Chapter 3

XAVIARO

I reluctantly slide my sunglasses off as I step inside the dark club, tucking them into my suit pocket and pausing for a moment to smooth out my jacket. Not that anyone is going to notice a wrinkle in my clothing while I'm rocking the raccoon look.

My nose swelled overnight, along with some lovely purple bruises under each eye. The lack of sleep didn't help things. At least the bandage Enzo applied last night is holding up. In a day or two, I should be fine. The interrogation I'm about to face will undoubtedly be worse than a measly broken nose. But I can handle that too. They don't call me the Ice Man for nothing. Alright, fine, they don't actually call me that. But they should.

I tip my chin at the pretty half-naked man behind the host podium, then stride past him without pause. The scantily clad men who strut past me on my way to the table might as well be wallpaper for all the interest they hold. Enzo's pet project, Wild is the only all-male strip club in the state, drawing men so beautiful it almost feels illegal to lay eyes on them. But eye candy only goes so far.

I'm the last one to arrive for our weekly meeting, four heads swiveling in my direction as I approach. Alessio, Lorenzo's favorite Capo and childhood friend, has his feet up on the table, his chair reclined precariously on its back legs as he flashes me a friendly smile before noticing my nose and raising both eyebrows questioningly.

"Getting too slow to dodge a fist?"

I allow a twitch of a smile before pulling out the chair next to him and lowering myself into it. Lorenzo leans across the table, looking me over silently for a moment. He's traded his puppy pajamas for a tailored black Armani suit and a red silk tie.

"Okay?" he asks, and I nod.

"Can't smell a damn thing. But last I checked, I'm not a bloodhound, so it shouldn't be a problem," I answer dryly, and the corners of his lips tilt in a subtle grin.

"What happened?" Elio, Lorenzo's younger brother and the underboss of the Moretti organization just comes right out and asks the question I'm sure they're all thinking.

I suppose I should be proud of the fact that me turning up with an injury is worthy of front page news. I adjust my tie and cross my ankle over my knee.

"Your dad plays rougher than I expected." I keep my expression deadpan and Elio furrows his brow.

"My dad is dead," he reminds me with the kind of charming ignorance only Elio could pull off.

"Zombie sex," Salvatore says with a snort, and Elio's frown only gets deeper.

"He's being evasive," Allessio helps him out. "Probably would have landed better if he'd picked a living relative."

"Well, the joke hardly works if I say I fucked his brother. And it seems wrong as a gay man to claim to have fucked his mom. It's straight appropriation," I reason with a shrug.

"The Angel of Death himself finally joins us," a familiar, cheerful voice says from behind me. I crane my neck to see the blinding smile of the club's most popular dancer. There's something about his dark features and sultry energy that brings people in like a siren luring sailors towards the rocks. "You want a drink?"

"Slinging drinks instead of lap dances today?" Elio asks.

"Covering a serving shift because I'm nice like that." He flashes his teeth in a way that contradicts the nice part of his claim, but seems to be a crowd pleaser based on the way the guys react.

"Virgin Mary?" I request.

"Cold tomato soup in a big-ass glass, got it." He mimes writing down the order even though he's not holding anything to write with.

"You swing both ways, don't you, Dante?" Alessio asks conversationally.

"Violently, with a bat, from what I hear," Sal pitches in, and Dante's smile simmers, his eyelids drooping as he gives Sal a fluttering kind of look.

"Careful with the sweet talk, baby. Unless you plan to put a ring on it."

To an outsider, Salvatore takes the flirting without reaction. But I've known the man long enough to spot the subtle signs that the stripper managed to fluster him. The way he fidgets with the button on his suit jacket and shifts forward in his seat. I've seen this man sit as still as a statue for hours at a time when he needed to. I guess Sal hasn't developed the same immunity to a pretty face that I have over the years.

The sharp features of the man from last night flash through my mind, reminding me that I'm not immune to every pretty face in this city.

Dante runs his fingers casually through Alessio's hair, the action seeming completely mindless. Salvatore narrows his eyes and his hand twitches almost imperceptibly towards the gun I know is tucked under his jacket, like he's considering whether it's worth shooting Alessio over the transgression of being touched by Dante.

