Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
fawn
It would be an insult to me…
And my perfect bride if you did not attend.
I will see you in four months.
Mulling over Sir’s words, I lay on my back in the huge playpen we have set up in the kids’ activity lounge, with my phone braced in the air, punching a message to Xander.
Luca crawls after Luna’s swishing tail beside me, and Ash plays patty-cake on my thighs.
The scent of white chocolate and raspberry cupcakes wafts from the kitchen, my newest batch ten minutes from completion.
Fawn: You promise you will be back for the wedding?
It’s early morning in London, so he might not be awake yet. The message sits there with empty little ticks beside it. He’s been travelling for nearly thirteen months, and he is the first person in this new world to accept me, to treat me like an individual.
I miss him.
I place the phone on my stomach and sing along with Danny Go on the television. “Happy moon, happy moon, happy moon, why are you smiling?”
“Happy moon, happy moon, happy moon, what’s so funny?” I hear my henchman/butler sing from where he stands by the courtyard door. And I smile.
He is always there.
“I’m going to the shops to get new underwear!” Jasmine announces cheerfully, peering over the edge of the playpen and down at me. “Want some?”
I lift a brow at her. “Underwear?”
“Oh.” She laughs. “That’s just something you say. I guess not. Want anything else?”
“I’ll take some underwear,” HJ laughs.
I know she’ll get food, probably stop at a bakery. “A sausage roll for me and my rat,” I say, just for the sake of it. “Do you need money?”
I’m not aware of the money situation; Clay pays for everything, for everyone.
I don’t know how many businesses we own—a bit premature of me to call them ours—or whether we have a mortgage or debts.
He controls everything. He quite literally owns everyone in this entire house in a way, Jasmine and her dad included as they are both employed by the Family.
I’ve been told that working for the Mafia is an inherited profession.
As in, once you work for the mob, your children, your children’s children, and so on, become part of that elite business. Making Jasmine a mob-born servant.
Her dad, Que, Clay’s Head Man, is worth his weight in gold, while Jasmine… I mean, I’ve seen her clean a few times and tidy my closet once… Hm… What does she do for eight hours a day?
“Oh, Boss gives me an allowance for stuff for you, so I’m all good,” she says, shrugging.
“An allowance?”
“Yeah. He puts extra money in my bank each week with my usual pay. Way more than you spend, too. So, thanks for being so unmaterialistic. I got myself a Gucci bag last month.”
I know nothing about brands—maybe I should learn? Now, I’m to be his wife. Not just a pretty little burden or a secret lover. A wifey. Wife of the Don of the Cosa Nostra. Fawn Harlow Butcher.
Do I need a new hairstyle? A trim? Heels? I’ve dreamed about this day since I met him, wanted it more than oxygen, wished for a dangerous man on the moon, but never really dove into the consequences.
Clay’s one-sided conversation comes back. She severed my ties to Jimmy Storm’s ghost. Fawn has already given me two sons at only nineteen— my sons and daughters will be unstoppable. No one will ever question the leadership of the Cosa Nostra in the District again.
Yeah, the consequences of marrying the Don of the fucking Cosa Nostra. The Devil’s Prototype! What will the men and women in Sicily think of me? The ones with centuries of Mafia royalty in their veins and bars of gold in their safes.
What will they think of him?
Will I have weakened him?
Will my mere presence make him less worthy of the awe and fear he has earned?
“So, you have a bank card?” I ask, worrying that thought against my lower lip.
Ugh. Smooth.
She looks at me as if I just asked if she speaks English. “Ah.” She arches one brow. “Yeah, of course. What do you think I have cash? It’s dirty”—she suddenly mumbles—“especially the kind that comes from this house.”
I don’t have a debit card.
Or any card really.
My phone pings, and I lift it off my stomach. “Okay, a sausage roll for me.” I grin at HJ. “And for my rat.” Back at her. “And Gucci underwear.” I don’t know if Mr or Mrs Gucci makes underwear, but I say it anyway.
I hear her stroll away, muttering something, as I read the reply from my favourite Butcher brother.
Xander: I swear I will be there, girlie! Flights are booked. Kaya and I will be there!
Fawn: …K.
I like Kaya, Xander’s fiancé, despite her being my opposite.
She was raised with money and station—the kind of woman who knows what Gucci underwear looks like.
Her problems seem shallow to me, but then again, perspective is everything.
If being poor with a dad in prison is the worst thing to ever happen to you—then it’s the worst thing to ever happen.
I don’t want to be the type of girl who laughs awkwardly saying, ‘Try having no dad, a mum who shot herself in the head while you were home, being raped by your three foster brothers, and miscarrying their baby.’ That won’t lighten the mood or cheer anyone up.
