Chapter 4

SPARROW

My muscles quiver with a mixture of nerves and excitement as I drag my index finger over the carved handle of my dagger. I check that the leather sheath is strapped snugly across my chest and then I drop my shirt to conceal the knife. I slowly lift my head and meet my own eyes in the smudged mirror that hangs over the sink, the water running on its twenty second timer to ensure that the user washes their hands properly. Somehow I doubt proper hygiene is the number one concern of the patrons of Babylon. I would guess that this sink has seen more lines of coke snorted off it than hands washed.

I expected to see ice-cold indifference staring back at me—or maybe hoped is a better word. The first time I watched Casper complete a hit by cutting a man from sternum to stem and letting his guts spill out onto the floor, it was the blankness in his eyes that struck me the most. Don't get me wrong, seeing a man's insides very much on the outside was something I had to get used to, but at least that part made sense to me. I suppose I thought all hitmen were Ted Bundy—excited by the kill, maybe even getting off on it. But watching The Phantom, it was obvious that taking a man's life was no different to him than taking a shit.

"Death is an inescapable part of life." That was what he said when I asked about it later.

The wild look in my eyes is anything but bored, and it's as far from indifferent as a person can get. It's pure, feral bloodlust. My heart is pounding so hard that the drumbeat of my pulse in my ears drowns out the music and chatter from the bar just outside the bathroom door. The water stops running and the lightbulb over the sink flickers. The bathroom door swings open and a man stumbles in, drunk and likely on something else as well. He swaggers over to the nearest urinal and I track him with my eyes, my attention lingering on the Reaper patch on his leather jacket.

He leans on the wall for balance and whips his dick out, missing the urinal more than hitting it. When he's finished, he doesn't bother to flush and he doesn't so much as glance at the sink before shuffling back out and letting the door bang closed behind him again. I let out a slow, steadying breath.

I've been blending into the crowd at Babylon every night for three weeks, keeping a low profile, making sure not to do anything to draw attention to myself. Three weeks of watching and waiting. Three weeks of stretching my patience right to its breaking point.

Tonight's the night.

One more breath and I push off from the sink, forcing myself to abandon my usual confident strut as I exit the bathroom a few seconds behind him. If I'm going to pull this off, I need to do it just right.

My attention zeroes in on the small, round table to the left of the bar. It's the same table where the three of them have sat every Thursday since I've been staking out the bar. Three hulking, tattooed men who wear jackets with the Sleepless Reaper logo on them.

It's where they drunkenly hold court, posturing like gorillas during mating season, picking out men and women alike to get them drunk before dragging them out of here barely conscious. Bile rises in my throat at how many people I've had to watch them led away like prey. Tonight, I'm finally going to start putting things right in the world.

The drunk one slams back another drink, throwing his empty shot glass and laughing when it shatters loudly on the floor. The man next to him is about as interesting as drying paint, but he picks up the tab most nights, so I'm guessing that's why he's always invited along. And then there's Shit Stain. AKA, the only man at the table who was in the picture with Benny.

Enough blending in. It's time for them to notice me.

I pass right by their table, faking a stumble and catching myself on the back of Shit Stain's chair. I giggle and then hiccup, slapping my hand over my mouth like I'm embarrassed by how drunk I am.

"Oh my god, I'm so so—" I hiccup again. "Sorry." I finish with another tittering giggle, still clutching the back of his chair.

He looks over his shoulder at me, the furrowed look of irritation melting away the instant his eyes land on me. His hair hangs in greasy clumps around his face, the stench of beer heavy on his breath as he turns to get a better look at me.

"No worries, sweetheart. Why don't you have a seat? I'll buy you a drink." He uses his foot to nudge one of the empty chairs away from the table in invitation.

"I'd better not," I say as demurely as I can manage, leaning in closer and fighting the urge to gag when his odor washes over me. "My mama always warned me that men who buy you drinks expect certain things." I drop my voice to a whisper. "I can't lose my virginity in exchange for a couple of drinks."

At the v-word, his eyes light up. He's a lion spotting a wounded gazelle. I can't decide if I'm impressed with myself for knowing exactly what would set the perfect trap for a man like this, or disgusted that this is actually going to work.