"Yeah, I'm bisexual," Dante answers the question Alessio asked a moment ago. "Why, you got a cute sister you're trying to set up or something?"

"We need a ruling on whether it's a violation for a fully-fledged gay man to make an ‘I fucked your mom' joke if no male relatives are appropriate," Alessio explains.

Lorenzo huffs impatiently through his nose. This meeting is clearly getting off track, but I don't know what he wanted me to do. I couldn't very well skip the meeting, and I'm not going to try to explain to everyone else that I got clocked trying to break up a bar fight last night and let the guy just walk away.

"Why are male family members not an option?" He cocks his head.

"Dead," I answer dryly.

"Oh. In that case I'd lean into the more disturbing option. The trick is to keep a completely sober face when you tell someone you fucked the corpse of their loved one," Dax decides, still petting Alessio like a dog while Sal's glare deepens across the table. I stare at Dax with a passive expression. "Yeah, just like that." He nods approvingly.

"I'll work harder on making my flippant retorts more disturbing in the future. Thank you." The dismissal is clear in my tone, prompting him to finally strut away to get my drink, but not without several pairs of eyes on his ass, barely contained in a pair of leather shorts.

Lorenzo clears his throat and Sal, Alessio, and Elio all manage to roll their tongues back into their heads long enough to give the boss their attention.

Most of the meeting doesn't have jack shit to do with me, so I let my mind wander. Is the Sparrow gone? Did he clear out of the city in the middle of the night, or is he still flitting around, preparing to start a fight in some other bar tonight? And if it's the latter, which bar? I run through a mental list of the most likely places he might show up. If he's looking to track down the Sleepless Reapers, that puts biker bars at the top of the list. The Reapers mostly stick to their clubhouse bar, but if he's asking around about them, he must not know that.

"Xav." Enzo's tone is sharp, snapping me immediately to attention.

I may not have been listening, but I've trained myself well over the years to absorb information even when I'm not actively paying attention. While I was making a list of bars to check out tonight, Enzo was giving me a different list. His list is full of names that are likely to be on the obituary page by the end of the week, unless they've finally gotten their shit together.

"Yeah, I'm on it," I assure him with a nod.

"Good." He moves on to whatever's next on his list. I've always respected that about him. He can let loose with the best of them, but work is work. When he puts on that suit, he's not Enzo, he's Lorenzo Moretti.

Dax brings my drink around, and he's smart enough not to linger when Lorenzo is using his Boss Voice. I nibble on the pickle spear that's soaked in the "cold tomato soup"as Dax called the drink. Lorenzo works his way around to wrapping up the meeting, giving everyone their marching orders for the week before dismissing us.

"Xaviaro," he says my name again as I get to my feet, clearly a command to hang back once the others have cleared out.

Alessio pats me sympathetically on the shoulder as he passes. Maybe the boss only takes private meetings with him to chew him out, but luckily I was born with a hell of a lot more brains than he was, which means I don't get on Enzo's bad side half as often.

"Nonna wanted me to remind you not to miss Sunday dinner this week," Elio tells his brother. "She says if she has to hunt you down, you'll regret it."

Lorenzo snorts. "I don't doubt it. I'll try to be there."

Elio hesitates, probably wondering how hard he should push. After a few seconds, he nods. "You're always invited too, Xav."

"I'll see what I can do," I promise him. My own Nonna passed away a decade ago, and my mom was never much of a cook, so the prospect of an authentic Italian dinner is definitely enticing.

Once the rest of the guys are gone, I round the table to take a seat in the chair Elio vacated right next to Enzo.

"No stress, boss. I've got the kneecap list. I swear." I tap my temple, assuring him that I've got it taken care of.

He waves a hand dismissively. "I just wanted to make sure you're alright."

I arch an eyebrow at him. "It's a broken nose. I think I'll live."

He stares me down for several long moments. It's the intense, probing look that has most men in this city tripping over themselves to tell him whatever he wants to know. Unfortunately for him, I'm the one who actually breaks the bones to inspire that reaction. Not that Enzo isn't capable of doing his own dirty work, but I'm not worried about it. I stare right back at him, keeping my face blank as I wait him out.

He breaks first, huffing through his nose. "You seemed distractedduring the meeting today. Anything I should know about?"

"Like what?"