You don’t make friends with trauma—or salad—which is why I make cupcakes.
Kaya is nice, though.
She makes him happy.
I tap my nail against the phone, hoping Xander catches the hesitation in my ellipsis.
And this moment of pause...
Xander: Fawn, what’s wrong?
I sigh.
Fawn: I overheard Sir on the phone… Most of the Family from Sicily will be here for the wedding. What if… What if they see how trashy I am? Going from Aurora to me is like trading a purebred for some stray mutt from the pound… I don’t know dog breeds.
Xander: I’d peg you as a Samoyed, Fawn. Not a mutt.
Fawn: …K…
I Google 'Samoyed’ and up pops a medium-sized fluffy white dog that looks pretty useless.
Ugh, pretty and useless.
I scroll down.
Temperament and personality: friendly and affectionate.
Thanks, Xander.
Intelligent and mischievous.
Hm.
Prone to barking.
I snort.
Prone to obesity.
Hey! Well… I do eat a lot of cake these days.
My phone pings with another message, popping up above the image of a fluffy white puppy standing in a bed of daisies with its long pink tongue hanging out.
Yep, that’s me.
Xander: Being serious now, girlie? Alright. Forget what they think. I won’t bullshit you and say they’ll love you. I don’t know what they’ll think. I mean, my big brother divorced Jimmy Storm’s eldest daughter, and that is not something we do.
Fawn: Because you’re Catholic.
Xander: Because we are the Cosa Nostra.
My lower lip is getting a rash from my nervous gnawing as the text sparks a memory. Clay told me once that there are no divorcees in the Mafia, only widows. Meaning, someone has to die to break that kind of religious and legal contract.
But he did it.
He did it for me.
I keep reading Xander’s text.
Xander: I respect you too much to lie. But Clay loves you, Fawn. Do you think any man would dare challenge his authority in the District?
Fawn: No.
Xander: You’re part of that now, girlie. We all love you. My old man, Bronson, Max, well… Max doesn’t hate you, and that’s basically love coming from him. LOL.
Fawn: K.
Xander: Damn, Fawn. I wish I could give you a cuddle right now. I get it. This is a big deal. First time meeting the heads of the Family.
I sink further into the carpet.
Fawn: Am I the other woman, Xander?
Xander: You’re the only woman, Fawn.
Setting my phone on my stomach, a heavy sigh rushes from my lungs. Ash and Luca's babbling soars around me, tugging my lips into an involuntary smile.
The only woman.
“The red fairy is missing a wing,” HJ says, handing me the one-winged fairy before returning to his corner.
“Yeah.” I pout. “I know.”
I'm playing with my babies and Luna on the plush carpet, arranging moss-green felt pieces and miniature ceramic mushrooms, wondering if fairy gardens are appropriate play for Butcher boys, when Clay appears from the wood-panelled office with Bronson trailing him.
I don't know when he arrived, but the mansion has twenty-five thousand rooms and exits, and probably a magic portal hidden behind some bookcase, so it could have been at any time.
Two Butcher men fill the kids’ lounge—one my fiancé, one my soon-to-be brother-in-law—and the sight of them both steals my breath like it always does. Both tall, stupidly tall, with girth in all the right places and muscles that create mountains and valleys beneath their custom-fitted shirts.
"There she is," Bronson announces, his voice deep and full of mischief. "Ready for our big adventure, Sister Fawn?"
Adventure?
Bronson scoops up Ash and then Luca with his massive hands.
"Give me the babies!" he yells, a theatrical sound that makes them both giggle.
He carries them, one squirming bundle in each tattooed arm, over to the cream leather sofa.
Plonking down on the firm upholstery, he positions one Butcher baby on each knee and bounces them. “Look at the happy chappies!”
"No baby talk, Bron," Clay orders, but it’s too late…
It’s started.
"Oh, what, no baby talk?” he says to the twins. “But baby talk is the bestie westie. Look at the happy little chappies with such a sappy pappy." He winks at me.
Clay sighs roughly. “Madonna mia.”
“Not a happy pappy,” Bronson goes on, and Luca and Ash both gurgle at him and beam from ear to ear. “I’m taking your mama, Fawny-warny out for walkies.”
“Don’t call her that,” Clay warns.
Bronson just grins. “Such a sappy pappy.”
I force a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes, my fingers fidgeting with the ends of my long hair.
Clay notices immediately, his blue gaze piercing through me with brazen demand. "Little deer?"
"What adventure, Sir?” I ask while my sons' chubby legs kick against Bronson's massive thighs, their tiny, socked feet barely reaching his knees.
Clay watches us all closely. “Bronson will be taking you to the flower market.”
Not with you?