Chapter 19

XAVIARO

"So, does Enzo just live here, or what?" Sparrow asks as we enter Wild.

I'm still sore in all the best ways from last night, and brimming with energy thanks to a lazy morning in bed, doing my best to keep my little Sparrow distracted until it was time to leave for the meeting. I was worried if I didn't occupy his attention, he might spend the morning stalking Big Bass like he's been doing for the past two weeks, and with a soft green light, there was no guarantee he wouldn't lose his patience and stab the massive biker. I love Sparrow, but that doesn't mean there's any appeal in having to drag Bass's three-hundred-pound dead body down several flights of stairs.

"Nah, he lives in a penthouse downtown," Elio answers for me, coming up behind us and slinging an arm casually around Sparrow's shoulders.

My little bird snorts a laugh. "It was a figure of speech. You guys spend a lot of time here."

"We have meetings here, we don't hang around the rest of the time," I explain.

"If you have to sit around and talk business, might as well have some nice ass to stare at while you do it," Elio reasons.

"Alright, you've sold me on the idea," Sparrow says, joining Elio in an appreciative once-over of a passing dancer wearing nothing but a G-string barely containing the bulge of his dick, his bare ass sparkling with glitter under the lights.

There's no denying the man is hot, but I doubt he could cut a biker's throat without flinching.

On our way to our regular table, we pass Dante giving a lap dance at a table full of men who look like they stopped in during lunch hour and likely won't bother returning to the office for the afternoon if the number of empty drinks in front of them is any indication. The guy he's grinding on shoves a hand down the front of Dante's jock to roughly grope at his cock.

I slow and notice Elio doing the same, his eyes narrowing at the asshole. Drunk or not, what kind of numbnuts doesn't know the fucking ‘no touching the strippers' rule? It's posted on every wall of this damn place, and I thought that as a society we'd all internalized the message. Apparently not. But before either of us can step in, Dante grabs the man by the wrist, yanking the hand out of his underwear and twisting his arm until he yelps.

"That's not included," Dante says with a sweet purr in his voice, smiling as he twists the arm a little harder.

"Shit. I'll pay extra," the man offers, and Dante's grin turns into a snarl that actually has the potential to get my dick hard, at least more so than any of the bare ass on display.

"Sweetie, I promise you that you don't want to pay the price it costs to put your fucking hands on me."

The man nods and holds his free hand up in surrender. Since it's obvious Dante has the situation handled himself, we keep walking.

Lorenzo, Alessio, and Salvatore are all seated around the table by the time we get there. I take a few seconds to study Enzo while I pull out Sparrow's chair and take a seat myself. The tight lines around his eyes are less intense this morning, so I'm guessing Alessio was right about him being with someone last night. Good, he needed some stress relief.

"Morning, boss."

Enzo lifts his latte and nods in greeting before bringing it to his lips for a sip.

"Alright, so, murdering a bunch of bikers," Sparrow says, getting straight to the point.

Enzo flattens his lips and Alessio chuckles.

"Hey, loose cannon, you ever heard of bugs and shit?" Alessio asks.

"Oh, am I supposed to talk in code or something? Sorry, I didn't get my decoder ring in the mail or anything," Sparrow mutters.

"You don't have to talk in code, just have, like, five percent more chill," Salvatore advises.

Sparrow rolls his eyes. "Fine. What's the plan to deal with our mutual problem? Is that better?"

"Much," Salvatore says, and we all turn our eyes towards Lorenzo since he's the only one who holds the answer to that question.

"I have some thoughts," Enzo confirms. "I think the simplest way to handle the situation is to send the Reapers the message that they're no longer welcome in our city."

"Meth labs explode all the time." Sparrow pitches the idea for the second time this week and I bite back a grin. It's actually not the worst idea, but it's not my call.

Enzo takes another sip from his drink, seeming to consider the option.

"They have five cook houses that we know of, and if we really want to send a message, we need to cut off their supply line as well," Enzo says.

"All their shipments come in on one boat," Alessio says. Apparently they've all been doing their homework on the Sleepless Reapers. "They don't own it, they just pay the guy a shitload to deliver it."

