Chapter 19 Clay
CHAPTER NINETEEN
clay
“Forgive the mess,” I say, gesturing towards the conference room as though its immaculate marble and glass decor can’t quite live up to what I require. “My usual office, as it happens, is—” I use my hands, thickening the hint of Sicilian in my accent—”under renovation, se?”
The word renovation hangs in the air. That’s right, fuckers. I heard what you’ve been saying about me.
The three bikers gaze around the room, trying to hide their stupefied awe.
For a moment, I let them linger, analyse my space and men.
Measure up the two Cosa Nostra soldiers, and the two Made Men, John and Lucky Louis, at my bar.
Recognise my father, Luca Butcher, who sits on the leather sofa, a presence that needs no words.
Study the polished gleam of the table and the tall, impressive windows overlooking the pool where my little deer swims with my sons.
This room will do fine, standing in for something warmer, something more mine. I have a penchant for dim lighting, rich Jarrah or Marri woods, and deep crimson hues that remind me of the old country. For now, this makeshift space, which used to be our second dining room, will suffice.
Martin leans forwards, pressing his bulk into the polished table, leaving a steaming blotch on the reflective surface.
His biker-cut strains under bloat and booze.
Fucking bikers… I hide my sneer of derision behind a mask of smooth apathy, fixing my neutral expression.
They may be gangsters, yes, but not of the smart variety.
Not educated. They are the rats of the underbelly of the District, feeding on scraps, feeding on the bodies when they must.
But rats serve a purpose.
He begins, "Butcher.” He clears his throat. “I want your son Luca to marry my daughter when they come of age."
I feel my father’s scoff.
Staring at Martin, I drag my thumb along the rim of my whiskey glass. The ice cubes clink together. The taste of Sicilian smoke rolls around the back of my throat. "That’s very amusing.” I deadpan.
Martin narrows his eyes.
I know this man. Well, enough to know he is the real deal. He might try to kill me, but I can’t bring myself to care. My past Don, Jimmy, had many seething Sicilian words for the fucker, but he presented as the polite Made Man—I will too.
"Alright, Ash then,” Martin counters.
My sons’ names in his mouth cause my Butcher head to throb, to burn with agitation, but I use my cigar. Sucking the smoke in, violently drawing the ember higher, my sharp gaze carving his filthy face like a fucking pumpkin.
I release a hollow chuckle around my cigar. "You're a funny man."
"No, Butcher! I mean it." His jaw hardens, and a vein jumps at his temple.
My deep chuckle dies. "No, you don't."
"I do, fuck ya!” He thumps the table, rattling my whiskey glass, and I sigh, staring at him as the mild inconvenience he is. I don’t lie. I don’t sugarcoat.
I tilt back in my chair, letting my smooth gaze unravel him. "You're not stupid, Martin. Only a fool would think your daughter is some prize for Luca. He and his brother are going to rule the Cosa Nostra, se? What does your girl put on the table for me?"
"An alliance," he spits out, but the words land like what they are—polished shits.
I smile easily and extinguish my cigar in the tray, waving the smoke away with my hand.
“Excuse my rudeness,” I say. “Cigars are my vice.” Then I relax backwards into my chair and realign him with my half-hooded stare.
"An arranged marriage to Luca or Ash would be my greatest alliance, one of unprecedented benefit.
Marrying into my family? A woman in my house, alongside my wife?
Giving me Butcher grandchildren?" Each word is a slow-moving snake, then I lash out, "You're not worthy of such an alliance. "
His face burns, and his chair screeches against the floor as he stands. "Fuck you."
I wave my hand. "Sit down. I have a better plan.”
He spits out a curse and veers towards his new Sergeant at Arms, a younger man with an eyebrow scar. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. Fucking Italians.”
“Come now,” I soothe. “Hear my idea. I thought it was quite nice of me to invite you to my home. Show my genuine intentions, in daylight, not in a backstreet, warehouse or compound. In my very home. That is respect, se?”
He drops back into his chair, jaw moving like he’s grinding gravel between his teeth. “Fine. What you got?”
I nod towards John. "This is what I will offer,” I say.
John was once a low-level gangster himself, now looks like a gentleman in their presence.
He lays a map of Indonesia out on the boardroom table and punches his finger into a spot right below the second mountain range.
“Thank you, my boy, “ I say to him. Then I look at Martin. “On top of keeping your drugs running through my hotel and allowing you to launder a portion, I will offer you something long-standing. A long-term alliance, se? I just acquired a massive parcel of land in Indonesia from the Preman. This land is thick with cannabis, worth millions of dollars. With room for millions more—it’s a work in progress. I’m not out there in the dirt. Neither is my Family. That's you. You manage it, handle it, ship it, whatever needs doing. I’ll be your silent, wealthy and patient partner. A permanent union. Se? All operations within the District will be unified under my administration. ”
Martin studies the map, calculating. His Sergeant whispers something in his ear, then another man leans into the other.
Something hungry wakes up behind Martin’s eyes as they speak to him.
"I agree,” Martin finally says to me, nodding.
Excellent.
I rise to my full height, smoothing my tie and buttoning my suit jacket. "I will leave you with my father and John to sort the details." My polite smile is purely business, nothing else.
My father takes my seat.
“You’re not even going to talk me through this yourself?” Martin snarls. “You slimy, arrogant bastard. You think you’re too good for me?”
"Oh, I don’t think,” I declare, apathetic. “But I have a bride to appease. Family comes first. I’m domesticated, se?”
And we both know what that means, but the terms of this agreement are too lucrative to be refused, even when pride begs otherwise.
He will become part of my legacy—his organization will fold into mine.
The bikers, the Irish, the Italians, the District Police will all operate under the Cosa Nostra umbrella.
I am making history in the District.
My sons and daughters will revel in this new order, and my little deer, with her bohemian ideals and kind nature, will be the most powerful and dangerous woman in the world.