Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
clay
Que, my houseman, with a draw almost as fast and precise as mine, opens the front door to the mansion, nodding respectfully. “Welcome home, Boss. Anything to report?”
“The Tuscan took his beating with grace. Give him a small inside job on the streets—let’s see how he plays.
” I enter, and he closes the door behind me.
I would happily have Que at a meeting, but he is far too busy.
He manages the house, organises the soldiers, and ensures everyone is in the right place at the right time with the right attitude.
“Of course, Boss.”
I continue through the lower level towards the staircase when hushed female voices sail from the right wing. Only a single wall lamp breaks the darkness, casting just enough light to navigate by.
I'm about to investigate the whispered conversation when something brushes my ankle. A soft meow stops me mid-stride. My little deer’s white cat circles my feet, oblivious that I nearly crushed her, demanding attention with each figure-eight around my legs.
I bend down and run my tattooed hand along her spine, feeling her arch into my touch, greedy for pressure.
Spoilt little thing, entitled, silly— still, I am somewhat of a fool for sweet, silly little things. I indulge her with three more strokes before stepping over her and continuing towards the laundry room at the far side of the corridor.
I push the door open but remain in the doorway.
The maids freeze. Their arms plunged into the basin, their bickering silenced by my presence.
"Mr Butcher..." Deloris's eyes widen like a cornered animal. "We—we're trying to salvage it."
"We'll fix it," Julianna promises. "We definitely will."
Christ, do I terrify them that much?
I frown at the tie dangling from Deloris's fingers—my grey Bvlgari tie. "Salvage what exactly?"
"Your sons..." She attempts a laugh that comes out strained. "The little princes, well, they decorated it."
"With a permanent marker,” Julianna adds.
"But we'll get it out,” Deloris implores. “We assure you."
A small smile hits my lips as I walk towards the two stunned women until I am standing over them and the sink.
I gaze inside the bowl, at my tie now adorned with black scribbles.
Christ, they have only improved it, like they improve everything.
I never expected the depth of feeling that would consume me for beings I had yet to meet.
The moment they drew their first breath, I was conquered.
Their tiny cries collapsed my universe into a single point—my little deer cradling our twin sons against her chest. In that moment, I stood stripped of titles and power, no longer the Don but simply a man humbled before the beauty of creation.
Of miracles. I truly felt God that night.
“I do believe they have improved it,” I muse. “David Pizzigoni has been out-designed. Leave it as is,” I order, and walk from the laundry.
I stride towards my wing. I left before the night was over, left our corrupt empire to tend to my little deer. Bronson and Max remained, but I swore to give my little deer the world, and her world revolves around me.
So, I try to be home.
I loosen my tie.
As much as I can.
The scene from tonight, one of bloodied fists and broken teeth, dirty deals, coercive conversations, and the exchange of blood-smeared notes, bores when compared to the profound sensation of love and commitment I feel now as I enter our room.
Her villain in the night.
Her devil in a tailored suit.
I approach her. The lamplight cuts a stark line across her sleeping form. She's naked, sprawled across the mattress, hips elevated by a pillow tucked between her thighs.
My little deer whimpers in her slumber. Her bare arse squirming—she needs attention. She’s been trying to soothe an ache that only I can satisfy. I watched her on my phone on the drive home; I've been painfully hard since.
I approach the bed slowly, removing my tie, unbuttoning my bloodied shirt until it hangs loose and open.
When I reach her side, I sigh. My sweet girl… I have to touch her—tattooed fingers tracing the smooth arch of her foot to the back of her knee.
Christ, she's soft.
Lingering at her hip, I study the pillow bunched and wedged between her thighs, her arse lifted, her body on display—on offer.
A smear of red catches my eye, and I tilt my head. A small bloody stain on the cream-coloured Egyptian cotton. My poor sweet girl has her period earlier than usual.
Christ, no wonder she needs me.