"If I knew that, would I waste my breath asking?" The rumbling edge to his tone hints at his patience fraying.

"I don't know what you want, Enzo. I told you everything last night. Pretty boy walks into Death Company, picks a fight with the Grayson brothers, and manages to land an elbow when I try to break it up. That's it." I shrug, dragging my tongue along my bottom lip as memories from last night come into sharp focus. The violent gleam in his eyes when he spun on me, The warm weight of his body thrashing in my arms, the coppery taste of blood spilling over my lips.

Lorenzo studies me silently and I hold still, refusing to squirm under his gaze and give away the fact that I'm still thinking about the man with the sparrow tattoo.

"You're thinking about hunting him down," he guesses, and I grunt in response. "But not to kill him."

"If I go around wasting bullets on anyone who so much as looks at me wrong, my workday will never end," I say blandly. "Speaking of which." I get to my feet, ready to be done with the probing. "I have the fear of god to strike into a few people."

His mouth twitches with amusement again. "The fear of Lorenzo Moretti," he corrects.

"It's what I do best," I agree, pushing the chair in and shooting him a wink. "Don't worry about me. Broken noses heal and beautiful, violent twinks are a dime a dozen."

Lorenzo's response is a ghost of a chuckle as I leave him behind.

*****

Reggie Greenwell's pathetic whimpers vibrate through my palm as I hold him against the wall by his throat. He kicks his legs wildly, not managing to land a single one in spite of the fact that I'm standing perfectly still, staring at him coldly. It's like waiting for a toddler to finish their temper tantrum. You can't react to the theatrics, it only encourages them.

"Reggie," I say his name calmly when he finally tires himself out. "You know why Lorenzo sent me, and by your reaction, I'm sure you know how the Moretti family feels about your behavior. If your kids weren't in the next room, your brain would already be blown all over the floor."

He shrieks and claws at my hands, the acrid smell of piss reaching my nose.

"Jesus, Reggie," I mutter, maintaining my even tone. "Did the girl you forced yourself on last week piss herself too? Would it have stopped you if she had?" I let a growl weave itself around my words as I spit the last sentence at him, tightening my grip around his throat. "You told her not to call the cops," I go on, bringing my face close to his with a snarl on my lips. "She listened. Unlucky for you, she called us instead. You know how we keep the law out of Wildcliff? We handle scum like you ourselves."

I whip out my gun in a fluid, practiced motion, pressing the barrel to the middle of his forehead. He winces at the sound of the hammer being cocked, screwing his eyes closed and making another attempt to free himself by flailing his body.

"Daddy?" A small voice comes from the doorway, giving me pause.

I loosen my grip on the man's throat and he slides down the wall, cowering at my feet.

"I'm sorry," he rasps, holding his hands up. "I won't cause trouble again. She just looked so good, I couldn't help myself. Take my daughter for your trouble, if you want."

The numb feeling I was sitting with last night is a distant memory as a white-hot flash of rage tears through me. What a fucking prize this prick is. He managed to fake an apology for raping someone, blame the victim, and offer up his six-year-old daughter to be trafficked all in one breath. I'm doing his kids, and the rest of the fucking city, a favor.

I squeeze the trigger without so much as a twinge of guilt, tucking the gun back into its holster before the sound of the shot has even finished reverberating in my ears. I spin on my heel, and luckily the girl is no longer in the doorway. The regret that was missing moments ago tastes bitter on my tongue. I glance down to check that I avoided the gruesome visual of blood spatter or brain matter on my suit, then cross the kitchen to push through the swinging door to the living room.

My nose wrinkles instinctively, the bandage tape tugging at my skin. The place is filthy, with empty beer bottles and drug paraphernalia piled on every surface. The windows are covered with cardboard and there's graffiti on the walls… in the places that actually have drywall, that is.

I reach into the pocket of my pants, the crinkle of candy wrappers making both kids peek their heads out from behind the tattered couch they"re hiding behind.

"Don't go into the kitchen. Someone will be here to help you soon," I tell them in a voice that I know is overly formal for the situation at hand. "Your life is about to vastly improve. I promise." I set the candy down on the floor near their hiding place and pull out my phone as I make my way out of the apartment.

