Chapter 33 Clay
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
clay
The rehearsal dinner
“Allow me to show you off, sweet girl.”
While my sisters-in-law dissolve into the crowd to find my brothers, I guide my little deer through the awaiting guests, through the dimly lit restaurant that boasts one of my finest Italian menus in the city. Perhaps the world.
Through the speakers, Dean Martin’s That’s Amore plays, provoking half the men in the room to sing along.
My little deer's eyes sweep across the room, taking in every detail of the décor she selected. I’ve been informed by Bolton, Jasmine, and Maggie that she was hesitant to spend money at first. Hesitant to delegate, to make requests, so she leaned heavily on what might please me.
She will become accustomed to this level of party planning soon enough.
She takes in the custom black velvet dinner menus with the gold-plated outline of the District skyline on the cover, the cigar station, the whiskey tasting, the international chocolate buffet—all touches with me in mind, I’m certain.
As I understand it, the reception will be less masculine, a reflection of my little deer’s spirit.
I see her smile at the tables and settings, nodding with approval. That pleases me greatly.
The manager, Antonio, rushes to my side, speaking quietly beside my ear. “Is she happy?” He rubs his hands together nervously.
I lower my voice. “It appears so.”
He sighs with relief and disappears into the kitchen. While Sapori di Lusso is a fine dining experience, it has been refined even further for my Family. Not that I am an exhibitionist, but still— I can entertain the greatest families in Sicily better than any man.
All eyes are on her.
I don’t particularly like it.
Not that I can blame them. She looks stunning—and elegant beyond her usual style. While I truly enjoy my sweet bohemian girl, this regal creature who balances purity and poise may be my complete undoing tonight.
I nod my greeting, not willing to shake any hands at this stage. Steering her towards Alceu and his wife, we step outside onto the terracotta terrace. I note the small of her back tighten, so I spread my fingers out supportively.
Guests part for us.
“Wrought-iron furniture, Sir?” she whispers, gazing around the outdoor space. “How comfortable.”
“Not everyone believes in lounging while eating. Italians are rather active eaters, little deer. We don’t require cushions.”
Her eyes sparkle with a memory. “Because you Italians eat best under a level of duress, right, Sir?”
My heart aches with love. Hearing our past conversation on a day like this makes this rather hard man almost sentimental. “Sicilian,” I correct, “and indeed.”
“My boy!” Alceu calls and coughs at the same time from a far side of the alfresco, having already consumed a bottle of red wine since he woke up only a few hours ago. Jetlag, of course, doesn’t bend even to the Don of Sicily.
As we approach him, I hear my little deer muttering to herself. “Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.” Her hands work at smoothing down her dress, a pointless action as nothing is out of place.
I stop, turn the radiant girl to face me, and smile down at her. “Perhaps a little treat before you meet him, Se?”
She perks up. “Whiskey?”
“Something better.”
I lift my gaze and scan the tops of heads, nodding a quick acknowledgment to Alceu—yes, I heard you, old boy—before finding my target speaking to the barista.
Warm esteem moves through my chest as I lead my sweet girl through the sea of guests until we are beside her. Fawn’s shoes stop dead in their tracks, as if glued to the terracotta.
Her eyes widen.
Before us, a tall, striking Italian woman in a red dress slowly turns around, tiny espresso cup in her hand, her smile widening as her soft, loving gaze falls to Fawn.
“Sweet Fawn,” Aurora coos.
“You came!” Fawn leaps at her, all decorum apparently gone, the regal woman who entered the terrace replaced by my bouncing little deer. I really do not mind.
Much.
I hum. “I do believe you received a warmer welcome than I did, Aurora. I’m not sure whether I should be jealous.”
Fawn clings to Aurora’s side, who allows the public display of affection however odd it may appear to others, witnessing my ex-wife and my bride embracing.
“Oh, Clay,” Aurora says, half laughing. “I do believe you have always been a tad jealous of me.”
“Is that right?”
“Territorial,” Fawn points out sweetly. “A man like Clay Butcher doesn’t feel jealousy. He feels territorial.”
