Chapter 2

XAVIARO

The silence in the bar rings in my ears like a reverberating gong. I give up on trying to contain the mess, dropping my hand and letting the hot, sticky blood flow freely from my nose and down my chin. Every man in the bar is afraid to say a word. They're too scared to run but terrified of what's going to happen if they get caught up in my rage.

Except, I'm not angry. I should be. Some little punk just broke my nose in front of a few dozen men who need to fear me if I'm going to keep doing my job effectively. And by ‘effectively,'I mean without having to unalive every other motherfucker who causes trouble in Wildcliff or owes the Morettis money. But instead of the pulsing fury I expect to feel in the center of my chest, there's something… else.

An image dances through my mind of his honey-colored eyes glowing with defiance and danger when he spun on me. I thought he might take another swing at me, and that possibility had excitement thrumming through my veins. My dick got way too fucking hard imagining the deadly little bird straddling me instead of that slimy scumbag, a hand around my throat, whispering threats into my ear…

I bite back a moan and use the back of my hand to wipe the blood off my lips. It's useless, of course. More blood simply takes its place, pouring from my nose like an endless waterfall.

Travis crawls carefully off the pool table, casting nervous glances in my direction like he thinks if he moves slowly enough I won't be able to see him. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the moron. I'm not a fucking T. rex. I can see just fine, and right now what I see is the one person in this bar who might know anything about the phantom who blew out of here before I managed to shake off my shock, leaving me without so much as a name to track him down with.

I grit my teeth and make a dangerous, rumbling sound deep in my throat as I take a menacing step towards him. Travis puts both hands up defensively, shrinking into himself like a turtle without a shell. I grab the front of his shirt, not giving a single damn about smearing the front of it with the blood drying on my hands.

"Who was that?" I demand.

"How the fuck should I know? He came in here and started swinging. He's fucking unhinged," he babbles.

I grip his shirt tighter and give him a sharp shake, watching with satisfaction as his head rattles back and forth and he screws his eyes closed in a fearful wince.

"He wanted something." I'm assuming, anyway. I couldn't hear a damn word either of them said before shit jumped off. "What was he asking about before he attacked you?"

"I don't know," he whimpers again. "I have no fucking clue."

"The Sleepless Reapers," Taylor answers. And here I thought he was the stupid one out of the two brothers. Maybe it's his turn to use their shared brain cell for a change.

"What about them?" I narrow my eyes at Taylor, keeping my hold on Travis in case I need to give either of them a little incentive to cooperate. Sparrow didn't strike me as the biker type, and he doesn't exactly fit the profile of the type of meek, helpless boys that crew likes to victimize.

"Just where they hang out. That was it, I swear."

I huff and finally let go of Travis, giving him a hard shove for good measure as I release my hold on him. He stumbles and catches himself on the edge of the pool table. I spin on my heel, adjusting my suit jacket with a quick shrug and then rebuttoning it.

"Sorry about the mess, Sid. Send me a bill for any damages," I call out, the crowd parting around me like the Red Sea as I stride out of the bar without a backward glance.

I look one way down the dark sidewalk and then the other. I don't expect to find Sparrow waiting out here for me. He may be ballsy, but he doesn't strike me as stupid. The fact that there's no way of telling which direction he ran itches under my skin though. For all I know, he got in his car and hopped on the first freeway exit he passed, hightailing it out of this city without a second thought.

My throat vibrates with a frustrated sound.

Nothing I can do about it now, unless I want to start canvassing the city, knocking on every door until someone can give me something to go on. That option is more appealing than it has any right to be, but right now, I need to deal with my nose.

I pull my key fob out of my pocket and unlock my car. Sliding into the driver's seat, I thank god for how easy it is to clean blood off leather. The flow has slowed, but it hasn't stopped completely, and I can't be fucked to clean it off my hands or clothes right now. My body is on autopilot, heading towards the familiar apartment near the center of town, and my mind is somewhere else entirely. Or, more accurately, on someone else entirely.

Pretty little Sparrow.

Angry little bird.

I've always been a sucker for that feral kind of beauty, more thorn than rose. But who are you? And where did you go? I glance at every pedestrian I pass and into every car, searching for him fruitlessly until I finally pull into the underground parking garage.

I could make it from the garage to the top floor penthouse with my eyes closed. I absently drag my tongue along my lips, the coppery flavor of blood making me wince as I raise my hand to rap at the door. My nose throbs and an exhilarating, electric feeling courses through my veins as I listen to the padding footsteps on the other side of the door. Did Sparrow knock something loose inside my brain with that elbow to my nose? Or is there another reason that I suddenly feel like all the switches have been thrown into the Onposition. Nothing is numb, and I can't remember the last time I could say that.