By the time I've reached the street, I have a friend from Child Services already on their way over to take care of the kids, and a couple of foot soldiers coming to clean up the body. Although, I instructed them to wait until after the kids have been cleared out. The last thing they need is to see their sorry excuse of a father carried out in several trash bags.

I slide into my car and pull away from the curb, already compartmentalizing what I just did and running through the details of my next stop. The next man, John Crenshaw, just owes the Morettis some money, so it's unlikely to end the same way this one did, unless he does something exceptionally stupid when he sees me.

I slow to a stop at a traffic light. The sun is starting to set, painting the sky pink and orange behind the towering gray buildings. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel and turn my head to watch the people on the sidewalk while I pass the time.

Even in the dusky light, surrounded by dozens of other pedestrians, my gaze manages to zero in on one man in particular, as if drawn by a magnet.

"Sparrow," I murmur, tracking him with my eyes as he crosses against the light, shooting a glare at the car that dares to blare its horn at him.

A smile creeps slowly over my mouth.

"Got you," I purr, switching my turn signal and keeping an eye on him so I don't lose him before the light changes.

It's John Crenshaw's lucky night. He just got an extension on his loan, because I have something more important to attend to.

SPARROW

I tuck my hands into my pockets, keeping my head down and picking up my pace. Three corners in a row, and the black car with the tinted windows is still on my ass.

"Shit, shit, shit," I mutter under my breath, daring to glance over my shoulder just long enough to verify that I definitely can't see jack shit through the jet-black tints.

Is that the same car that was parked outside the bar last night? I'm not sure. I really should pay better fucking attention to important details like that, but in my defense, I was running for my life at the time. It has to be the same car though. How many other people in this city can afford a luxury car and would have a reason to tail me?

The weight of the knife strapped under my shirt is a small amount of comfort. I don't love the cliché of bringing a knife to a gunfight, but it's what I have and I'm not about to roll over and die.

The light changes and the car slows to a stop right at the line. This is it, my chance to lose him. I take a sharp turn down the nearest alley. The Déjà vu of running down a reeking alley for the second night in a row to lose some mob thug grates on me. The last thing I want to do is waste energy looking over my shoulder every second when I could be focusing on the Sleepless Reapers. What I need is time to think so I can come up with a plan. I'll figure out how to deal with thisproblem, and then I'll get back to all the fun of becoming the worst nightmare of some big bad bikers.

I emerge onto the next street and when I don't see the car, I duck into the first open bar.

As soon as the door swings closed behind me and the dim lighting of the dingy bar engulfs me, it's obvious that my reputation is starting to get around town. A couple of guys at the nearest table put their heads together, casting sidelong glances at me as they whisper. Their matching tattoos give them away as members of the same gang… or best friends. Who am I to judge, either way? I flash them a dangerous, toothy grin and swagger past.

They aren't the only ones whispering. I catch snippets of words like "pool cue"and "Moretti." Wow. I've been in Wildcliff a week already and broken at least two different guys' fingers in my quest to track down the Sleepless Reapers, but breaking one mob dude's nose is what put me on the radar of every criminal in the city? Figures.

I claim one of the empty stools and flag down the bartender. I'm still feeling the tequila binge from last night, so I just order a soda. The bar top is sticky under my elbows, my knee bouncing involuntarily as I glance over my shoulder towards the door to see if I've been followed. When no one kicks through the door with guns blazing, I take a deep breath and try to get my head on straight.

So I broke the guy's nose. It's not like I did it on purpose. If anything, it's his fault for getting in the middle of something that didn't have a damn thing to do with him. I'm sure he'll see it that way too if I can sit down and have a civil conversation with him. The thought makes me snort. I drag my fingers through my unkempt hair and give the bartender an appreciative nod when he sets my drink down in front of me.

Moretti. That's the name I heard murmured on my way in. Is that who he works for? The name sounds vaguely familiar. If it's some big-time Mafia family, I suppose it should. But it's not exactly an uncommon Italian name either. I take a sip from my soda and swivel my head towards the man half slumped over on my left side.

"Hey. What do you know about the Morettis?"

He looks up from his drink with a bleary expression, blinking at me for a moment before a laugh bubbles up from his lips. "What do I know about the Morettis?" he repeats, laughing again, an edge of hysteria to the sound. "I know enough to stay the fuck off their radar. How's that?"

