DON’T FEEL.
Pain shoots through my fingers as they lose blood while I choke the handle of my Glock, my bones swelling beneath taut skin, the gun cracking under the pressure, and I lose sight of her…
I. Lose. Sight. Of. Her.
Aurora shouts from behind my back, ‘Follow that car! Keep an eye on them.’ The sound of her heels approaching me is the last thing before everything goes deadly quiet, as though the air itself has crystallised around me.
I lose focus.
Losing her—
She’s gone.
The gun shakes harder. That I can feel. The sight still pointed at the end of the driveway as cars flood out. That I can see. But no noise. There must be commotion. Shouting. Tires.
I hear nothing.
‘This is the last thing.’
‘This is the last thing. I will drag God himself to hell before I let you hurt again.’
‘I will protect you.’
‘I will choose you.’
‘You have to trust me.’
Don’t feel!
Rage like pure evil boils through my veins, red hot lava, burning up everything rational as it surges into my muscles, feeding them with volatile need. Need to hurt. Need to fight. All the ‘don’t feel,’ orders and lessons in remaining unreadable, in control, in being the wolf, the heir, the District Mayor, the family man, the controlled man—
I don’t fucking care.
I. Fucking. Snap.
Growling as tears flood my eyes, their presence creeping dark pools of hatred across my vision, backing me into a corner of near volatility and vulnerability and—Fuck!
Someone touches my shoulder and when I whirl around, they punch my wrist, knocking the gun from my grasp. I cut my fist through the air, throwing a faceless person backwards.
There are soldiers all around me now, blurred shadows in my peripherals that want the calm Clay Butcher. The reliable one. He’s not here—I don’t fucking care.
They let her leave.
They had one damn job!
I roar, ‘You fuckers let her out of your sight!’ I charge a body, jabbing quickly. Movement behind me jolts my attention. Ducking, I spin low and punch a solid wall of muscles three times until it falls away.
Someone else grabs my arms to stop me, and I still. Straighten. Taller than the guard now wincing, I use my weight and drop my fist hard into his face. Another soldier at my flank attempts to lock my arms behind me, to control me.
Who gave that order?
I growl and fight back.
Hearing my anger.
In my head.
But nothing fills my ears.
The fuckers get a grip on me. Three soldiers bracing my arms behind my back while others shift around in front of me. I can barely see them, the who, not important.
Bucking and gyrating as another body fights to restrain me, I tense, flex my muscles, and throw the fuckers forward. They fall into a pile ahead of me. I’m a fucking animal right now. Bared teeth.
Deaf.
Blind. Rage.
Suddenly, pitch-black coats my irises, and I fall forward on my knees, a hard knock to the back of my head stealing the strength and sight from me.
I shake the hazy dark from my vision, slowly regaining a grainy view of the parking lot.
Growling at the gravel, I try to push up with my hands, but I’m kicked in the side, the boot of someone throwing me over.
I’ll kill them.
I roll onto my back as fuckers circle me, and one face comes into view. I should have known.
Only one man can control his fist, the meticulous placement, the precision of pressure, the exact amount of both needed to render a man immobile.
Luca Butcher.
‘Calm, son.’ My father drops to his haunches, blood spilling from his nose. Compliments of me, I presume. ‘That’ll do.’ He grips my shoulder as I regain my senses, hearing the calamity of my men hit me square in the forehead. Hearing Aurora shouting orders. The cars leaving.
The parking lot emptying.
My father is still gripping my shoulder… And I’m certain he has never held me for such a time. And he is staring at me again with that uncomfortable intent. With regret. And empathy.
I frown at him. What does that look mean to me? It reminds me of an eighteen-year-old boy after his first kill, after murdering a young girl. Of being rejected such empathy. It retells a moment of need, of wanting such understanding.
‘Don’t feel.’
‘You’re a leader.’
‘A leader is always alone.’
Perhaps he never said that. It was teachings from the Cosa Nostra. It was my mother… And it was my old Don. It was Jimmy Storm. And I made his words synonymous with my father’s, but they never were… were they?
Jimmy encouraged the segregation.
And I, I hid in it.
Christ.
I squeeze my eyes shut to the sensation of his fist gripping my shoulder. I’ve lost my mind. My absolute control, my logic, rationalities, utterly waring with my emotions. ‘Max,’ I hiss through my teeth.
‘He will keep her safe, son.’
Seeing only red in my mind, I open my eyes to find Bronson has moved in beside my father, a look of both volatility and pride firing within his glowing green gaze.
‘Well, well,’ he almost sings. ‘There you are, my beautiful brother. And what a sight for sore eyes you are.’
‘We have to find them,’ I say darkly.
‘We don’t have time to chase them around the city, brother. So get up. Wipe your pretty suit off. And let’s go get our brothers… and our girl at the campsite.’