The door swings open and it occurs to me too late that I never bothered to check the time or make a call to see if Enzo was still awake… or alone. The most feared man in the city, Lorenzo ice-in-his-veins Moretti stands in the doorway wearing a pair of red pajama pants with little Dalmatians all over them and nothing else. Out of his expensive suits, he's a surprisingly slim man, all wiry muscles and dark body hair. There's a deep scar over his left shoulder where he caught a stray bullet years ago.

I snort, inadvertently causing a fresh cascade of blood from my nose. "Cute," I taunt.

He narrows his eyes at me in a dangerous way that would have most men pissing themselves.

"What the fuck happened to you?" he asks instead of responding to my teasing comment about his puppy pants.

"You're not going to believe this, but you know Declan Fitzpatrick? Well, I bumped into him and he was wearing pajamas with kittens all over them…"

Enzo growls, but steps aside to let me into his apartment. He shakes his head as I step past him, careful not to touch anything with my bloody hands.

"With the way you can't seem to stop running your mouth, I'm surprised you don't get your nose broken more often, honestly," he mutters, following me straight to the bathroom where he's patched me up more times than I can count over the years.

I chuckle, leaving him to flip the light on as I plop my ass down on the closed toilet seat.

"I can afford to run my mouth. Who would be stupid enough to break the nose of Lorenzo Moretti's right-hand man?" I shrug off my jacket and take the damp cloth he hands me to clean myself up with.

"That's what I'm wondering," he agrees, kneeling to get his first aid kit out from under the sink. I would chalk the tightness of his tone tonight up to the fact that he hates nothing more than being roused from a peaceful slumber. But I know better. He's always like this when I show up with an injury.

"It wasn't really Fitzpatrick," I assure him, and he grunts in acknowledgment. It's a waste of words anyway. I would never be so flippant about a run-in with the boss of a rival family. That's the shit that starts all-out wars.

He hands me two tampons, and I dutifully stuff them into my nostrils one at a time, worsening the throbbing but stopping the bleeding—for the time being, at least. I drop the soggy, bloody rag onto the pristine white marble bathroom floor, earning another deadly glare.

"Look up," Enzo commands, moving to stand over me. I do as he says, tilting my head back and squinting against the glare of the bathroom lights. He puts his thumb against the bridge of my nose on one side, and I hiss through my teeth. "Hold," he instructs in a deep, authoritative voice.

His tone sends a calming wave through me, relaxing everything inside of me. I don't need to figure anything out right now, I just need to do what he says. When you spend most of your time making life and death decisions, there's an indescribable peace in just letting gosometimes. A soft hum escapes my lips as I replace his thumb with my own so he can rip a few pieces of bandage tape.

"Good boy," he murmurs, and I let loose a single huff of laughter.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know, it's not very me. Is it?" he agrees absently as he makes quick work of setting my nose and bandaging it the best he can.

It'll likely be a little off center, but it's fine. Vanity has never been my deadly sin.

Is the Dom thing Enzo? Fuck if I know. We've been friends our whole lives, but I can honestly say I've never given a second of thought to which side of a power dynamic he would fall on. Clearly he's read me like a damn book though.

"It was some vicious twink," I answer his earlier question, mainly because I feel like I need to vomit up the thoughts swirling through my mind right now. "He walked into DC like he owned the place, and then nearly cut Travis Grayson's tongue out with the jagged end of a broken bottle."

He lets out an impressed whistle and steps out from between my legs to put away the tape and other supplies. I tug the tampons out of my nose and toss them into the nearby trash, sniffing to check that the flow has finally stopped.

"I'm guessing he's floating downriver as we speak?" Enzo asks as I stand up.

I clear my throat and focus on shrugging my jacket back on and buttoning it, avoiding his heavy gaze.

"He took off." I manage a casual tone.

He makes a disgruntled noise. "You let him break your nose and walk away?"

"It's… complicated," I mutter.

"He was pretty?" Enzo guesses, and this time I'm the one who glares.

Pretty or not, I should have made an example of him. I should be hunting him down as we speak, and fuck, I want to… but not for the reasons I should.

"Thanks for patching me up, boss." I give him a hug, patting his back before I let him go.

"Any time, fratello. Why don't you stay? I have some leftovers in the fridge and we can watch one of those stupid movies you like so much. I even have a pair of footie pajamas you can borrow," he offers blandly. I chuckle, even though I'm sure the suggestion is genuine, minus the pajamas… I think.

