Chapter 35 Clay
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
clay
The ceremony
“We didn’t grow up in the cotton-wool love other children had. We didn’t have love coming and going from people who filter in and out. We didn’t have unconditional love from a mother. Our love is like a cocoon, Sir. It only happens once, and the effect is irreversible.”
I remember her words. Consumed by everything her. As always, but especially today.
The cathedral is filling rapidly with associates, the Family, members of the city, alliances we've bought over the years. Two videographers stand to my right, while another two—females, of course—will follow her party, capturing every moment.
Outside, beyond the steps of these hallowed walls, police, Cosa Nostra soldiers, hidden associates, snipers—a larger security operation than required for a damn sultan.
The last time I waited at the end of an aisle was for duty and legacy. Today, it is love—profound and merciless—anchoring me in place before the pulpit beside my brothers, Bronson, Max, Xander, and Konnor.
A brunette woman in a mauve dress-suit rushes to Bronson’s side, her eyes evasive.
“I couldn’t get the right amount of Juliet Roses,” she begins, breathless, “at the end of each pew without obstructing the walkway and couldn’t hang the teardrop bouquets without fixing them to the ceiling which is illegal because the building is heritage listed. ”
She visibly trembles.
My gaze hits the ceiling. “Did the bride want the teardrop bouquets?”
The girl swallows, lifting her tablet as if I can read her damn task manager. “They are on the list, Mr Butcher.”
“My idea,” Bronson says. “Don’t scare the lovely girl. She has been an excellent assistant. Haven’t you, darlin’?”
“I tried,” she squeaks.
“Fawn didn’t request the drops?” I reiterate.
She gets what she wants!
“She didn’t know, brother,” Bronson repeats.
I nod, stiff. “Fine. No one will be looking at the ceiling soon anyway”—I wave the woman away— “not when my sweet girl arrives.”
My chest tightens.
“The girls have just pulled up, my boy,” my father advises, then takes his place in the front row beside Jasmine and the stroller with my sons inside.
I smooth down my black suit, adjust my silk bowtie.
Konnor fidgets with his cufflinks, leaning over to whisper loud enough for all of us to hear. "This suit is so fucking tight, and this cravat-thing—must be my thick neck.”
“It’s a bowtie, dickhead,” Max grunts.
Bronson grins. “All my brothers look beautiful.”
Max stares ahead, face neutral, but taunts Konnor. "If you'd shown up for the final fitting, Slater, instead of pretending you’re useful on a rugby field, your suit might actually fit.” He smirks. “Like mine.”
Konnor sneers, rolling his shoulders in the fabric.
"Courage?" Bronson winks at me, opening his jacket, where the outline of a flask is visible in its inner pocket.
My eyes dart to him. My mouth feels dry enough that the offer is tempting, but then music starts to play from the ancient organ pipes.
My focus narrows.
The guests fall silent and turn in their seats to watch Kelly begin her descent down the aisle, throwing petals.
Second comes Cassidy.
Then Blesk.
Kaya.
Shoshanna…
The cathedral fades away—the murmurs of guests in the mahogany pews, Capos with scarred knuckles, politicians with practiced smiles, women dripping in diamonds, and the soft rustles of silk dresses, all gone.
Irrelevant.
Sunlight breaks through stained-glass windows overhead, blood-red and sapphire light painting the floor, faces, and pews, and yet everything pales because—
At the far end.
There she appears.
Aurora at her side.
The music peaks—the Wedding March heading towards its inevitable crescendo, each note throbbing in my chest, mirroring my heartbeat.
One.
Two.
She takes her first step towards me. Back straight, her eyes are partly hidden beneath her long white veil, yet I sense them attached to mine.
Seemingly, your life flashes before your eyes moments before your last gasp.
I can confirm I’ve witnessed something like this reflected in the men I have killed.
The claws of mortality shoving a kind of pure perspective and self-awareness down throats.
But here I am. In a cathedral, under God, who I’m certain will send me directly to Hell at my end, being gifted His most precious creation.
Fawn Harlow. Here I am my entire life flashing before my eyes—the lessons from my mother and Jimmy, the years in boarding school, my kills, my demons, every bullet shot, every trigger pulled, each thrust of my fist and slice of a knife, all my blood-soaked darkness, and then, after all that evil…
Light, beauty, her—
I am stripped bare.
Unworthy.
Her dress—Christ, the mother of my children in that white silk—cascades behind her like an avalanche of pearls, trailing meters of custom fabric that cost more than most men’s lives are worth to me, and still less than she deserves for bringing me peace and a purpose greater than my empire or Butcher legacy.
To be hers completely, to be a father who protects rather than intimidates—that is who I choose.
As she draws closer, her glossy eyes become visible, meeting mine—innocence meeting evil. A flood of emotion punches me in the chest. I lift my hand to cover my heart, almost to soothe the way it responds to her. Her eyes drop to watch my foolish action.
Am I vulnerable? Yes. In this moment, I am the definition of vulnerable, because if she is ever taken from me, I will destroy heaven and earth, make every place I walk burn. Without her, I will make existence a living hell.
My eyes well up.
Hers flood with tears.
She stops at my side, taking my arm and gazing up at me with that look—the one that screams everything at once.
“Sweet girl,” I mouth.
She sighs. “Sir.”
Fuck me.
I fight to remain smooth, calm, controlled, the Don everyone expects me to be, but for her, a single tear cuts a course down my cheek. It’s impossible to look upon something so beautiful and not want to cry.
Her hands are shaking as I guide her to face forwards, though my gaze beckons to find her, to rest on her face beneath that veil, with that lovely pouty mouth, and pretty dual-coloured eyes.
The priest, a man I have known since infancy, begins, and the rest is history—vows, declarations, lifting the veil, a soft kiss filled with her tears and a deep rumble of emotion from my throat, and it is done. Under God.
Spiritually.
Legally.
Emphatically.
She is mine.