Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
fawn
The reception
The jazz band plays I do it for you by Bryan Adams. At the long straight bridal table—covered in Juliet Roses and tiny gilded butterflies—sit Max, Cassidy, Kaya, Xander, Clay, me, Bronson, Shoshanna, Blesk and then Konnor.
My gaze travels the length of our bridal table. At the far end, Konnor and Blesk exchange words that don't quite reach my ears. Shoshanna's champagne flute has a perfect crimson crescent to mark each sip. Bronson is leaning back, relaxed, his jacket parted, revealing black suspenders underneath.
Down at the opposite end, Max can't tear his eyes from Cassidy, who has already kicked off her white stilettos beneath the tablecloth. Beside them, Kaya and Xander share secrets, foreheads nearly touching.
And beside me...
Clay Blutcher, Sir—my husband—takes every opportunity to touch me, my hair, my arm, fingers. Me.
His wife.
The fifty tables before us are beautifully set, with ten thousand Juliet Roses divided across them in huge vases, arranged to resemble lollipop trees.
The other ten thousand are in our ceremony bouquets, woven through the garlands running down the marble staircase, and arranged into arches at cardinal points around the ballroom.
Above us, at least fifteen gold and bronze crystal chandeliers glisten.
The linens are ivory and cream, exactly as I envisioned.
The plates are white; the cutlery is gold.
And I’m spoilt!
I catch Bolton's reflection in the vintage mirror ornament set between the table garlands. He stands guard behind the bridal table with Carter and Henri, Cassidy’s and Shoshanna’s henchmen.
I begged him to sit with the family in the front row of guest tables, but he'd squeezed my hand and said, ‘Protecting you is my greatest honour, Mrs Butcher.’
As the appetisers are served, Jasmine floats around the main floor with my twins, showing them off to the Family, swatting away the hands eager to pinch those beautiful rosy cheeks. The nanny for the wedding, Grace, trails closely behind her, unable to do her assigned job.
Two are better than one.
Entrées follow soon after, with most guests taking a seat and indulging.
It’s all quite civil, polite, and organised, until the third course.
The band plays Volare by the Gipsy Kings and the main meal transforms the reception completely—some guests abandon their assigned seats, plates pass from hand to hand, laughter builds. And I breathe deep.
Chaos is my vibe.
Bronson calls down the bridal table towards Xander and Max, between mouthfuls of osso buco—his second helping. “Fifty bucks Dad requests Frank Sinatra before the cake arrives.”
“It’s on the set list,” I confirm, proudly.
“Fifty bucks he doesn’t wait,” Xander counters, grabbing the last piece of sourdough and buttering it.
“Fifty bucks it’s My Way,” Clay adds, setting his knife and fork together on his empty plate. A kiss hits my cheek. My husband stands, downs his whiskey, and straightens his jacket. “Excuse me, little deer. I have to speak to a man about a city.”
I peer up at him. “My Don is busy.” I’m not sad about it—I’m impressed by him. The most powerful man in this room of over four hundred guests, including hundreds of the most influential men and women in the world.
Leaning down, he grips my jaw. “Little deer.” He kisses me hard, consuming me entirely, leaving no room for questions or hesitation or will he miss me as the band covers Unforgettable by Nat King Cole.
We break our kiss, panting, smiling—obscenely happy.
Suddenly, Alceu’s wife appears, snatching Clay’s chair. She waves my husband away, scolding him in Sicilian, forcing his lips to twitch with a small grin.
“Seems my sweet girl has a line of wives requesting the recipe for the biscotti on the dessert table.”
I blush. “I’m popular.”
Clay stops to speak into Bronson’s ear, who is still eating, then strides onto the main floor.
The woman now sitting beside me is younger than Alceu, but still gracefully aged, leaning close as I scribble the instructions and ingredients down on a napkin.
The meal part of the evening goes by so fast; it isn’t at all as I imagined. I thought that the Family was all trained smiles, smooth dispositions, and rippling, intimidating energy.
Orderly.
Formal.
Snobby.
I cringe, because I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I mean, sure, they are powerful, not to be fucked with, rulers of an empire I merely skirt around, but—they are full of laughter, authentic, and warm.
The men from Sicily eat and chuckle from their bellies, while their wives gossip and drink, and when the band tries their hand at Con Te Partirò by Andrea Bocelli, hundreds of thick-accented voices belt out the chorus.
Dirty plates are cleared.
Wine glasses are filled.
Soon, Cassidy is squatting at my side. “There is something I really want to tell you. Do you remember the first time you came to my house? A little over a year ago?”
I twist in my seat. It’s impossible to forget that day—I found out I was pregnant and Clay discovered the horrible truth about what happened to his brothers. “Hard to forget that particular day.”
“Well, you looked at a picture on my wall of Clay and Aurora’s wedding, and it made you sad, seeing his smile.” She edges towards me, her hazel eyes sparkling.
Not sad…
Jealous.
“You know,” she goes on, “a lot of people look at the bride when she walks down the aisle, but I like to look at the groom. To see his face. I remember Clay’s face when he saw Aurora at the other end of the aisle.
His face lit-up. So bright. Now that I know him, I realise how unnatural that expression is for him, like he was wearing a disguise.
