THE GLOCK PULSES in my palms, its rounds unloading into the organs of the distant canvas swaying at the end of my shooting range.
Stomach.
The image of my brother, Bronson, tied to a metal chair rattles my resolve. The following bullets rattle the room.
Left knee.
Right knee.
Blood pissed from Bronson’s forehead, snaking in rivulets down his cheek.
Left shoulder.
Right Shoulder.
I was drinking whiskey in first class on the way home from Sicily while he was bleeding…
Left iliac
Right iliac
All to take down Jimmy, step into his shoes, fight my way from beneath his ever-growing shadow with an entire city watching my every move. With my brothers depending on me.
Left eye.
It’s all on me.
Right eye.
To hunt down Dustin, to give Max his revenge. To keep them clean. For once. Like I promised. To keep them out of this business. Out.
Left lung
Safe.
Right lung.
Peaceful.
Pressing down on the pedal with my foot, I activate the belt, dragging the target further down the lane. As the canvas recedes, I focus on two holes, like eyes. Like betrayal that turned Bronson’s blue gaze to slits that night in the chair. That crazy heart of his was ready to take vengeance for his family—my family—he actually believed I’d betray him. Betray my family. He’d have mauled me like a Rottweiler for my part. I should have never let it get so far. I had no idea Jimmy would take him without consulting me—
Fucker.
Stepping back, bracing the Glock, I narrow my eyes on the distant mark.
Heart
I drop the spent magazine and snap in a new one in quick succession and then unload the rounds, the sound of each blast contained as they bounce around the padded basement walls. While above my head, the rest of the house remains in early morning silence, in peace. In the peace I’m fighting to give them while the echoes of all that it takes to deliver such a lifestyle thrash within these concrete walls with me. Alone. But a leader, well… a leader is always alone.
I lower my arm, the muscles shaking from the power, the back thrust, the weight… My weight. Of my responsibilities… I exhale hard all this bullshit. There is no place beyond this range for my frustrations. For my uncertainties. Guilt. Burdens.
The dawn is barely gathering outside these concrete walls, yet the room is already stifling, peak summer humidity clinging to my bare torso, perspiration misting along my skin. The only clothes I have on are a pair of jeans and my headgear.
I place the Glock down on the ledge and pull the headgear off before activating the chain, bringing the canvas-human forward until it stops just shy of me. I inspect the holes, fingering the blown openings. Straight through. Perfect shots. For a man who is plagued by insomnia, I still never miss a mark.
Retrieving my gun, I flick the safety on and tuck it down the front of my blue jeans. My shooting jeans.
Exiting the basement, I take the steps up to the ground floor. Tomorrow night I’ll be back to blow more pieces of that canvas apart.
When I enter the kitchen, Aurora is standing at the breakfast bar drinking her latte while Maggie works over the stove to have a banquet prepared for my entire staff to graze on throughout the day.
Aurora and Lorna enjoy the leisure of mealtime while, for the most part, I eat on the go. I step into the kitchen, helping myself to a glass of water, the smell of gun powder and sweat clinging to my chest.
My man, Que, appears from behind me, handing me a towel, being both my first guard and my assistant.
“Thank you, Que.’ I give him a quick once over. His every line is immaculate, every crease ironed and steamed to almost fabricated perfection, like a tin soldier in a black suit. Yet, only a fool would consider him anything short of lethal. I smile smoothly at him. ‘You know, you can stop dressing like you’re serving the Queen of England.’
He merely straightens, cocking a greying brow at me. ‘The queen is more relaxed than you are, Boss. I feel the attire is suitable,’ he advises with the gentlemanly grace his London accent provides him.
Aurora clears her throat. I can see her in the corner of my eye, but I pat myself down before acknowledging her. As I throw the towel over my shoulder, I turn to face my awaiting wife. “Good morning.”
She sets her coffee down on the table but tightens her hold on it, her long nails like red bars around the white china mug. ‘How did you sleep?’
“Well,’ I lie. Making my way over to her, I take in her tall womanly form wrapped in a dark business blouse and skirt. Take in her long dark hair twisted into a bun on her crown, not a strand out of place. My perfect wife.
