by Nicci Harris
This is a soldier-free interaction.
And we've kept our end of the deal.
Jimmy and Butch take the few steps needed to embrace and kiss our guests like well-mannered Sicilians. Although I find it distasteful, I move forward to do it too, and I do it with confidence. It's an insecure man who doesn’t plant those kisses firm and hard. There is often aggression in that greeting. A silent show of power; we can just as easily kiss their ugly faces as we can slice them the length of their smiles.
It's all the same to us.
"Marco," Jimmy coos, his tone welcoming and warm and anything but.
"Jimmy, it’s been too long." He greets Butch and then us, the gold in his teeth flashing as he smiles widely.
I size our company up, noting their skills, calculating our plan. Beside Marco is his twin brother, Paul. Both men are overweight, but they're strong. On the other side of Marco, with gold rings on his fingers and dense, curly, black chest hair visible between the V of his white shirt, is his right-hand man, Gabriele 'The Fist' Russo. He's been known to one punch men to death on several occasions, and I've often wondered how he would stack up against Butch.
As they all exchange pleasantries, catching up on the latest deals, business, and women, or in The Fist's case, boys, I slowly meander around the abattoir, leaving my brothers feigning engagement beside Butch. If Bronson had been the one to step away, the pricks might have suspected something. But I'm the uninterested Butcher. The one who appears bored at most meetings, and I know this because the greasy wops have said as much to my face.
"I suppose you heard what happened? Se?" Jimmy finally gets to the fucking point.
"-stolen on the road," Marco mutters with a tsk, and I move a little closer, still pretending to be preoccupied with my own thoughts.
"Se, I'm here to offer you some work. I need five good men to accompany my nephew Salvatore to India." Salvatore steps forward, pride on his smug face as he gets the first important job in his weasel existence. "That is where the product has landed."
Jimmy wants to keep us on the front line while important things are taking place in the District. While Clay works his way up into the spotlight, we need to keep things peaceful on the streets. It's what Butch wants too. To keep us all together in this city he has built alongside Jimmy. And it's what I want. I want to be close to her.
Peering over my shoulder, I see The Fist's lips twitch with a smirk and then it's gone. At that, I move behind them, making a fair amount of noise so they feel comfortable with my presence. Obvious. Unthreatening.
"Your boy still bored of shop talk, Luca? Or is he thinking about that cute, barely legal pussy he's been seen with lately?" Macro sneers, and I'm so very glad he does. Coming up behind him, I sling my garrotte wire over his head and pull him with me as I step backwards. I hear gun shots from Clay and Salvatore. See Bronson pull his Glock out and release bullet after bullet into The Fist's chest and cock. Am aware of Xander now holding Paul with a machete to his throat, forcing him watch as we destroy his firm.
Jimmy and Butch stand coolly and still, observing the chaos like fucking mafia kings.
The fat fuck flailing around in front of me howls, his hands clawing at the wire shredding his flesh. Blood drips over his glistening gold chains and slithers down his shirt like little snakes before splattering onto the floor.
Jimmy steps forward like the reaper himself, and I make certain not to kill Marco before he can hear what he has to say. "Have you ever had blood drained from your body before? I often give blood, I'm that type of man. But I've never been drained of it. I hear it's quite a spectacular sensation. Your heart rate becomes frantic. Head beats like a drum. You lose all senses. My pretty face will be the last one you see." He moves in closer. "If you tell me where they landed, I will give you one life."
I loosen the wire so he can speak. "Trichy," he manages to choke out between bile and blood.
Jimmy leans in and kisses Marco's forehead. "You'll only steal from the Family once." Then he straightens and nods at me. "Remove his head."
Marco lets out a loud howl, his back vibrating on my chest as I saw at his flesh, through his carotid artery, blood blanketing the both of us. He is silenced completely when I sever his vocal cords. I keep rocking the wire from side to side, slicing through muscles and tendons and vessels. I grit my teeth as what he said about Cassidy repeats in my mind. As I think about how he's probably beat one out fantasising about her small tits and petite physique, which, yes, to some, may appear barely legal - he likes them young.