"One drink," he barters.

I pretend to think it over for a second before stumbling into the offered seat. "Fine, just one."

He flashes me a smile full of yellowed, cracked teeth and motions to the bartender.

In my three weeks of observation, I learned a couple of very important things about Velcro, and yes that is actually his club nickname. Shit Stain would have been better if you ask me, but what do I know. One: his friends put away drinks like it's their last night on Earth and he pours drinks down the throat of whoever he's set his sights on for the night, but he never touches a drop himself. And two: he takes frequent smoke breaks in the alley behind the bar… alone.

My original plan was to just wait out there to ambush him, but I decided that this way it's more of a test. If by some miracle this man manages to dig deep and find so much as a single fiber of human decency inside of himself, he might live to see sunrise. Personally, I'm not holding my breath for that outcome.

"Haven't seen you around here before," drunkie from the bathroom says, eyeing me with the same predatory gaze as his friend, albeit a much sloppier one.

"I'm new in town," I answer, matching his sloppy grin. "You guys have matching jackets. That's so cute."

The third man, who's not nearly as drunk as the first but not sticking to sobriety like Velcro is, scowls at my subtle jab.

"We're members of the Sleepless Reapers," he informs me with a prideful growl.

"Ooh, what's that? Is it like a club? Do you have a secret handshake?" I laugh and sway in my chair like I might tip over. Velcro, gentleman that he is, catches me and keeps a hand on me even after I'm upright again.

It takes everything inside of me not to recoil. A little shiver runs up the back of my neck and for a second, I get the distinct feeling that I'm being watched. It's not the first time. In fact, it's something that's become a near constant over the past few weeks. I glance over my shoulder as subtly as I can, but with a quick look, it's impossible to get a good look at who's in the crowded bar or whose attention is on me.

"We're the baddest men in the city," Velcro answers with a cocky smirk.

My drink is delivered and I pretend to take a sip to cover the urge to roll my eyes. The Reapers are definitely the worst men in the city. The baddest though? I'm going with a no on that one.

For an annoying moment, the smooth, unruffled expression on Xaviaro's face three weeks ago dances through my mind. Confident, deadly, and without a hint of bragging about either quality. He gets my vote for baddest in the city. Although, if I pull this off tonight, I might be feeling cocky enough to claim the title for myself. The mobster has heeded my warning to stay out of my way since he gave me the information I needed. Now, if he would just get out of my damn head, I'd be happy.

Velcro scoots his chair closer, putting an arm around my back.

"I told you, I'm not having sex with you," I remind him, feigning another sip from my drink. When he looks away for a moment, I spill some onto the floor so it looks like I'm actually drinking it.

"Never say never," he purrs the words as if he thinks they're somehow seductive. Fucking gag.

"Never," I say as sweetly as I can manage, earning raucous laughter from his friends at his expense. Velcro's expression darkens. As expected, my words do nothing to deter his advances.

His hands wander, sliding over my thigh and stroking any inch of bare skin he can find while I continue to pretend to drink and sweetly make my lack of interest clear over and over. When I reach the bottom of my glass, the contents soaking into the grimy carpet next to my chair, I ready myself for phase two.

"Oh my god, that drink really went to my head." I fall into another fit of giggles. "I think I need some fresh air." I stand up on wobbly legs. "Thanks. G'night." I flap a hand in a drunken wave. I stumble away slowly, making my way towards the door to the alley.

The stench of rotting garbage that hits me as I step outside is actually a relief after the last half hour of having to breathe in Velcro's stink. I cast my eyes one way and then the other, getting the lay of the land as quickly as I can. Aside from a few smokers now and then, the alley is typically empty. There's a single light that hangs over the door and no security cameras anywhere to be found. It's like they want people to commit crimes back here.

I pick out a good spot and get into position, slumping over like I'm passed out. It's only a matter of seconds before the heavy sound of the metal door swinging open fills the night. Velcro's footsteps are slow as he approaches me. I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, assessing me in the dim lighting to figure out if I'm conscious and whether I'm breathing. I hold myself deathly still, one hand under my shirt, wrapped around the hilt of my sheathed dagger.

