Chapter 12 Clay
CHAPTER TWELVE
clay
I loosen my tie. The District city glows through the window before me, its expansive grounds rolling out like an urban canvas devouring the horizon.
It’s a stunning view.
We should stay at the penthouse more often. I think she likes it here. A new place to play, to shop, to eat.
To fuck.
Easy for me too.
My laptop screen throws light across neatly stacked manila folders, each one thick with surveillance photos and hundreds of pages of minutes taken during observation.
I sort through months’ worth of printouts, faces hardened in the Sicilian sun, license plates snapped by my personal men on the ground in the old country, each file a pulse of old secrets.
I comb through the history of my Family, page after page, searching for cracks, for tremors in loyalty, for anything straining at the leash since the divorce from Aurora.
New Made Men?
Old ones missing?
Anything that sticks out.
Bronson and Max will have matching stacks, perhaps slightly more modest, on their desks at home.
Only a Butcher can touch this side of the business.
Before I fly the old boys here for the wedding, I need to know their alliances still hold true to my Family blood.
Lucchese blood. Divorcing Jimmy Storm’s daughter destabilized me; I know this. It gave the rodents a reason to gnaw.
I’d do it again.
For my little deer’s smile.
To give her everything.
Though I am busy, I never let my guard slip from the quiet creature hovering in the doorway to my left.
My little deer stands in her nightgown, not speaking—a nervousness so sweet I can taste it in the air.
She's been tucking the twins in. Now she hovers there, one finger coiling a strand of blonde hair, her gaze wandering the room as if I don't notice her every breath, her every hesitation. Her.
"Little deer." I don't turn to face her yet, closing a folder and sliding it to the side.
She exhales and takes that as an invitation to step inside my office. "Yes, Sir?"
"What is going on inside your pretty head?
" I roll up my sleeves methodically, one cuff at a time, before turning to face her.
Fixing my gaze on her, a slow smile spreads across my face as I take in the sight before me.
A vision in a pink robe. It clings to her lithe frame, her toes curling into the carpet.
Her knees tremble slightly, dimpling as she shifts her weight.
An urge surges through me. I want to taste those legs, to trail my mouth along her thighs and lick what lies weeping between them.
"Use your voice,” I order smoothly.
She takes a deep breath; her uncertainty in my presence never ceases to please me.
"Do we have a mortgage?" she asks quietly.
Not what I was expecting...
I clasp my hands in my lap, the veins in my arms pulsing as I ward off arousal pumping through me. She does that to me. Just by existing. "Why do you ask, sweet girl?"
She shrugs a little, her true reason for asking hidden in that little gesture. "Do we?"
I indulge her. "No. We do not."
That’s not entirely true. Our many companies have debt no more than they are worth.
We do not have debt in the traditional sense.
We owe nothing; our houses, gold, and money are old, foreign, too old to tax, too old to trace without getting lost in a sea of tangled conglomerates, holding companies, and subsidiaries.
"Oh." She muses, stalling and looking at her feet as though they give her courage.
I smile, waiting for her next question and the true point of this conversation.
"How much is our house worth?"
She's adorable. "How much do you think?"
She blushes. "Lots"
My smile widens. "Yes. 'Lots.'“
"So, we don't have any credit with a bank, then?"
"No." I trail my gaze around her body, enjoying all her nervous little shuffling. "We own everything we have." I keep my answers simple. She doesn’t need to understand securities-backed loans or business debt.
"I see," she says as I eye her with amusement. "Stop it, Sir. You're torturing me here."
"I'm simply waiting for you to get to the point, little deer. Though I quite enjoy your detours."
She squares her shoulders, the way she does when she wants to be taken seriously. I always take you seriously, sweet girl. "Can I have a credit card, Sir?"
"Ah, there we are. What on earth do you need a credit card for? I will buy you anything that pleases you."
Is this about tipping?
She straightens further. "I want credit."
"You'll never need credit."
She steps towards me slowly as though I'm someone dangerous, and she's not sure she'll be safe. My cock thickens in response to her nervousness. It’s fucking addictive.
How can a young woman who has endured so much still carry this enchanting fragility?