‘You’re a fantastic liar, Clay. I have always thought so,’ she says, arching a thin dark eyebrow, exasperation in every inch of her flawless face. Madonna Mia, even if she wasn’t so transparent, I would still see straight through her. I know her almost as well as I know myself. ‘This week is ridiculous. I wish you would delegate more. Ever since…’ She doesn’t continue.
She doesn’t have to.
Ever since Jimmy’s death. I don’t want to delegate. I’m the damn Don of the Cosa Nostra in the District at thirty-five, and I didn’t work my way up the political ladder to run things the way past bosses have—with a front-man paid to do our biddings. I’m the damn front man, the face, and the boss, the entire top level of this organisation, reaching new heights of control. Control the streets; control the people. It’s a message from the old country, and one I’ll make a reality.
Ignoring her statement, I kiss her on the cheek, inhaling her perfume, a scent straight from Chanel’s limited-edition range, I’m sure. “You look beautiful. Are you staying for the meeting about the girl?’
The girl…
Dual-coloured eyes.
Too pretty.
Too eager to drop to her knees as if coached how to please me…
“I’m available for the first half of the day, then I have five senators from Indonesia to meet for lunch and show around Connolly, remember? Your less than reputable Indonesian associates? That is unless the Lord Mayor himself wishes to accompany them around?” She smiles, her mauve painted lips curving teasingly. “I hear Mr Kampa leans more towards your brand of company.”
I stroll off towards the foyer, talking as I go. “Bronson would say it’s because I’m so pretty. Show them the cable bridge. I’ll be checking in on the warehouse, and then I’ll be at the club to meet them this evening.’
“Well, it’s a good thing you have your dutiful wife to oversee everything before you make your appearance.’
I halt mid-step, spinning to face her, realisation finally gripping hold of me. “Are you feeling unappreciated?”
She glances to the side, a little action that offers much insight into the softer layers beneath her composed exterior. I see a lot of myself in her. A lot of Jimmy too. She is the most powerful woman in the city, but her power only holds weight because it is bound to my own. And I often forget how much she needs my appreciation, especially since losing her father. Knowing we dethroned him has cut into her sense of place in our organisation. His existence and our marriage are the only claims she ever had to this legacy; Aurora isn’t the blood of the Family. This, I never cared about, but she does. There isn’t a slither of Family blood in the name Storm and what dismay that causes my perfect wife.
My confidant.
We share a life of servitude. Me to the Cosa Nostra. She to me. It’s all she has ever known, but without me, she’s out —her and her sisters. Deported to Sicily where the Don can keep an eye on them, as he did their father.
I would never take this legacy from her. We share it. That is what we agreed to decades ago, and I trust no one more than her.
“A little,” she admits through pursed lips.
I take easy steps towards her, stopping so close she has to crane her neck to catch my gaze as I scan her smooth olive skin and large whiskey-hued eyes. She’s stunning. “The past year has not been easy. I know. I’m very proud of how you have handled it. I’m very proud of you,” I say, and her gaze drops under mine.
Pulling herself together, she regards my words with feigned indifference, but the satisfied softening of her body can’t be veiled. I continue, “If you ever need me for anything, you know you need just ask, don’t you?”
‘I need you to sleep,” she deflects. ‘I worry about you.’
I grin. “What a waste of your time.’
Turning, I make a note of her mood. She clearly needs a little more attention than I can provide at this point. I take the tiled steps to the fourth floor instead of utilising the lift, eager to stretch out my muscles with the incline. The sun from the east floods the side of the house, inviting its warmth and a view of the horizon and gardens. I’m certain it was Jimmy’s way of showcasing his wealth. An addition for guests of the parties he often held. On the contrary, to showcase The Family’s wealth. Such terminological inexactitude sealed his death sentence.
In my suite, I drag my gaze over the beautiful redhead sprawled out naked on top of my black silk bedding. She may wake to join me when she hears the spray, although she indulged in a few too many wines with Aurora last night before I ordered her to sober up, so perhaps she’s in a deep alcohol sleep, again.