"Thanks, but I'm going to head home and put some ice on my face."

Enzo nods and walks me back to the door, waiting in the doorway until the elevator doors slide closed behind me.

I have every intention of driving straight home like I told him, but I find myself parking outside Death Company again. A quick lap around the neighborhood won't hurt anything.

SPARROW

The mouth of the tequila bottle rattles against the rim of my glass, evidence of my unsteady hand that three shots haven't managed to cure yet… or was it four? I down this one and wipe the back of my hand over my lips.

I can't let one little fuckup throw me off like this. I can practically see Casper's bored expression drilling its way into my soul, his steady voice telling me that mistakes aren't what end people, distractions are. Emotions are. According to the infamous assassin himself, feelings are nearly as deadly as he is.

I huff out a breath and nod my head jerkily. No fear. No hesitation. No mercy.

I can't unbreak a mobster's nose. And lying low for a few days isn't an option. So, I'll plow forward. Maybe this will end up working in my favor. By this time tomorrow, that greaseball will have used his very-much-still-attached tongue to tell every other criminal in the city that I'm not someone to fuck with.

I shuffle across the single-room apartment, misjudging the placement of the bed and stumbling as I pass it. Maybe the tequila is doing the trick after all. I snort a laugh at that, catching myself on the heavy window that leads out onto the fire escape. It groans as I push it open, letting in the relatively cooler night breeze so I can breathe in a lungful of air that doesn't smell like mildew and weed.

I brace my hands on the windowsill and lean out. The sounds of the city seem far off from here. The traffic whizzing by on the freeway is a calming white noise, drowning out the voices of noisy neighbors and the drunks in the alley below. I give in to the temptation and haul myself through the window. The rusty fire escape wobbles under my weight, failing to convince me that scaling it would be a preferable alternative to burning alive inside if it came down to it. But once it settles its swaying, it's not so bad.

I scoot up to the edge and let my legs dangle over the side while I fold my arms on the railing and rest my chin on top of them. I blow out a breath and look out at the sea of taller buildings blocking my view of the city skyline. Lights flicker in many of the windows—the blue glow from tv screens and the dim orange gleam of cheap light bulbs.

Just across the alley, I spot a man dancing naked in front of his window. I smother a laugh as he helicopters his dick and shimmies his hips. In this part of the city, there's every chance he's a violent criminal, but right now he's just some dweeb flopping his flaccid cock around. There's something strangely comforting about that. Like no matter how dangerous any of the men I'm after might seem, there are bound to be moments when they let their guard down. That's when I'll strike.

The thought is a satisfying one, settling warmly into my chest. Just like I can't unbreak that man's nose tonight, I can't do a damn thing to bring my brother back from the dead. What I can do is make sure the men responsible for it suffer the way they deserve to.

I swing my legs mindlessly and Déjà vu washes over me, a memory of a life that doesn't feel like it has any connection to this one. Benny and me sitting on the second-story landing, letting our legs dangle through the railing, listening to the sounds of a lavish party going on down below. If we were good and stayed upstairs, our nanny Priscilla would bring a plate of treats up for us. I was always the one having to physically restrain Benny from going down the stairs to investigate the party for himself. He never had a hell of a lot of impulse control.

Maybe I took the whole protective big brother thing too seriously when he was alive. All I ever wanted to do was protect him, but I might have pushed him right into the life that ultimately killed him. Not that my parents are blameless. And, of course, the fucking Reapers have the bloodiest hands of all. But I'm adult enough to admit to myself that wanting some control over the people and things I care about might just be my toxic trait.

The sound of footsteps from below draws my attention. I squint into the dark and notice a shadowy figure wandering out of the same alley I came down earlier to get home. It's impossible to make out much from my perch, especially without any real light, but something about the way the figure moves with so much confidence has my heart forcing its way into my throat. It's him. I don't know how I know, but I do.

I pull my legs up as quietly as I can manage, keeping my eyes trained on the man down below. He pauses briefly before he keeps moving, heading down the alley until he disappears from sight again. I exhale slowly, adrenaline along with a mixture of fear and rage making my whole body vibrate.

No fear. No fear. No fear. I chant the words in my head until the feeling drains from my body, leaving me still and focused with ice around my previously racing heart. I'm not going to wait around for retribution. If I see him again, I'll kill him. Simple as that.

The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth as I climb back through the window into my apartment. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it wasn't the same man down there in the alley, looking for me hours later.

And maybe this whole operation is bound to end in disaster. But it's too late to turn back now.