Chapter 2 Clay
CHAPTER TWO
clay
The noise in this basement is riotous.
The referee barks, the bell clangs, fists thud against bloody flesh, and I watch from my elevated platform.
My brother Max ducks and blocks like he’s batting flies at a Sunday lunch—an initiative of my sister-in-law Cassidy to keep us men from the darkness of our empire.
She tries.
And I had to change my previous plan to host this meeting on a Sunday.
Friday nights are perhaps better suited.
After all, as a Catholic man, Sunday should be a day of respite.
Here today, every member of our operation—Irish, Sicilian, Calabrian—all expected to fill this hall once a week where a member of each firm fights an opponent of my choosing.
Last week, I had a disgruntled Capo beat his boss to a bloody pulp, and there has never been more respect between them.
We bleed here.
We are family here.
“That Tuscan fuck versing Maxipad sucks!” Bronson laughs from beside me. “It’s almost unfair.”
“Yes,” I agree.
Today, I took an overly enthusiastic knife-job casualty and gave him the greatest of honours: to be bloodied by a Butcher.
See, he wants in—to be Made. This is how it happens.
A beat down. The initiation. He’s outclassed in every way.
In mass, in muscle, in motion. Max, all six-foot-four of him, floats across the canvas like he was born there.
And he practically was.
Max lures the guy in, lets him taste hope, then twists his torso, slips the punch, and counters with a right hook so surgical it’s a work of art.
Blood meets the air, its mist staining with my white shirt to mark the evening.
From up here, it seems choreographed, but Max has always scripted his violence. Unlike my other brothers, Bronson, who is unpredictable, or Xander, who leads with his heart, Max has always been meticulous.
We are alike in that way.
I sip my whiskey and then inhale my cigar, my vice, feeling the hiss of the ember as it draws closer to my lips.
Around me, the VIP section bristles with Capos and Underbosses—some born to blood, some baptized by loyalty, all call me Boss.
Half-naked women share cigarettes and laughter; gold-necked men in suits nod approvingly. The Sicilians in our corner shout instructions to Max, but he doesn’t take orders from anyone. He dominates. A lazy left fist for bait, then that hammer of a right.
I rest my ankle on my knee.
“Clay, you listening, old boy? How’s your hearing these days?” Bronson mocks. He’s worked through half the bar, slumped in a tailored suit, tattoos flashing from his open collar, hand anchored on my arm affectionately.
He squeezes.
I turn to look at him properly. His pupils are like hungry black holes, his smile stretched too wide, a jaw tic warning of mischief.
Of insanity.
Beside him sits his wife, Shoshanna—perfect posture, long dark hair, that tanned Egyptian skin, cradling a glass of water with two lime wedges, her eyes split between Bronson and the ring. She’s navigated our world longer than most, practically grew up with my brothers.
Bronson leans closer to me. “Anything you want me to handle before the wedding? Perhaps kill some bikers?”
I consider my whiskey glass for a moment, then study Bronson’s chipped front tooth. He has already been knuckles deep in the Stockyard Bikers twice this month over a pharmaceutical shipment.
Yet, that fractured tooth is from when he found a road train filled with underage girls smuggled from Indonesia. Docked in Darwin, driven south to The District. The men who met that delivery didn’t see morning.
Bikers.
Fuckers.
Since we took out their Sergeant at Arms more than a year ago, they have been poking around our dealings, presuming—assuming—we’ve grown soft.
‘The Butchers are domesticated,’ they have whispered into the wrong ears.
‘With the home renovations, wives, cribs, and wedding announcements, they’re going soft. ’
We aren’t softening at all.
We’re evolving—refining our operation into something Jimmy Storm couldn’t even comprehend. More disciplined. More lethal. More patient.
My District.
My fucking empire.
A legacy for my sons.
My eyes flick to Max, who is now whispering to his battered opponent. No threats, just facts. The Tuscan nods, alive but changed, and limps away.
Another lesson taught.
I’ll see he’s paid well for his time. There’s a euphoria in the pain and the money. Most never admit it. Blood, endorphins, pain, and the exchange of cash.
He took his beating well. I approve. If he shows his loyalties on the District streets, I’ll have him take his vows. I don’t know what saint is suitable yet; he’ll have to show his colours first.
“I’m not worried about the bikers,” I say. “Let them be menaces. It only allows us to clean up, to be gentlemen. We need the cops in our pocket for when the Family arrives, se? We need them prepared to lie to the Feds.” I hear so much of my old Don in my voice.
“Alceu and the other fuckers are coming then?”
“I may have shamed them with the divorce, but they will come. It would be a great insult to me and to my bride if they did not. I will assume their presence.”
“Fuck ‘em, beautiful brother.”
Yes, I may have once felt that way—fuck ‘em. But not anymore. Not since I signed the divorce papers, not since I held my sons, and realised that I command respect.
I have the sons.
I have the blood.
And I have been manipulated into believing my power in the District is on account of my allegiance to Jimmy Storm, my arranged marriage to his daughter—Aurora.