My eyes see red.
I keep sawing.
Once I feel the wire snag on his spine, I drop his body like a sack of potatoes. I taste the fuck's blood in my mouth. Feel it sliding down my forehead and chin. This isn't usually my way. But after spending last night alone with only Cassidy's scent, I don't feel much like myself. So maybe I can compartmentalise like my brother can.
Maybe.
I look up from the bloodied mess as Paul wails with grief. In my peripherals, I can make out that most of his men are now merely bodies spread out around him. I pull out my gun and shoot between the flaps of Marco's neck, aiming for his exposed, crimson-coated spine.
I finish the job and walk the dripping head over to Paul. When I place it at his feet, the sliced and hacked neck flesh, gummy and wet, slaps the concrete, smearing a wing of blood in front of him.
Falling to his knees, Paul cradles the severed head of his twin as if it were a baby. We all stand by and allow him to grieve.
After a few minutes, his time is up.
"I gave him one life. You. And now, I'd like to offer you the same job," Jimmy says smoothly. "Five men. India. Get my product back."
Tears fall quickly from him. They don't make me roll my eyes; instead, for a moment, they make me glance away. Marco got off easy. Paul, on the other hand, will have to work alongside the very people who killed his men and with me, the one who decapitated his brother in front of his very eyes. It's a reality I would never live. I wouldn't drop to my knees while my brother's murderer breathed the same air as me.
As the car pulls away from the curb, I study every flourish of the cursive writing on my finger, which is now tainted with track lines painted in another man's blood.
Ardent One.
In Latin it means 'to burn'. And she does burn me down to my core. I inhale deeply and exhale even louder. The shrill wailing of screams now gone only seems to make the silence more vivid. More unnatural.
As the car cruises slowly through the streets, its tyres spinning, rolling, its movement becomes rhythmic. The engine hums. Soothes. And I think about hazel freckles. Slouching into the seat, my head drops back against the rest. I close my eyes.
And I see hers full of fear.
Cassidy
* * *
The first time I saw this house, I was in awe of it. Even though its grandeur hasn't dwindled, another feeling holds more prominence - a homey feeling. When I step out from the passenger side, Carter is already there, holding the door open for me as though I am some kind of princess.
I stare up at Casa Butcher. It is hard to believe that the single-liner, brute and boxer, sex god, gym junky, rugby playing Max Butcher also has enough space in his talent toolbox to be. . . creative. I mean, that is what this is. He's an artist. My Max.
Ugh. What can't that man do?
Staring up at it as if for the first time, I take in the steep white walls lit up by external lights and the modernist shape and feel. It's impressive. Not one feature is overlooked; that man likes perfection. That man is perfection.
Grinning to myself, I wander up the steps and through the front door. A man, suited in all black and holding it open, smiles as I move past him.
I wave at him. "Hi."
The Butcher guards are very polite and conservative, almost as though they have very little personality, but I doubt that is the case. They are just professionals.
As I round the sleek black and white kitchen, I see the reflection
of the television lights on the hallway walls. Knowing that means one of the boys is awake, I wander down the corridor.
If I thought for a second that Victoria or Butch might be sitting in front of that television, I wouldn't have dared to join them, but they are mostly out of town, at hotels or one of the other houses on their vast real estate portfolio. Despite that being unusual, I never thought too much about it. But right now, I do. I mean, it makes sense that she - Victoria - that vapid woman, would purposely keep Butch from his sons. She must get swallowed up by their presence.
When I see the relaxed, large, and gorgeous form of Bronson Butcher laying on the couch, watching The Bachelor, I laugh to myself. "I can't believe what I'm seeing."
"I know, it's so romantic." He feigns a coo, not moving a muscle.
Rounding the couch and sitting on the single recliner, I'm all of a sudden desperate to tell him he's going to be an uncle. Of course, I can't. Not until I tell Max that he's going to be a dad. Although Bronson is an enigma - both charming and easy going, and dark and unpredictable - he's also the one person I'm positive will be nothing but excited about this baby. It's the reaction I want.