It’s not often I allow her to sleep in my room, but last night, after seeing that sweet teenage girl so willingly drop to her knees, I needed more attention. Aurora, of course, didn’t care less that I monopolised our shared woman for the night.
Removing my jeans, I walk into the marble shower and wash the guilt from my skin. Massaging my taut muscles, I release the tension in my thighs, among other places.
After dressing in a charcoal two-piece suit, I stare at myself in the mirror, fixing my tie with a silver clip. Scowling at the blue eyes staring back at me, I move away from him before self-indulgent bullshit ghosts into my mind and the lingering image of my brother, beaten and bloody, changes the course of this day. Such thoughts should stay in the basement. I brush the lapel of my jacket, straighten, and casually stride down the hallway.
I enter Jimmy’s office—my office—and head straight for the cabinet, finding a small smile for my impending company.
Within seconds, good man, there is a knock at my door. ‘Whiskey, Marius?” I ask as invitation to enter. Preparing two despite having no answer, I pour generously.
He walks in. “No, it’s a bit early—’
Cutting him off, I set the glass down as he sits before moving around to my wing-back chair. He accepts the whiskey, of course.
Taking a seat, I lean back, lift my calf to my knee, and sip the liquor. “It is never too early. What have you found out about our little Fawn?’
He dips down below the desk before pulling out a file as thick as the damn bible, and my forehead tightens immediately at its ominous presence. Marius runs his hands through his sparse greying hair, a habitual movement, I imagine, as he has so little left to muse.
He flicks through the file, and I nurse my glass in wait. “Well, I got the results back and found her,’ he confirms. ‘Her name is Fawn Eva Harlow. She is eighteen. She is Nerrock’s daughter, Mr Butcher. There was a lot to work through, though. More than I had time for last night, but she lived with her mother, hippy type, living in a caravan. Then she was moved into foster care.’
I lean across the desk and retrieve a photo of the girl from when she was approximately my nieces’ age, four or so, towards me. I scan the image of her tiny frame, shoulders curled in on herself, making her body smaller than it should be.
A memory from long ago, its recall strange, flashes behind my eyes. It hasn’t accosted me in many years. I guess this young girl reminds me of her, of someone who once haunted me. I touch the time-healed scar on my shoulder blade, now tattooed with vines. As I raise my whiskey to my lips, the fumes somewhat draw me from that reverie.
When I really study Fawn’s young face, she doesn’t bear any resemblance to the face that now blurs around the edges with that dissolving memory. I shut that bullshit right down before giving it any more attention.
I focus on Fawn’s dual-coloured irises—sceptical.
Me too, my girl. Me too.
I sip my whiskey.
He continues talking as I study this tiny girl, who may be the key to hunting down the man we have been searching for since he organised the attack on my sister-in-law. My brother deserves his revenge.
But then, Fawn wandered through my gates. I sneer at the name. ‘Hippy type,’ Marius said. Goddamn mother named her sweet baby girl little deer.
Well, this little deer strolled right into the mouth of the wolf. A pretty slice of bait with Dustin’s blood. Not enough to bring him out of hiding as he cares more about himself than his four daughters—five now. But alas… a baby is growing in her young womb. If that child is a boy—Dustin’s heir—I think we may have ourselves bait that is too appealing for him to pass up, too important, forcing him out of the shadows, where my brother can finally cut him from ball-sack to skull.
“There are recordings too,” Marius says, interrupting my thoughts. He slides a USB drive towards me. ‘Recordings from statements by the police. It seems her mother shot herself while the girl was at home. I haven’t watched the footage.”
Her mother shot herself.
Her father is absent.
I can use this.
Use her neglect to my advantage. “Anything from the past twelve months?” I ask.
He shrugs nervously. “I haven’t got to them yet.’
“I will look them over,” I state, placing the photo on the desk and leaning back with my whiskey in hand, the idea of keeping her close, flirting with my mind.