I’m taken aback by Fawn’s mocking tone and teasing little smile as she tucks herself protectively into Aurora’s side like I won’t drag her away and fuck that tone from her mouth. “Are you taunting me, sweet girl?”
She bites her lower lip, poorly concealing a wide smile. “I would never, Sir.” She turns to my ex-wife. “Are you walking me down the aisle? Is that actually happening?”
“I would be honoured to.”
Tears bubble in Fawn’s dual-coloured eyes as she takes in the sight of her friend. “Thank you so much. This means everything to me. It was going to be Bolton—”
“Excuse me?” I deadpan.
“But he wants to be my butler-rat on the day,” she finishes, appeasing me somewhat.
“He said he’d spend the entire wedding watching the man whose job it is to guard me, anyway.
So he might as well do it himself.” She peers up at me.
“So I asked Luca.” Her eyes slide back to Aurora. “But I’m so happy you came home.”
Aurora cradles Fawn’s hands in hers, her longer fingers with red-tipped nails I’m certain she uses as claws when needed, squeezing with ardency. “I am here now.”
It was a last-minute decision. Not an easy one.
Dangerous, even. Aurora has encountered a lot of tension in Calabria.
After all, quiet overthrows take time and commitment, leaving the battlefield for even a few days is never ideal.
Not to mention the Family turning their noses up at the presence of an ex-wife amid a new union. We don’t allow such things. Usually.
It was quite the challenge to steer my sweet girl away from Aurora, but when I see my father join Alceu’s side, I decide to make the introductions now.
With a whiskey in my hand, my other finds the curve of Fawn’s back as I steer her towards the only two men here whose influence rivals my own.
Alceu opens his arms wide. “The bride.” His eyes assess her with unreserved interest. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Fawn." He stoops to her height, pressing his lips against each of her cheeks.
I bristle.
Her smile wavers slightly, her cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink. “It’s, um, a pleasure to meet you too,” she stammers, her voice soft.
My father, Luca, kisses her cheeks. “Fawn.”
Her smile relaxes on my father’s familiar face. “Luca.”
“Dad,” he corrects.
“Dad,” she agrees.
My father’s accent thickens. "Where are my grandsons?" The Family always brings out the old country in him— hands more animated, tone nostalgic.
Her eyes dart between the two men, one tanned and weathered from the Australian sun, with a broken nose from boxing, and the other, tanned from the Sicilian sun, with an extra two decades under his belt and few left.
I remain steady at her side; my palm pressed against the small of her back, feeling each anxious breath she takes ripple through her spine.
“Home,” I answer for her.
I am here, sweet girl.
"They're at home," she manages, voice steadying. "But tomorrow at the wedding, they're all yours, I promise."
“Very good,” Luca approves.
Alceu sips his whiskey, already loose on his feet and easy with his tongue because of a lack of rest, his age, and about three hundred dollars’ worth of Nero d’Avola sloshing in his stomach. “Do you speak any Sicilian, my girl?”
My girl.
I sip my whiskey.
“Se,” she answers, before I can say no.
My brows pinch together at this revelation. No, she does not speak Sicilian. The muscles in my jaw tighten beneath my skin, but Alceu's thunderous voice fills the space before I can steer the conversation elsewhere.
“Excellent!” He goes on to compliment her: “si bedda stasira.”
She blinks at him, once, twice. “Sorry. I mean. Se, as in, that is all I know… Se.”
Without a second beat, Alceu erupts with laughter, his body shaking, drawing every eye in the terrace to the old Don as he doubles over, clutching his sides.
“A sense of humour!” His eyes flick between me and Fawn. “Who would have thought my boy would enjoy a sense of humour in a woman? You're a smart girl. Have Clay teach you Sicilian. Your sons will need to learn.”
Her spine relaxes against my palm, so I don’t growl what is curling around my tongue.
“I'd like that,” she declares.