Need.
He looks so much like Max and strangely, so very different. While Max is closed off, Bronson seems welcoming and daring. Max has black, white, and red tattoos. Bronson has vibrant designs covering almost every inch of his skin. I stare at his tattooed forearm where a purple clock and owl is etched into the surface.
Still unmoving, his hands tucked under his thick, strong biceps and his boots crossed up on the cushion, he says, "Did you know that Max named Xander?"
I pull my legs up, crossing them in front of me. "No."
He doesn't divert his eyes from the television. "Yeah. Mum couldn't be bothered. Personally, I wanted to name him Ned, after Ned Kelly. But Max wanted it to be Xander. His name has a loose translation - 'defender of men'. Max liked that idea at the age of five. We practically raised that kid together. Like emperor penguins, ya know? The guys all get together and look after their young."
Are we talking about babies? Can he read minds? My palms get moist, so I rub them on my legs. Bronson Butcher never ceases to amaze me to the point of near speechlessness. "Emperor penguins?" is all I manage to say.
"Yep." His bright, opal-blue eyes shift to me and he grins, his lips a tick of mischief. "They're really good fathers."
Oh my gawd. How does he know? I need an aluminium foil hat to stop him from infiltrating my thoughts. Or does that only work with aliens? Maybe some garlic? Or silver?
Focus, Cassidy.
My lungs begin to strain. "Does Max know?" I breathe hard.
When his eyes drop to my belly, his whole face smiles. "Know what? About emperor penguins? No. But I make it my business to know everything about them."
A laugh of relief bursts from me, but I have no idea why. Shaking my head, feeling tongue tied, I take in his beautiful, comforting presence. I don’t know how he knows. . . Ugh. Yes, I do. Carter. I frown at Bronson. "Carter told you?"
Grinning, he states, "He had to report it to one of us." I want to be mad, but I'm not. Because Bronson's smile fills my heart with the courage it needs to tell Max.
"Is Max in his room?"
"He's exhausted. Go easy on him."
Beaming from cheek to cheek, I stand to leave but stop abruptly. Peering back at Bronson still casually slung over the couch, I say, "One day, you're going to tell me why you're single."
He chuckles. "Emperor pigeons."
I laugh again. I have no idea what that means.
Taking the staircase, which I now know is made of Jarrah wood, I navigate my way up to the third floor and through the carpeted hallway to Max's room.
The best part about sneaking into his room at near midnight is being able to watch him sleep for a few moments. It's been a fascination of mine since the first time we slept in the same bed. When he's awake, there is no mistaking who is in charge.
But when he's asleep, he's almost - exposed.
The window is open, but there is no moon tonight, so it’s just a black square dotted in what looks like fireflies spread across the horizon. The only light floods in around his bathroom door, but it's enough for me to see him.
I make my way over to his big bed, noticing that he's sleeping on my side with his head resting on my pillow. I smile harder. I breathe in Max Butcher, dark-brown hair, tanned skin, and the tattoos I like to trace with my fingertip. My Max.
I slide my shoes off quietly, pull my dress over my head, and crawl onto the mattress in my underwear. My nails lightly graze his thigh as I move in close to him.
Suddenly, he jolts up, seizes my throat, and throws me under him. Pressing his heavy body to mine, he pushes the air from my chest, leaving me gasping for it. As fear and arousal swirl through me, my pulse beats hard against his hot, tight grip.
It's me!
But I can’t speak with his fist squeezing the air from me. I was stupid to sneak in here. Because taking a sleeping Max Butcher by surprise might not have been the best idea. I didn't even think about it. Didn't consider his defensive stance on an unknown person in his bed.
He measures me up. His eyes are thin black cuts set into his hard expression. As the big arm pinning me down shakes with restraint, Max slowly comes to. Blinking at me, realisation gathering in his mind, he loosens his hold on my neck but doesn't move his hand away. When his lips press against mine, I catch some breath from within his mouth.
Oh my God.