A derisive laugh echoes off of the buildings surrounding us as he stops in front of me. It's a Herculean feat to keep my eyes closed, refusing to give myself away with so much as a muscle twitch. Come on, fucker. Make your move.

"Can't handle your liquor, huh? Normally a little bit of a fight is half the fun, but this'll do." He nudges me with the toe of his leather boot and then the metallic clang of his belt buckle reaches my ears.

My thundering heart slows. In a single instant, it feels like everything is happening in slow motion. My mind is sharp, my senses all on high alert, and the moment crystallizes. As far as this man knows, I'm some naive, barely legal virgin passed out in the alley. Is this what Benny's last minutes were like? Except, he wasn't faking it. He was helpless, unable to move or defend himself, and these monsters got off on it. They didn't care if he lived or died. They didn't care about anything other than their own sick pleasure.

None of them deserve the oxygen they're wasting every second they go on living. How many lives have they ruined? How many have they taken?

I clench my jaw and tighten my grip on my dagger, counting each excruciatingly long second as Velcro comes closer and closer, a fly buzzing stupidly into the web I've woven. He grips my shoulder roughly, preparing to roll me over.

I've practiced the movement so many times, I'm sure I could do it in my sleep. But unsheathing my knife with an actual target leaning over me comes with an unexpected rush of adrenaline that forces a gasping cry from my throat. I plunge the sharp end of the knife into his throat without pause, drinking in the shock and fury in his eyes as he gurgles and then collapses.

I scramble to my feet, hot, sticky blood coating my hand. I gasp for breath, my lungs burning like I just ran a marathon in an all-out sprint. I look down at his body with a mixture of disbelief and relief. His pants are hanging open, his dick already out, leaving no room to wonder what he planned to do to me.

I take a step closer, looking down at him as the light slips out of his eyes. For the second time tonight, I remember the apathy in The Phantom's eyes when he would take a life. There's no apathy here. This doesn't feel a damn thing like squishing a bug or acknowledging in a vague way that death is simply an inevitable part of life. It feels… good. Maybe that should scare me. And maybe that makes me no better than the pile of shit lying dead in front of me. But there's no denying that the world is a better place now than it was five minutes ago, and that's because of me.

I'm tempted to spit on his corpse, but you know, DNA evidence and all that. I stoop down and yank the knife out of his throat, dodging the spurt of blood that erupts like a geyser in its wake. I pull a monogrammed handkerchief out of my back pocket, chuckling to myself at the contrast between the life I used to live and this one. I wipe the blood off the dagger, slipping it back into its sheath, then cleaning off my hands before stuffing the handkerchief back into my pocket.

"I mean this from the bottom of my heart, Shit Stain, burn in hell." I flip the middle finger in front of his unseeing eyes, then stand up straight and stride out of the alley before my luck runs out and someone comes looking for this fucker.

I smile to myself, imagining his friends finding him shortly. I want them to run back to the club and tell everyone about his brutal murder. I want every single member of the Sleepless Reapers looking over their shoulders everywhere they go. I want to be the ghost that haunts their nightmares.

One down, three to go.

The feeling of being watched prickles along the back of my neck again. I rub my hand over the goose bumps that stand up there, but I don't bother to look over my shoulder. If someone is watching, they can run and tell the Reapers exactly who took out one of their own. Let the "biggest baddies in town"cower from a little sparrow.

XAVIARO

If I weren't already aware that I'm a tad bit fucked in the head, the throb in my cock as Sparrow wipes off his knife and tucks it away would have been all the proof I needed. For the past three weeks, I've chalked up my interest in him to curiosity. And by interest, I obviously mean I've been following his every move to the point that I'm well on my way to getting on Enzo's shit list. The word ‘stalking' has crossed my mind a time or two, but I prefer to think of it as doing my job.

Enzo expects me to know what's going on in Wildcliff, and some sexy, unhinged assassin out for Reaper blood is front page news as far as I'm concerned.

When he sat down at the Reapers' table tonight, I was curious to see what he had planned. The way he played Velcro like a fiddle from the moment the man took notice of my little sparrow was like a work of art. It was a perfectly choreographed dance that the cocky gearhead had no idea he was even part of. It was… impressive. Sparrow was impressive.