A family that has no Mafia blood; Jimmy was no more than a poor man’s son, with a ruthless ambition that found him up a casino ladder with a great vantage point.
Fucker.
“No wars before the wedding. Don’t give the Feds a reason to go poking around when half of the world’s organised crime families are in one fucking location,” I say. “Control the streets, control the city, Se?”
“You sound like Jimmy,” Bronson mutters.
I know. I press my cigar into the ashtray in front of me and lean backwards, smoothing down my tie. “Take the gold. It doesn’t matter what mine it comes from.”
“Fucking hell.” Bronson laughs, and I deadpan. “You do like the sound of your own voice, don’t you, old boy? Are you this much fun with Fawn while she’s trying to plan the most important day of her life?”
I lift an eyebrow at him.
“Poor girl. She’s gonna need big brother Bronson to bring the fun to this wedding planning. Don’t shoot the man who starts messaging her, okay? It’s just me.”
Fun? Impractical.
Then, I recall a moment from last week. My sweet girl spread wedding magazines across our dining table, her dual-coloured gaze beaming with excitement.
She'd pointed to a floral arrangement—white and cream and stunning, just like her—and said, "What about these for the bridesmaid bouquets, Sir? They remind me of the coast in winter, when everything is cream and white.”
Christ—I had merely nodded, scanning the company details in the bylines, calculating the security implications of having unknown delivery vehicles at the hotel and cathedral on our wedding day.
"Sir," she'd said softly, placing her small hand over mine. "You're doing it again."
"What is that, sweet girl?" I'd asked, though I knew precisely what she meant. I was being practical, and not… enthusiastic.
"That thing where you're physically here but your mind is running security protocols." She had studied me with a mixture of amusement and disappointment. "You don’t like me leaving the mansion without you, and you’re so busy at the moment.” She sighed. “This is supposed to be fun, Sir."
The slap of fists on flesh draws me back to the present, to the boxing match, and to Bronson’s smug expression as he watches me deep in thought.
Fucker.
Shoshanna clicks her glass down, her dark brow arching at her husband. “You just want to be the wedding planner, Nutcase. Admit it.”
Bronson grins. “Well, baby, you didn’t let me plan a big reception for us, and if I can’t butcher bikers, I’m going to need a creative outlet.” His hand drifts from my arm to Shoshanna’s thigh, where he paws her.
“Marry me again,” Bronson tells Shoshanna, in his own damn world. “A big wedding. I want to see you walk down the aisle, baby.”
“We are married, Nutcase,” she shoots back. “We don’t need a big wedding. We had a quiet one. It was peaceful.”
“Our little ceremony was fucking magnificent, but I want to be a groomzilla. Marry me again, baby!” He drops to one knee, and I sigh roughly at the spectacle. “I’ll wear something slutty for you. Chaps. Budgie smugglers. A cowboy hat. A mask. All at the same time.”
She drags him back to his seat. “Cut it out.”
“Cut what out?” he asks. “Just name it.”
“Oh my God.” She rolls her eyes, peering past him to where I sit, unimpressed. “Please let your brother help Fawn with the wedding—get this out of his system?”
Christ.
I mull it over. Bronson, for all his insanity, knows how to make women hold light smiles, to giggle, and it is effortless for him.
My world runs on precision, on control. But he’s right; my little deer deserves to enjoy this journey—the dress fittings, the cake tastings, flower arranging, all the frivolous endeavours that make young women smile.
But I've never been the man who brings laughter into a room.
I concede—I’ll allow Bronson to make her laugh while I make sure no one is arrested or bleeds on our wedding day. I turn to them, deadpan. “Madonna mia. Fine.”
A smirk hits the corner of Bronson’s lips. “You’ll approve my number then you controlling bastard?”
Ah, there it is.
He knows I have to approve every incoming number to her phone; it’s completely locked to unknown callers.
“I will,” is all I say.
Max climbs the steps to our level, joining our congregation.
Clasping me on the shoulder—sweat, whiskey, inevitability clinging to him— he taps me once.
That’s a damn embrace from Max. He must feel good after that fight.
He doesn’t enforce like he used to, doesn’t box professionally or even often anymore, because his wife Cassidy hates the violence.
Hates every little cut or smear of blood on him.
But boxing, corruption, and power are in our Butcher blood.
Now and then, he needs a taste of our legacy. He was always going to win.
Around us, the crowd thins until only Family remains. The real work begins, settling scores, forging alliances, handing out fat envelopes.
I drain my glass.
I used to think a leader is always alone, but my little deer taught me you cannot lead without people willing to follow—and accept.
I am not alone.
Not anymore.
Perhaps I never was.
That’s the problem with being the man at the top. Gravity works differently up here. The air is thinner, the consequences dire, the view too vast— I assumed the empire was mine to bear. One slip, and the entire structure comes down.
I look at my insane brother, who has always been there—blind as I was to see it before. Then at Max, reluctant as he is, never denies the Family.
And I have my sons and her. My little deer, who knows exactly what my evil looks like, who I am and endures me, anyway. She gives me what men like me should never touch: solace, acceptance, love, peace, and a smile that still strips the air out of my lungs.