“Some people have a knack for language.” Alceu nods, then leans in, muttering, “Others don't.” He straightens and raises his voice, projecting it across the terrace. “Take Max Butcher for example. Terrible Sicilian. And he's been speaking it his entire life. All brute, se, no elegance.”
Max calls out across the crowd of guests. “?ta cocchi manera cia fazzu, vecchiu.”
A collective groan waves through the restaurant as hands fly up, fingers pinched together in that distinctly Italian gesture of disappointment.
Fawn beams. “Butchered your language?”
Alceu's stream of protests cuts off abruptly as the pun registers on his face. The air stills for the briefest of moments before he cracks up again, laughing through the words. “Se, Butchered it!”
She looks up at me with her big, innocent eyes, and smiles, proud of herself. “I'll learn Sicilian, Sir.”
I want to get her alone.
I nod. “Of course you will.”
“Fawn is an excellent cook as well,” Luca adds, watching the exchange as I have been, ready to defuse, protect, or support, though Fawn has charmed Alceu with little effort on her part. Just—being her endearing self.
“Yes,” Alceu agrees, his eyes squinting slightly as he notices she has one blue iris and one green, and I very much wish to remove his just for noticing. “I hear you bake, young lady,” he says, levelling his gaze again.
She nods. “Yes.”
I stare at them, apathetic and smooth, but feeling irritated, irrationally, so.
This is going better than I expected, but I can't help the instinct rising inside me as they assess her like a prize diamond at auction—weighing her worth, measuring her potential, tallying her inclusions and qualities as if she needs their approval.
She needs only mine.
Still, she seems proud of herself, and so I let this continue. Fuckers.
“And you're making your own cake?” Alceu asks, obviously having been told by my father, who certainly meant well, boasting about her to Alceu.
“Se,” she says.
“I've always said,” he begins, sipping and swallowing his red wine in quick succession. “If you want something done properly, do it yourself. Seems your new husband feels the same, with what he's doing here in the District.”
“I stay out of all of that,” she admits honestly. “I'm his home, and I wish to stay that way.”
Well, fuck.
My cock twitches.
“Let me tell you something.” Alceu leans in, so I edge closer too, defensive.
“The way to a Made Man's heart is with pasta and cannoli.
Lots of useless but pretty creatures in this Family.
My boy has chosen a traditional Italian wife.
You have Italian in you; I see the Northern Italian in you from your dad's side. One the old-world would approve of. A mother, wife, and excellent cook?”
Luca adds, “Not to mention new alliances.”
My father refers to the Stockyard Bikers, previously her father’s connections. I cut in before they can continue. “Fawn’s interests remain separate from my business." My tone leaves no space for debate. “We don’t discuss such things.”
Alceu's gaze lingers on her a beat too long. My jaw tightens again, so I lift my other hand, palming the ache. I've never tolerated others monopolizing her attention, and Alceu’s time with her is running short.
"The cannoli," he pivots, still enjoying the sight of her. This unwelcome envy is going to get people killed. "You prefer cream cheese or mascarpone?"
"I use ricotta cream," she replies, chin lifting slightly. “Maggie said, it’s the traditional way.”
Alceu's brows weave as he turns to my father. "Nathalia's recipe, what did she use?"
"Ricotta," Luca confirms with a nod of approval.
"I must taste these cannoli of yours," Alceu declares.
Fawn smiles. "I'd be happy to send you some.”
His eyes brighten. "Better yet—you'll prepare them for me in Sicily," he says with the casual entitlement of a man accustomed to compliance. Not in this case.
I throw back my whiskey, swallowing. "Is that a request or an order?" I find myself challenging him.
The old man’s eyes dance between us, lips curling in amusement. Luca mirrors his expression, both men who blind wandering eyes for inappropriate use of their property. “I would never command another Don's wife."
Fucker.
“Excuse us, Fawn has an entire room of people to meet, and I am out of whiskey.” I slide my hand around her hip, turning her towards me.
“Nice to meet you.” She glances over her shoulder, then faces forwards, allowing me to direct her away from the gathering. “That went really well, Sir. I think he likes me.”
I deadpan. “Yes.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Territorial.”