I will protect that. I will be her thorns so she can be soft and delicate always.
"But how will I learn to manage money, Sir?"
"Christ." I widen my legs and nod an order to the mink rug at my feet. "Why do you want to manage money?"
She slinks to the floor at my feet and rests her head in my lap.
I comb my fingers through her long blonde hair, gazing down on her, entirely enamoured by the way her big dual-coloured eyes peer up pleadingly.
I know what she wants, though I very much wish to spread her open on my desk and eat her pussy.
With my eyes fixed on her, I unbuckle my belt, leaving the leather straps open, and then grip her chin. Tilting her head, I say, “Do you want to suck my cock while I work, little deer? Is that what you want?”
She nods.
“Then tell me why you want to manage money?” I say. She had money. I offered her Dustin’s portfolio—his entire worth in our collective businesses. She didn’t want it. She asked that it go to his other daughters—such is my sweet girl’s nature. She wanted nothing to do with him or from him. Only me.
It pleased me greatly.
My little deer chews her lower lip and wraps the ends of her long hair around her pointer-finger. “I want to buy things…” She looks at the ground. “And tap a card.”
“Look at me.”
Her eyes pop up.
“Things for you,” she adds, lifting her nose.
“Like a surprise that a dobber rat can’t inform you about.
Things for the boys. I want to swipe a card.
I want to…” She blushes. “See what it feels like to spend money. Like, I wanted to buy my lingerie, and I wanted to buy a sausage roll from the bakery. I want to remember to get cash out to tip people who are nice to me, and I want to order coffees for the henchmen. I want to tap my card and get excited when it says approved.”
I watch her lips move, trying to stifle my logical mind.
To temper the condescending tone on my tongue.
Money is the blight of most normal people’s lives—a means of controlling them.
I should know; I hold many of their strings.
Money isn’t real, not for people like me.
I have gold bars, diamonds, mansions, and security-backed lines of credit that borrow from my own damn portfolios, but she wants a little credit card of her own to play with.
It’s not something I wanted her dealing with; I wanted her every whim to come from magic, to appear, to seem free—emphatically hers.
I sigh roughly—but it doesn’t matter what I want. She wants to play with money. I don’t pretend to understand the appeal, but then I’ve always had money.
“Madonna mia, alright.”
“Really?” She beams, her big doe-eyes sparkling, and my heart fucking throbs with how lovely she is.
“Yes.”
“From the bank?”
Christ. I nod, trying to remain serious, but melting into a chuckle. “Why a credit card? Why not a debit card?”
“Because the credit is in my name,” she says adamantly. “Money I owe to the bank when I spend it. Right? And a debit card is like… you putting money in there. I don’t want you to just dump money in there. I don’t want your money, Sir.”
A single laugh escapes me. “It’s all my money.”
She tilts her head, big glossy eyes peering up at me from the floor, begging me to pretend with her. “When I spend money on the credit card, Sir, I owe that money.”
“I understand how credit works, little deer.”
“Fawn Harlow owes that money.”
To me… “But I will be paying it off.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “But I’ll owe it, Sir.”
I stare at her, fighting an even bigger smile. This sweet girl—this silly little thing—is impossible. As if I’d say no. As if I stand a chance. “I will organise a credit card for you, sweet girl. In your name.”
“From the bank?”
Absurd. I sigh roughly. “Yes.”
“Thank you!” She does a little dance on her knees, her young tits jiggling beneath silk worth more than most people’s credit card limits. “Thank you, thank you.”
Fuck me.
My smile aches watching her.
It’s pretend, of course. She must know that in the real world, cards have limits, applications, fees, and you have to pay them back to a bank, but this is enough for her. The concept of her own money, her own limits—feigned normality—is all she really wants but couldn’t bring herself to admit.
“When will I get it?” She fucking beams.
I tuck a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. “I will order it now. Usually, it arrives within five days.” Reclining in my chair, I stare at her.
“Can I mouth your cock now, Sir? And rest my head on your lap?” She settles her cheek on my knee, big pleading eyes endearing me.
“Yes, sweet girl.”