He looks at me strangely, and I return his gaze with a smile, the kind that is calm but not kind. “There are hours and hours of footage,” he presses, sipping his drink, feigning enjoyment with a hum as the liquor probably scorches his untrained throat. “I am more than happy to—’
“I need it done soon. The girl is living in my house. I won’t be letting her out of my sight, but I need to know everything about her. So, I’ll work through half. You work through the other. How does that sound?’ It wasn’t a question, and he knows that. I eye the extensive file.
We need to be sure of her intentions.
Suspicion is the pillar of control. The thing that keeps me several steps ahead. After Jimmy’s execution, my team spent months going through his affairs. We found files of operations I had no part in. No knowledge of. No control of. Human trafficking. A weapons deal with Indonesia, managed by Fawn’s long-lost father. We took Dustin’s warehouse and gained control of the operation, but it was a shitshow, and we have been trying to keep our relationship with the Preman solid, which is why I will be entertaining them this week… but I feel their alliances are with him. Suspect they are safe-housing him in Jakarta right now.
This girl could be working for them…
A distraction and a burden.
Finally, in Jimmy’s suite, the suite I now occupy, I found documentation outlining a self-funded and managed facility for lung cancer research. It appears our Jimmy had stage three Adenocarcinoma.
I sip the whiskey, the scent and taste somewhat a reminder of him. A man I have both affection for and imagine digging up and slaughtering all over again.
I remember how eager he was to go down fighting, classy, and proud to the moment my little brother drove his nose bone into his brain. He was never going to let a common nuisance such as cancer bring him to his knees. Then comes the images of my brother tied to a chair, blood streaming down his face, the talons of betrayal wrapping around his eyes.
Ignoring the images and the man in front of me now flicking through Fawn’s stack of documents, I open my laptop and insert the USB drive, intent on sourcing information about her foster family, the people around her, anyone who could be traced back to an association with my syndicate.
Within a few moments, I’m staring at her—at Fawn. At a recording from a witness room, the view of her tiny frame, maybe ten, captured from a camera opposite and above her. She fidgets with the long ends of her hair, and even in the sepia-toned footage, it still looks like snow—so light it’s almost white.
THE OFFICER opposite her tilts his head, pen braced and ready against a notebook. “Where were you when the gun went off?’ When she doesn’t reply, he tries again, ‘Fawn?” She looks up from her hair. “Where were you, sweetheart?” he repeats.
‘With my mum,’ she whispers. “With the butterfly.’
He leans back in his chair as he says, “The butterfly? And where is the butterfly kept?” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Is it in your room?”
“Butterflies live in trees. They come out of cocoons. They get to live two lives. One as a caterpillar and one as a butterfly,” she says in an almost schooling tone, a hint of surprise he asked such an obvious question.
HER TONE FORCES a quick chuckle from me, seeing strength in her before I decide this is mostly useless information. I don’t need to know how her mother died. I crack my knuckles before finding a document detailing her family situation before her mother’s suicide.
I lift my whiskey glass, inhaling the fumes before swallowing the liquor, a burn chasing the cool.
After two hours of perusing, I know the girl lived in a caravan on the ocean in Carnarvon. Her mother had several arrests for trespassing. It seems she was quite the activist, living on the dole and setting her pretty daughter up to be wolf bait.
Fucksake, Fawn.
Terrible name.
“I have footage here from three months ago,” Marius says, spinning his laptop to face me.
I gaze at the footage of Fawn—looking the same age as she does now—in a similar witness room. However, this time, the man opposite her has his arms folded across his chest as he sits, swaying impatiently, slumped back in his chair, its rear legs taking most of his weight. He clearly doesn’t give a shit what she has to say.
“LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT. They’re not your drugs?’
She plays with the ends of her hair. “They aren’t mine, as in I didn’t buy them.’
“You didn’t buy them?’ He chuckles, condescension clear in his tone, his posture. “But your pretty little nose snorted them.’
She shakes her head slowly, in a way that might suggest the information isn’t there, and she is trying to shake it free. “I told you, I don’t remember.’ A slight hint of anger flares through her when she slams her palm on the table. ‘Are you seriously grilling me about the drugs? What about fucking Benji?’