"That's easy then, we just pay him two shitloads not to deliver to them anymore," Elio says, and Enzo nods in agreement.

"So, five packages, all set to go off at the same time, and a visit to the docks to make sure they can't get a fresh supply in this city," Salvatore summarizes. "And since I assume we don't care whether the houses are empty before we light them up, it's even easier."

Lorenzo nods again, in agreement with the plan. It's elegant in its simplicity, and the best part is, we can make it happen before the end of the week.

"I'm taking out Big Bass and Shit Stain myself," Sparrow says, vibrating with the same ferocity that made me fall in love with him.

"When can we get this done?" Enzo asks, ignoring Sparrow's demand.

"I need to go check out each of the locations to see how much juice we'll need, but I should be able to have all the packages set and ready to blow by Saturday night," Salvatore answers.

"Saturday night," Enzo repeats, fixing his gaze back on Sparrow. "Saturday night you can do whatever you like to your bikers. Any sooner and it might start raising red flags for the club. Got it?"

Sparrow licks his lips, his stillness unsettling, like he's the bomb that's about to go off. I place a hand on his leg under the table and squeeze his thigh. He presses into my touch and lets out a slow breath.

"Saturday it is," he agrees.

"Perfect," Enzo says. "Go." He dismisses us with a wave of his hand.

SPARROW

I feel like a can of soda that's been spun around on a tilt-a-whirl, ready to fucking blow. Five more days. I've waited this long, I can wait five more days.

I snag Xaviaro's hand before he can open the passenger door to his car. He stops in his tracks and looks at me with quiet curiosity, arching an eyebrow when I don't explain myself right away. I don't know what I want, actually. I just know I'm too keyed up to go back to the apartment. I could go get the rest of my shit from my old place and cancel the lease, but I don't want to do that right now either.

I want to do something about all of the energy buzzing inside of me, making me feel like I need to scream or hit something… or kill a fucking biker. I doubt there's another MMA fight going on in the middle of the day, so that's out.

"Is there a shooting range around here?" I blurt, the words coming out before my brain catches up with my mouth.

"Not too far," Xaviaro answers.

I grin and wrap my hand around his tie, pushing up onto the tips of my toes so I can brush my lips against his. "Take me to shoot?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

I steal another rough kiss, then release him so he can open the car door for me. The smell of the clean, expensive leather interior has become a familiar one, but for some reason, right now it's a jarring reminder that justice for Benny is so close I can taste it. And, in spite of what I thought before, the death of this vendetta won't be the death of Sparrow. I just don't know what after looks like yet. Maybe that's okay though.

Who the fuck knows what next week looks like anyway? People pretend to, they convince themselves they do, but deep down, we're all just hanging on tight and hoping for the fucking best.

"Hey, you probably have connections to get me what I would need to make my new identity legit, right?"

"Like, a social security card and everything?" Xaviaro asks, pulling out of the parking lot onto the main road. "Sure. That's easy. You want to go back to working in tech after all this or what? We can fake college transcripts too if you need us to."

"I don't know." I shrug. "Maybe. I'm not sure what else I would do."

"You can do anything you want. Or you can do nothing. I make more than enough to keep you in the lap of luxury." By the way his lips twitch with a teasing smile, he's not surprised by the growl I give him in response to that suggestion.

"If you think I'm looking for a Sugar Daddy, you need your head examined."

He barks out a laugh. "Yeah, I didn't actually expect you to take me up on that one. You could at least let me buy you a third pair of jeans though."

I shove my finger into the thready hole in the knee of this pair and mutter wordlessly under my breath.

"I could come into the fitting room with you at the store," he tacks on to sweeten the deal, dropping his voice to a suggestive rumble.

"Maybe," I say breezily.

He was right, the shooting range isn't far. Within a few minutes, we're pulling into the parking lot of a large, windowless building just on the outskirts of town. I hop out of the car and head for the main door, but Xaviaro's whistle stops me before I reach it. I turn around to find him with the trunk open, rifling around inside.

"Did you just whistle at me like I'm a dog?" I ask, hitting him with a challenging look that he doesn't see since his head is stuck inside the trunk.