I melt into the shadows and watch him strut out of the alley, leaving the body out in the open without so much as a backward glance. Fuck.

The Sleepless Reapers may be vile scum, but they aren't stupid. Velcro didn't see it coming tonight, but if word gets out that there's someone after anyone else in the club, he's going to have a hell of a time taking them by surprise.

Besides that, a body is the last thing we need. Dead bodies attract the cops. Too many dead bodies will be difficult for even the cops on Enzo's payroll to overlook. If I call anyone else to deal with this, it'll get back to the boss one way or another. So I guess I'm going to have to roll up my sleeves and do this myself.

I step deeper into the alley, half my attention down the street with Sparrow. Was he as affected by Velcro's hands on him as I was tonight? I was tempted to clear the bar and shoot the man myself every time he stroked a finger over Sparrow's cheek or bare arm. I grit my teeth again just thinking about it.

I stand over the man, coolly assessing the scene. A pool of dark crimson blood is seeping into the cement underneath him, his eyes wide and unblinking. Even in the dim orange light, his skin looks pale and waxy. I sigh heavily. I fucking hate disposing of bodies. The fluids, the dead weight, it's the murder equivalent of folding laundry. The job is done, why are there now more chores being added to my list? Except, you can't just leave dead bodies piled in baskets in your bedroom until you get around to dealing with them. Looking at you, Dahmer.

The metal door that leads to the bar swings open with a loud clang, and I whip my gun out in a single motion, pointing it at the man standing on the other side. His eyes go wide and he holds both hands up immediately.

"Go back inside. Don't say a word. Please and thank you," I instruct calmly.

He doesn't move a muscle as the door swings closed again right in his face. I chuckle at the visual, then holster my gun again and get to work.

I don't want to criticize my new favorite murderer, but I wish his first victim had been slightly smaller. Dragging two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight out of the alley and then stuffing it into the trunk of my car isn't my preferred workout. I have enough trash bags and duct tape on hand to wrap the body, but not before the bastard bleeds all over my suit. Another reason to despise body disposal. It's not wardrobe friendly. At least my shoes were spared.

There's not much I can do about the blood on the ground at this point. Without a body, it's more than likely that the bar owner will hose it down in the morning and hope like hell no one shows up asking about it. And I doubt any of the drunks will give it much thought.

I swing the trunk closed and fish my keys out of my pocket.

As soon as I'm outside of the city limits, I roll down my windows and turn up my favorite playlist, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel and crooning along with the lyrics. I may have a body thumping around in my trunk, but that's no excuse not to enjoy a beautiful night like tonight.

I reach the nearest Moretti Family dump point in about half an hour. It's a ravine outside the city with a river at the bottom. I unwrap the body from the bags before I roll it over the ledge. I know the waterways are already clogged with litter, but I could never live with myself picturing birds and fish having to eat their way through plastic just to get to the body.

With the task done, I toss my soiled suit jacket into the trunk along with the bloodied bags and hang a U-turn to head back to the city. Without conscious thought, I drive straight for Sparrow's building. Now that the problem of Velcro's body has been solved, he's the only thing on my mind.

I replay every moment in my mind, right down to the vicious expression on his face as he stood over the body. Was tonight the first time he's killed? Is he rattled or riding the wave of adrenaline? And, most importantly, did Velcro manage to hurt Sparrow before my little bird gave him what he deserved? I park my car across the street from his building and huff out a laugh to myself. Everything I know about Sparrow so far tells me he's the last person I need to worry about, but I can't seem to help it.

I want to knock on his apartment door and check on him. I want to soothe him or let him use me to work off the excess energy still coursing through his veins. I want him to tell me what he needs me to be for him. My throat tightens and my cock swells again.

It's only his command to stay out of his way that keeps me from walking through the door to his building. Instead, I slip around the back, hoping it'll be one of the nights he spends out on his fire escape.

I find him with his legs dangling through the bars, just like I'd hoped. My blood heats and every cell in my body vibrates as I look up at him from the shadows below. I can't see anything but the shape of him. Is he happy? Scared?

Lonely?

Who are you, Little Sparrow? Will you let me close if I promise to be everything you need? We could be so beautifully dangerous together. Until then, I'll keep watching.