He stops swinging on his chair. “You’re high now.”
She shrinks back. Wraps her skinny arms around her middle, cuddling herself tightly. ‘Yes.’
MY FISTS SUDDENLY ACHE. My fingers are balled tight, my previously broken knuckles taut and shifting with the intensity of my grip. I relax them. Crack them.
This is distasteful business.
Something niggles at the boundaries of my resolve, an emotion I rarely indulge for strangers—disappointment.
The questions now are… Is she an addict?
Who the hell is Benji?
Is this footage fake? Planted by Dustin.
Perhaps for a moment, her slight resemblance to that girl from my past caused hints of concern for her. A misguided, misplaced feeling. Or perhaps her mother’s downfall reminds me of my own. Or the rotten luck she has encountered in her young eighteen years on this Earth made me give a shit.
Or her body language in that footage.
It fucking screams victim.
She could easily be an addict, being paid handsomely to act the victim, to distract me. “She’s an addict,” I say, no, spit out, startling Marius.
“This surprises you?” he asks. Now, that assumption isn’t polite. I raise my eyes slowly to meet his, watching him shrink down into his seat. He murmurs, “I only mean that she is—’
Finished with him, I say through a warning smile, ‘Did little Lucy get my birthday card?’
If eyes could blanch, his just did. ‘Yes. She said thank you. You know we appreciate everything you do for our family.’
‘Of course.’ I gesture to the door. ‘Thank you for your time, Marius.’ He’ll be at the bottom of Stormy River if he ever glances at me like that again. As he collects the documents, I demand smoothly, “Leave them.” He drops the paperwork, but the confusion shifting through his eyes is obvious. ‘You look confused.’
‘Ah, no. Have a nice day, Mr Butcher,’ he says as he quickly leaves the room.
‘And you.’ Leaning back in my seat, I stare at the paused screen, at Fawn gripping herself protectively. So fragile. So uncertain.
And yet, there is a small snap to her, too.
A hint of Cosa Nostra blood.
Between the women I call mother, the one I call wife, and the one who sucks my dick, I am surrounded by the strongest, most powerful female creatures on two legs. Powerful women are all I have known. Yet, here I am distracted by this fragile thing…
What to do?
I’m not a soft-hearted man. Not particularly generous, either. My predecessor was far more giving. So, what is this? Disappointment in her perhaps, because of her bloodline? Because she is a Cosa Nostra princess, whether she was brought up in this world or not—that stands for something. She should have more control. More… Fuck. Honour.
Glancing at the clock, I note that I have a few hours before I should be at the warehouse. A better mood is called for. I hit the intercom. “Que, send Lorna up.”
I down the rest of my whiskey. Butchers have hotter heads than most, but my temper is mostly mastered. There is simply no place for it in my position. My brothers aren’t quite as schooled. So, while Max is a slave to anger and Bronson embraces it, I, for the most part, command it.
One thing that sits like salt on my gums, though, is being wrong. Tricked. Lied to. And I didn’t peg her as an addict. So, she is either a spy, or she royally fucked-up—got high, got pregnant, and now needs help.
Or someone hurt her.
That’s not a pleasing consideration.
My hands twitch.
Her entire life displeases me.
The mother shooting herself.
Taking drugs and putting herself in danger.
The police’s response to her—disrespectful.
Lorna draws my attention towards the door as she walks through it, still in only her pink robe. Her presence resonates in my cock, her mouth and body has been used in so many ways to please me. I stroke the growing bulge that delights in her. A better mood is definitely needed.
Squeezing my erection hard, I hiss at the image of the little deer. Bare feet move across the carpet and circle my desk, coming to a stop in front of me. Lorna releases the cord on her robe, the silk curtains falling apart and revealing her long creamy body, full womanly breasts, and bright-red pussy hair that matches the wavy, long locks flowing over her shoulders.
Lowering her hooded hazel eyes to watch as I palm my cock, she flirts, “What has you so wound up, my Lord Mayor?”
I widen my knees expectantly, and she drops to hers in an instant, and all I can now imagine is how willingly Fawn did the same for me just yesterday.
