessio barks out a laugh, and the other two swivel their attention in my direction too.

"Must be something in the water around here, because all our compasses point north," Salvatore says.

"Is north gay?" Elio cocks his head.

"Sure," Alessio says, managing a completely serious expression. "North is gay, south is straight, east is bisexual, and west is Ace."

"That… makes a weird amount of sense, actually." I turn towards the fight as the bloodied victor is being cheered by the crowd. "So, is the fix in or what? Who'd you pay to throw the big fight? Or, wait, you've got dirt on one of them, right? It's a blackmail situation and if they don't play ball and go down in the third round, you're going to let it leak."

"You've been watching too many movies, kid," Salvatore says with a smirk.

"So, you don't have any money on the fight?" The next pair of fighters are being announced and led into the ring. If the crowd was ravenous before, it's increased tenfold now.

"Course we got money on the fight," Elio scoffs. "But the payout'll be peanuts 'cause everyone already knows who's gonna win." His eyes zero in on the man stepping into the far side of the ring.

Without even glancing at the other man, I'm sure this is who Xaviaro was referring to. He looks feral, like he was raised in the woods and the only thing he knows how to do is fight. His dirty blond hair is pulled into a bun at the base of his skull, a few tendrils breaking free to hang defiantly in front of his face. His expression is pure savagery as he stares down his opponent.

"Orion Barros," Xaviaro says. "Hasn't lost a fight yet. Trust me, if we thought we could get him to take a dive, we would do it, because the Vegas odds are stacking up in his favor with every fight he wins."

"Someone will make a fucking fortune when he finally has an off night," Alessio agrees.

"Won't be tonight," Elio mutters, seemingly transfixed by the man.

The bell dings to signify the start of the fight, and it's obvious in seconds why they're all here to see Orion fight. He ducks and weaves out of the way of the other fighter, Rico Guerra's attempted blows, his movements so fluid it's like they're second nature. As soon as Rico pauses to drag in a breath, Orion is on him with a flurry of fists that take the man to the ground.

"Damn," I breathe, my pulse spiking with the adrenaline that's thick in the air, pouring off of Orion with every bead of his sweat and thrumming through the crowd with every cheer and boo. The fight doesn't last long, but no one seems disappointed by the briefness of it. "Is it over? That was the last fight?" I ask, noticing that everyone is getting up.

"Sorry. I thought it would last longer. Want me to find us something else to do still?" Xaviaro offers.

I notice Elio slip away, heading in the opposite direction from everyone else, but I don't care enough to wonder where he's going. Maybe he just needs to take a piss and the closest bathroom is towards the locker rooms.

I grin up at Xaviaro, considering his offer for a few seconds. "Nah. Take me home, Killer. We can make our own excitement."

Without warning, he bends and scoops me off of the ground, tossing me over his shoulder. I squeal and slap his ass in playful protest.

"You're gonna get it when we get home," I warn, and he chuckles.

"I'm counting on it."