"Come on, they can't be that bad." Sure, they're a crime syndicate, but they're still just people. Like the Sleepless Reapers? Benny's voice whispers in the back of my mind.

That's different.

"I've heard Lorenzo Moretti's enforcer carves out the hearts of his victims and keeps them as trophies," a deep voice says from my other side.

I startle and turn my head to find the man from last night. The person already occupying the stool to my right scrambles out of his seat without so much as a look from Tall, Dark, and Bandaged. For all the fear that's been hot on my heels since I ran out of the bar last night, bracing for a bullet to the back of my head, a strange sense of calm washes over me as I watch him claim the now open stool for himself.

I drag my gaze over him. Even with his eyes swollen and his nose bandaged, he's undeniably gorgeous in a perfectly tailored suit that accentuates his broad shoulders. His eyes are a warm, melted chocolate color, holding the same goose bump-inducing intensity that was there last night. His dark hair is longer on top, neatly tamed into place, but it's all too easy to imagine how it would look messy from having my fingers run through it while he kneels for me. My cock tingles and I bite back the chuckle that swells in my throat. Leave it to me to notice how hot my potential assassin is.

"Is that the punishment you hand out for the egregious act of teaching you a valuable lesson?" I ask.

His eyebrows go up and his lips twitch in what I could swear is a ghost of a smile, but his expression remains otherwise neutral.

"What lesson did you teach me, Little Sparrow?"

I reach immediately towards the bird tattooed behind my ear, brushing my fingers over the spot and considering the man for a moment. If he wanted to kill me, he could have done it already. Unless he's lulling me into a false sense of security before he whips his gun out. My eyes flicker towards the almost imperceptible bulge under his jacket. If I didn't already know that's where he keeps his weapon, I doubt I would have noticed.

He unbuttons the jacket and I tense, but my heart rate remains surprisingly even. I track his movements as he unholsters his gun. What does it feel like to die? Adrenaline courses through my veins, making my senses crystal clear as I brace for what's about to come. But instead of pointing the gun at me, he sets it on the bar and nudges it towards me.

The drunk on my other side mutters a curse and clambers off his stool clumsily, letting it fall with a loud clatter against the wood floor. The jarring sound doesn't even make me twitch. I'm too focused on the clearly custom-made revolver in front of me.

"What's this?" I ask, darting my tongue out to wet my lips as I look away from the weapon and back at the man himself.

"It's a gun. Although, if you don't know that, I might be sitting here with the wrong man." The teasing in his voice is masked by the deep, even rumble, but it's there.

"I mean why are you giving it to me, Tony Soprano?"

This time a full-blown grin finds its way onto his lips. "I'm not the Tony Soprano of this operation. Thank fuck. And I'm giving it to you so we can have a conversation without you spending the entire time waiting for me to pull it out and shoot you."

I hum thoughtfully, eyeing the weapon again. "You don't even know me. I could be crazy. Deranged. A sociopath with no regard for human life," I taunt, reaching out and dragging my finger along the cool metal handle of his gun.

He leans in, his breath ghosting over my cheek. "If you're trying to make my dick hard, it's working."

My breath catches and my cock throbs. Is he trying to throw me off or is he actually flirting?

"How do I know you're not packing any other weapons?" I challenge, eyeing him again. The only bulge that catches my attention is the very prominent one between his legs that he doesn't bother trying to hide. My skin heats and I shift in my seat, my knee bumping his.

"You can pat me down if you want," he offers.

"Oh, I don't think you want that," I warn, still absently stroking a finger along the short barrel of the gun. "I do cavity searches the rough way."

"I was counting on it," he purrs, not missing a beat.

His response throws me off center. Are we really flirting? And if we are, how exactly did it happen? I broke his nose last night and he tracked me down just to let me stroke his gun?

The bartender approaches, eyeing the gun warily. He doesn't say anything about it though. I'm guessing that has something to do with the man in the suit. I doubt anyone in this bar has the guts to tell him what to do. The fantasy of him on his knees flickers through my mind again. I wonder if he would behave if someone did have the audacity to order him around.

I reach for my drink and take a gulp to cool the fire blazing in the pit of my stomach at the thought.

"I'll have whatever he's having," he orders, and the bartender nods.