Too willing.
Lorna’s hands replace my own as she draws my zipper down and releases my cock. She licks up the underside, sending teasing heat that causes my muscles to twitch. It’s not enough. I don’t want to be fucking teased right now. Gritting my teeth, I inhale through my nose, trying to relax.
A fucking addict.
Someone hurt her.
Fisting Lorna’s hair, I work her head down my entire length. She presses her palms to my thighs, trying to control the pace, but I push through her resistance. I rip her up and force her down, flicking my attention to the monitor, momentarily fuelled by the image of the fragile deer cradling herself. I groan as I use Lorna’s head to my liking, ignoring her small whimpers of uncertainty, focused on pumping the disappointment straight from my balls.
Her throat and tongue pulse, squeezing my cock as I drive it into her mouth. As the taut muscles in my thighs tense up, my balls prickle and squeeze.
Lorna moans around my cock, and the reverie of the small sound that slipped from my little deer’s lips when I stroked inside her cheek, flashes in my mind.
Madonna Mia.
Tearing my gaze away from the image on my laptop, I stare heatedly down at Lorna’s watery eyes, black puddles of makeup clinging to her lashes.
She closes them under my stare, focusing on her task. She starts to suck me like a fucking machine, hollowing her mouth as I drag her up and loosening her throat as I plunge her deep. I take her mouth and throat until my balls slap her chin. Fuck. So deep.
“Good girl,” I hiss approvingly, feeling the smallest relief at her obedience. I release my tight hold on her hair, stroking the strands down her crown. “Such a pretty mouth.” She cups my balls and fixes her pink lips around the tip of my cock, working the ridge. I buck as sensation pools like molten lava in my abdomen. “Take every drop. Lick me clean. Don’t disappoint me,” I state, unable to stop my gaze from drifting to the monitor, instantly feeling heat fire into my veins, billowing through me.
I shudder, my cock exploding into the warm hole of her mouth. She works every drop out until my thighs contract and I groan, sucked to the point of near discomfort. I pull her away from my cock and drop my head back, breathing in and out roughly.
She’s quiet, waiting until I’m ready to praise her. I lift my head to find her face, her red, puffy lips, and big hopeful eyes. Caressing her cheek with my knuckles, I soften my expression. “That was perfect.”
She beams.
I grab her jaw, inspecting it, and she squirms with pleasure. I imagine her cunt dripping at the feel of my tenderness. Staring at her lips, I say, “Is your jaw sore?”
She shakes her head slowly, seemingly delighted she can manage my needs. “No. How do you feel?”
“Better. Are you on call today?”
She nods, her words strained as she struggles to talk with her face still in my grip. “Yes. But it’s been quiet of late. Thanks to the efforts of our Lord Mayor.”
A hint of a grin hits my mouth. “You enjoy calling me that, don’t you?”
“The three of us have worked hard for it,” she says, a pink blush hitting her cheeks. It is such an interesting colour on her, every inch of her skin a slight rosy hue, the softest of the colours—perhaps second to white. To be the fool who views those traits as humble and compliant, who attempts to lead her. She would end their career within seconds. She’s a fox, her red hair and beauty drawing in her prey only to maul them the instant they go in for a pet.
“Yes. You have worked very hard.” I release her jaw, rolling my gaze over the strip of flesh between her parted robe. “You may stay here next weekend,” I offer. “Aurora and I will both show you our appreciation. Thirty representatives from Indonesia are joining us this week, and they will surely misbehave.’
A salacious grin hits her lips. ‘And we know how much you like seeing people behave inappropriately.’
I narrow my eyes in warning. ‘You know how hard it makes me, so have your pretty holes ready. I won’t be gentle with you.’ Smoothing her hair down her crown, I say, ‘Aurora can kiss you all better after I’m done.’
My words seem to cause a shiver to rush up her spine, excitement in each little shudder. She climbs to her feet, revealing the criss-cross pattern on her knees. Leaving me to my business, she sashays as she goes. I twist back to the monitor briefly before slamming the laptop shut.
A fucking addict.
Well, not under my roof.