"Maybe," he shoots back in the same breezy tone I used a few minutes ago. He closes the trunk with an echoing thunk and holds up a pair of Glocks. "I figured you might want one of these."

The stern admonishment I was preparing evaporates and my mouth falls open in awe. They're a hell of a lot bigger than the snub nose he keeps tucked under his jacket at all times, and now I'm wondering what other toys he has hidden in his trunk. I might need to do a thorough search at some point.

We head inside and check in at the front desk, get our safety gear, and are assigned a range. Once we're there, Xaviaro gestures me close and places one of the pistols into my hand. It's heavier than it looks, the weight of it sending a sense of power and foreboding vibrating down my arm and through the rest of my body.

He slides the magazine out of the one he's holding to show me how it works, rattling off each part of the gun before demonstrating the correct grip, with one hand steadying it and the other trigger ready. I consider telling him that I actually already know all of this. Phantom did include an entire section on firearms in his Hitman 101 course. But the deep, steady sound of Xaviaro's voice as he patiently explains every aspect is just too damn sexy to interrupt.

"One handed looks so much cooler though," I argue playfully, dropping one hand and pretending to aim at the target with the gun cocked sideways like criminals in movies always do.

"Yeah, it looks super cool until the kickback dislocates your shoulder," he says, and I chuckle at the exaggeration, returning to the proper hold.

"Okay, so I just aim and pull the trigger?" I feign ignorance, fighting to keep the smirk off of my face.

"Aim and squeeze the trigger," he corrects.

"Cool." I aim the first shot off center, hitting just above the target. "Hey, I have an idea. Whoever can get the most shots in the center of the target gets to decide how we kill those fuckers," I bargain.

This time Xaviaro is the one who laughs. "Sure," he agrees, taking his turn first. He fires five rounds, hitting the center almost every time except for two that are just barely off. "But you know, if you want me to make the plan, you could've just said that," he taunts.

"Now, now, at least give me a chance." I tut, and he waves his hand in a ‘be my guest'type of gesture.

Done fucking with him, I line the sight up correctly this time and fire five more rounds straight down the center, hitting dead in the middle of the target every time. Then I lower the gun and re-engage the safety before spinning to face him with a cocky grin.

"You played me," he accuses.

"You underestimated me," I say with a wink.

"Well, I definitely won't make that mistake again." He nudges me out of the way and gets ready for another round. "Best two out of three?"

"Oh, you're on, Killer."

We shoot until my shoulders are getting sore and my ears are ringing, despite the protective covers over them. By the end, I couldn't actually tell you who the better shot is. Probably Xaviaro still, but I can safely say I gave him a run for his money.

"So, you have a plan in mind for Saturday or what?" he asks as we leave the building some time later.

"I have some ideas," I confirm coyly, following him around to the trunk and handing over the Glock so he can store it under the floor mat with the handful of other weapons he apparently keeps back there.

"Care to share any of them?" Xaviaro asks, closing the trunk again, then caging me in against it.

I run my hands along his chest, feeling the shape of the rope harness hidden underneath.

"Firefly, the head honcho of that clown show, is a paranoid motherfucker. He gets a new burner phone every few days, but he's enough of a dumbass that the way he lets his crew know is by texting them from the new number to say it's him."

Xaviaro smirks. "Alright, I'm following. Once shit starts going down, we get them where we want them, then pop them."

I nod. "Exactly."

"Works for me," he agrees easily, leaning down enough that I'm able to catch his mouth in a slow, greedy kiss, one hand on his jaw and the other still tracing the shape of the rope through his shirt.

"Come on, let's go pack up the rest of my meager shit so I never have to think about that rat-hole apartment again," I say when I break the kiss.

"Yeah? I wasn't sure if you meant that last night or if it was just the high of three orgasms talking."

"I meant it," I assure him. "You're stuck with me, Killer. I hope that's okay."

"More than okay. I already told you that if you tried to leave I would find you," he reminds me with a look that's half threat, half romantic promise, which is the exact right ratio if you ask me.

"I love you, you terrifying murder marshmallow."

"I love you, Little Sparrow," he murmurs, brushing a kiss to my forehead.

Whatever comes after Saturday, we'll figure it out. Either that, or we'll die trying.