She's so young—barely twenty. I remember the day she arrived at my doorstep, hair unkempt, big doe-eyes, and fuck-me pouty lips. The estranged daughter of a Mafia boss, the orphan who came to me with self-deprecation, bohemian chaos, and a swollen belly.
Mine.
I stride to the ensuite and wash the blood from my hands, thinking about our past. I took her for myself, claimed her, and swore the moment I entered that sweet, inexperienced body, that I would possess her.
She would belong to me. She would never be alone because she can never leave me.
I am her everything…
And she is mine.
That wasn't what I expected, but here we are. She is my breath—my reason and motivation—and soon to be my wife. Legally binding, spiritually under God—fucking mine!
My wife.
Returning to her side, I glide my fingers up her inner thigh.
Little blonde hairs rise to attention. I pause at her puffy red core.
When I dip my fingers between her pussy lips, a groan lifts from my chest—fuck.
She's tight tonight. Too fucking tight. Her channel is swollen and pulsing, as it does during this time of the month.
She whimpers and lifts her hips to meet my hand.
Good girl.
I plant my palm on the mattress by her head and lean over her, working my fingers in and out of her clinging muscles as need coils tight in my abdomen.
“That’s my good girl.”
I withdraw my wet fingers from inside her and hear her small whimper of protest, a sleepy grumble that brings a smile to my lips. So needy.
Dragging my gaze over her perfect figure, her curves rolling to feminine perfection.
I slide off my shoes and undress. I believe she is half-awake but clearly exhausted.
Our twins are teething, and my little deer refuses hired help.
She finds her accomplishments in being a mother and in being my wife, and I would never take that from her.
When I first suggested hiring someone, she threw such a tantrum, and I allowed her to be eccentric.
She's a young woman after all. Her emotions are blessings that come from her femininity; without them, I would not have my boys.
She collapsed in our room, in her robe, her near-white hair wild and mouth set in that stubborn but lovely line.
The twins squealed in the background, their cries rising and falling, but they were fine, just fussing.
My little deer’s eyes were all challenge, swimming with the pain of her own fragility—how she hated to be seen as weak or unimpressive.
How she hates to disappoint me…
You haven’t, sweet girl.
So, I let her scream, let her spit all that venom at me, every raw nerve exposed. I stood over her, arms folded over my suit, the blood of a traitor I’d beaten to death that night still speckling my grey collar. I stood there until her voice broke on my name…
Sir…
It was a plea, an apology, and all I required. I knelt down and took her face in my hands.
“You are doing such a good job, sweet girl,” I said. “I'm in awe every moment that I witness you raising my children.”
She shook, clutching fistfuls of my shirt, and sobbed, “I can do this. I want to do this.”
“And you will,” I replied, running my thumb along her jaw, lifting it slightly. “My pretty little queen. Hiring a nanny will not change my feelings for you nor make you any less of their mother.”
She had released a single sob. “I was raised by women who were not my mother.”
“I know.” I kissed her forehead, my cock twitching to get her to my room, spank, and fuck her, because that's what she had really desired from that outburst. “I will put the discussion to rest then.”
That was the last time I offered, but the subject is not dead, only on pause. I will not have her overexert herself. Twins are hard work—but Butcher twin boys are another story in patience and tolerance entirely.
Now, as I climb over her weeks after that incident, my lips and nose tracing her spine to her neck, I’m reminded of how she may need help with the boys.
And planning the wedding…
Christ. If only she had a mother or a mother-in-law to help. Someone she trusts and looks up to. A role model. It pains me to consider that I am not enough, that a young girl needs a mature, guiding woman in her life.
And fun.
Fucking Bronson.
She writhes underneath me, grinding her hips into the pillow braced between her thighs, the motion so desperate it lifts her tight little body up to meet my cock. She needs it. Needs me.
I flatten my chest across her back, big enough to cover her entirely, and nudge the crown of my erection at her entrance.
“Easy, sweet girl. I’ll take care of this,” I murmur into her long, silky blonde hair.