"Am I dreaming?" He hums - raspy and deep - into our kiss.
"No, Max. I'm here," I whisper, feeling a tidal wave of love. As a tear slides down my cheek, I just feel too much. In deep. And while the heat from his body is so intense it's like I'm being smothered by the sun, his mouth as it moves on mine is gentle with adoration.
Closing my eyes, I hum and focus on his soft lips as they massage mine. I think about Max Butcher. Only him.
Cupping his rough jaw, I deepen our kiss.
As his fingers twitch around my throat, he exhales a rough, lust filled growl. "Don't fuck with me."
"I'm not." I breathe against his lips. "Take him away, Max. Please. Take it all away with your touch. Your smell." Thrumming on my leg now is his steel-like erection, and I start to pant into his kiss, wanting it, needing it. Without hesitation. "Max, I want you."
Flipping us over so that I'm on top of him, he pulls me to straddle his hips. He releases my throat, and I inhale sharply, not realising that he had still been squeezing ever so slightly.
God, he smells good. We don't break our kiss.
As if he doesn't believe my conviction, he states, "Stay on top of me, Cassidy. I don't trust myself with you tonight. Not while you're saying shit like that."
My fingers slide up his strong chest and into his messy hair while one of his hands cradles the back of my head and the other strokes down my spine to cup my backside.
I slowly slide my tongue the length of his lips, invoking a groan of pent-up yearning from within his chest. "I trust you with me. I'm sorry I forgot for a while-"
He cuts me off. "I'm not doing this, Cassidy. Not again."
"Please," I whimper. "Take me. I'm yours. If I'm yours, then no one else can touch me. Make me yours again."
He growls at that. "You have always been mine!"
"Show me," I say, my voice barely a whisper, a flutter against his mouth, but no doubt a siren in his soul. I am desperate for him. Desperate to have him consume me until all the mess in my mind is swallowed up by his being. Incinerated in the fire he lights in my heart with his loving embrace and possessive touch.
He rolls me under him, a smooth movement that leaves me pressed between his hard body and the mattress. His mouth works on mine. Lips gentle. Loving. When his tongue trails down my chin to my throat, tracing the beat of my rapid pulse, I tilt my head back. Combing my fingers through his hair, I press his lips to my skin harder and breathe heavily.
So heavy.
All of
it. The moment. The anticipation.
His movements are leisurely, his tongue savouring. As he licks down my chest to one of my breasts, he cups the other in the gentle, warm vice of his palm. He removes my bra and laps his tongue over my nipple, long and slow, and so gentle it's almost painful.
I want more.
My fists tighten in his dark-brown hair. My nipple is flicked over and over, bringing shockwaves of sensation to the delta between my thighs. I moan. The muscles between the lips of my sex squeeze at the emptiness in a silent plea.
But he's taking his time.
The casual exploration of his mouth on my breast is so excruciating in its tenderness, I want to cry. He slides down my body, his tongue tracing the ripples of my abdominal muscles. He dips lower. The anticipation of his mouth between my legs is so unbearable, I moan long and low and thrust my hips up. He growls with restraint. His biceps pulse.
But he denies my wordless plea, sliding his tongue down my thigh.
I melt into the soft sheets, my body jelly for him to consume and mould.
His tongue and breath are hot on my skin as he strokes down the full length of my leg. I buck when he gets to my foot. I squirm at the sensation of his tongue sliding down to my toes. "Mine," he murmurs, "Every inch of you, little one."
He moves on to my other leg, painting a hot, wet trail with his mouth and tongue.
My belly warms.
As he nears my sex with his hot mouth, I press my thighs together.
After being worshipped by him so thoroughly, I gasp when he rolls us over. He flips me around to face the other way and then places a hand on my back, pushing me down.
Oh God.
My cheek meets his taut, ribbed abdominal muscles. As he moves me until the silky skin of my thighs cup his rough jaw and my core is on his lips, my heart thrashes around inside my ribcage. I still have my knickers on, but that somehow makes the feel of his hot breath fanning the material between my legs even more intense.