"It's just soda," I warn him.

"Perfect." His gaze lands on my face and he studies me silently for several seconds. "You didn't answer my question before. What lesson were you teaching me, Sparrow?"

"To keep out of things that have nothing to do with you," I answer, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, they feel a little too harsh. "But I shouldn't have broken your nose. I'm sorry. I thought it was that idiot brother of his grabbing me."

He gives a single nod and takes the drink the bartender passes him.

"Everything in this city is my business," he says.

I shift in my seat again, angling myself so I'm fully facing him now, the rest of the bar fading around me. Maybe I've been asking the wrong people where to find the Reapers this whole time. All the lowly drug dealers and petty criminals in this city are too afraid of the bikers to cross them, but I get the feeling this man doesn't scare that easily.

"That so?" I cock my head. "Maybe you can help me find who I'm looking for then."

"Maybe I can," he agrees, taking a sip of his drink, his throat bobbing with his swallow, filling my mind with more filthy imagery that can only lead to distractions I don't need right now. "Who are you looking for?"

"The Sleepless Reapers. A couple of guys, specifically." I pull out my phone and open the photo gallery. The screenshot I've been staring at for too damn long immediately fills the screen. I turn it to show him the photo of four men supporting the limp body of my brother hours before he died.

He frowns as he studies the picture. "Do you know their names?"

I make an irritated noise. "I don't fucking know. Shit Stain, Monkeywrench, Ball Licker… Some stupid fucking biker nicknames. Do you know where they hang out or not?"

I black out the screen and put my phone away. He runs his hand over his mouth, conflict dancing in his eyes.

"Why are you trying to find them?" he asks after several long seconds.

It's been too many days in a row of dead end after dead end, of people too damn scared of these thugs to give up any information about them, and my patience is hanging on by a fraying thread.

"Because they took something from me," I answer with a heated tremble in my barely controlled voice. "Do you have any brothers?"

"Not blood, but yes."

I hold his gaze, letting him see the emotions burning behind my eyes like the eternal flames of damnation. "And I bet you would kill anyone who took one of them from you. Wouldn't you?"

He doesn't pause or hesitate this time. "Yes." The conviction in his voice sends a thrill down my spine, raising goose bumps along my skin and hardening my nipples.

"Where can I find the Sleepless Reapers?" I ask again, putting the weight of authority I don't actually have into my voice. I haven't so much as blinked and neither has he, which means I can see every flicker of emotion that passes through his eyes, and there's something heated that flares to life.

"They mostly hang out at their own clubhouse. But I've had to deal with them more than once causing trouble at Babylon on tenth street. They like to go in there and cruise for ass, consensual or otherwise." The way his features darken and get stormy says all I need to know about his opinion on the subject.

Excitement quivers in my bones. I'm finally making progress. It's a lead, at least. On reflex, I pat his thigh, the silky fabric of his pants heated through by his skin. I let my fingers linger longer than I should.

"Good boy," I murmur, and he makes a choked sound in his throat. His leg trembles under my touch and he reaches for his drink again, gulping down a few swallows.

Interesting. Maybe my fantasy about having the deadly man on his knees isn't that far off base. A guy can dream…

Not that I have time for those types of dreams right now.

"What's your name?" I ask. The question feels bolder than my casual Domming. Casper would have killed a man where he stood for asking his name, hence the silly nickname I decided to use when calling him The Phantom became too much of a mouthful.

"Xaviaro Saviano," he answers easily. "And what's your name, Little Sparrow?"

I drag the tip of my index finger along the rim of my half-empty glass, my other hand still resting on his leg.

"Sparrow works just fine," I say, sliding out of my seat. We're close enough that I'm pressed up against him as soon as I'm on my feet, his legs spread on either side of me as I drag my hand up his thigh, drawing another half-bitten sound from Xaviaro's lips. "I'll also answer to Sir."

His nostrils flare. Up close like this, I can see the purple splotches under his eyes and the strange urge to brush my lips against them in apology rattles through me.

"Don't get in my way. I'd really rather not kill you." I punctuate my request by brushing my lips briefly against the smooth skin of his cheek, just above the line of stubble on his jaw.

And then, for the second night in a row, I leave the bar with the feeling of Xaviaro Saviano's gaze boring into my back.