I roll my hips forwards, filling her dripping pussy with a single, steady thrust. The jump from aching emptiness to stretched, shuddering fullness rips a moan from her throat, the sound muffled against a pillow as she fists at the case.
My elbows cage her head. My mouth grazes her ear as I work my cock up her swollen, feverish channel, the rhythm deep and thorough. Precise, rhythmic, measured—fuck…
“That’s it, sweet girl.” I groan, the sound crawling up my chest. Christ, she’s perfect. “I’m late. It will all be over soon, little deer. You’ll get to rest.”
She clenches and pulses around me. So responsive.
So accepting. There’s nothing like being inside her.
She’s softness and kindness wrapped in flesh so delicate, all of her made to be fucked by me.
I want to growl dark truths into her ear, want to pound her deep until she remembers only the shape of my cock, but cannot. She’s fragile tonight.
So I bite back that urge, and settle into steady long drives, relentless but careful, making sure I’m hitting every swollen inch inside her.
“So tight for me today. That’s it. Let me in,” I coax, my voice dragging over her gasps. Watching her fists bunch the bedding, I add, “It’ll be over soon.”
“What time is it?” she breathes, her voice slurring and kitten-soft, the question trembling on an exhale. I drop a groan into her hair, and she shivers, vulnerable and needy in response. “I… I m-missed you,” she adds.
Fuck. “I’m here now, little deer.”
With one hand, I thread my fingers through hers, supporting her, a hard brace and a tether. I keep her anchored beneath me, every thrust a promise of relief, working her open as her slick pussy juices and her period blood smear along my cock and balls.
Her mess makes me wild.
She’s close—
She gasps, hips stuttering. “Oh…”
There it is.
She’s coming.
“Oh, Sir!”
“Yes, sweet girl. Squeeze me. Show me how much you missed me,” I say into her ear as she comes undone, every muscle trembling, her pussy strangling my hard cock.
As she visibly relaxes, I slow down. When she turns her cheek, I kiss the corner of her mouth. “That’s my sweet girl. It’s all over now. You can rest.”
Clenching my jaw, I pull out, my cock thick and glossy, smeared in red from her blood. Still hard. Still needy. But this isn’t about what I want.
I leave her lying satiated on the mattress, and stride to the ensuite, the slap of my cock against my hard abdomen an obnoxious order to finish what I started.
In the warm light of the bathroom, I glance down at my demanding cock. Crimson blood streaks the dark hair around my balls, painting up my shaft and along my tattoo.
Poor sweet girl.
I take a clean cloth from the cupboard and a tampon from the bottom drawer of her vanity, before returning to her side. She has gone limp, splayed softly on the sheets, breathing deeply—totally content. Exactly as I want her.
When I peel away the bloodstained pillow from beneath her hips, she barely stirs. Leaning down, I slide a long finger into her tight pussy lips, just to feel the way she clenches even now, even in her slumber.
She moans long and fatigued.
I withdraw my finger and wipe her pussy with the cloth, her juices and blood soaking through the soft cotton, dampening my fingers.
Gently, I clean her up.
Then, removing the wrapper of the tampon, I insert the applicator, pushing the cotton into her. It’s not the first time I have done this for her. Caring for my little deer is not something I take lightly or do sparingly.
She whimpers, and when I glance up from between her thighs, her eyes are open, but unfocused, drifting on the wall.
“Sir” is all she says, blonde lashes fluttering as she is drawn back under, fatigue drowning her again.
I stand up, dispose of the rubbish in the bin beside our bed, but can’t leave yet.
She is stunning. Drinking in the sight of her, I pat her head, smoothing her near-white hair down with one hand and squeezing my aching cock with the other.
Christ, I want to fuck her again—for hours, for days, until she’s stuffed with me.
But I don’t.
I retrieve my robe and my cigars. I walk out, leaving her sprawled and sleeping, every inch of her relaxed because of me, and head for the parlour to go over security plans.