Today, when he saw you, his face didn’t light-up.
It flattened as if someone had punched him.
” She elbows me gently, lowering her voice as if it’s the biggest secret.
“His eyes even welled up. And in that moment, he was completely raw, showing everything. I know that feeling. It feels like bare bones and a swollen heart. I thought you might like to know.”
“Bare bones and a swollen heart?”
“Yeah. Those Butcher Boys unravel you, ya know? Well”—she glances at Max, who has his gaze fixed on her—“we unravel them too.”
I release a small chuckle. “Thank you. And thank you for being a part of my wedding, and for coming cake tasting and for the Spotify list.”
Another role model.
“Thank you for having me!” she says, bouncing back to her seat beside Max, leaning into his ear to say something.
I lift my gaze, seeking reassurance. Across the room, I find my husband, the Don of the District, Clay Butcher staring at me—as if he can’t bear not to.
As the night deepens, the twins and their cousins of the same age are taken across the road to the hotel.
Speeches blur together—Bronson makes everyone laugh with his opening line, “Do I know you people?” Clay's words brand themselves onto my soul. Luca's toast makes the room sigh with melancholy. And Jasmine's stories leave us all wondering how much she’s had to drink.
Then it’s time… The moment I’ve been most nervous about—the MC's voice cuts through everything, saying, “It's time for the first dance."
My eyes widen.
Butterflies burst inside me.
When Love Me Tender by Elvis Presley floods the ballroom, four hundred eyes land on me, provoking my pulse to race within my neck.
Clay appears beside me, his suit stretched across shoulders that carry the weight of an empire, yet his eyes soften on me with love and understanding.
Smoothly, he holds his tattooed hand out for me to take—the same hand that has executed men, wiped my tears away, made me scream and whimper his name, and cradled our newborn sons.
I blink at it.
I take it, my breath steadying as our skin connects, affection and warmth rolling up my arm. I rise on trembling legs, balance on tiny heels, drowning in those ice-blue eyes that have watched men beg for mercy and me scream in ecstasy.
"Don't let me trip," I whisper.
"Never." That single word sounds like a vow.
He leads me down the steps to the centre of the ballroom, a square space made of light, polished wood, the planks laid in a crisscross pattern.
The overhead lights slowly dim, leaving only the chandeliers glowing in warm hues that dot the dance floor. We move through them to the heart of the square.
Clay Butcher claims me on the dance floor, pulling me against the towering hard wall of his body, close enough to feel his gun holstered at his ribs. If my moral compass did not point to Clay Butcher, to safety, that fact might frighten me.
It doesn’t.
Our true first dance happened in the log-cabin-on-steroids, my thighs straddling him, my heart on the line, my self-worth a pitiful thing. He told me dancing was problematic at six-foot-five, but perhaps he meant I was too short…
Today my stilettos bring me closer to his jaw. I can see his lips move as he declares, “You’re taller, sweet girl. Follow my lead. I’ve got you.”
Admiring the confidence in his movements, the control and guidance he offers, I fall into an easy flow with him. I’m so used to following his lead in everyday life, this feels natural. We are surrounded by a dense circle of spectators.
He spins me into a slow, smooth twirl, my dress expanding with the motion, before he pulls me back into his chest. “I love you, sweet girl," he declares, his gravelly voice confident despite the hundreds watching.
"The most dangerous man in the world loves me. How crazy is that?" I whisper back.
"I know it is an—" He pauses, searching for a specific phrase. "An unspectacular and ordinary word, but it’s the one that means what I feel."
My heart stops.
I almost stumble, but he predicts my shock, holding me tighter, supportive as his words sail through my heart. Those words— they are the exact ones I clumsily blurted out the first time we danced, the first time I confessed my love. "You remember that?"
"Forget the first time you tell me you love me?" His eyes burn with a possessiveness. "Never."
Tears rush down my face. "I'm so happy it hurts.”
"So am I, little deer.”
I bite my lower lip. “What is ‘I love you’ in Sicilian?”
“T’amu.”
I feel so emotional it’s hard to breathe, like my heart is swollen and fighting my lungs for space in my ribcage. I inhale hard, saying. “T’amu, Sir.”
He smiles down at me. “T’amu, little deer.”
I beam up at him, quirking my brow cheekily. “Already better at Sicilian than Max.”
After we dance, we serve my all-white, six-tiered wedding cake, and eat. Sir devours two pieces. So unlike him. A man who prides himself on discipline, licks his white cake from the fork like it’s something rare. Something to claim as his own. He always claims with complete passion.
We end the gorging part of the event. Before long, guests and important men, with only today to gather his favour, request my husband’s attention yet again.
Clay lifts his finger, pausing them with effortless authority. It’s a silent, ‘no, go away’. And they can read his subtleties as loudly as I can.
“Go,” I offer, soft eyes meeting his. “I’ll be here.”
Something similar to pride plays along his smooth smile as he stands, kissing my knuckles, before moving down into the large, lavish ballroom.
Eeee.
He’s proud.
I’m proud.
Kudos, Fawn.
The band has taken a small break to re-tune and eat, so soaring around us through the speakers is Make You Feel My Love by Adele.
I am so full.
Surprisingly, the tiny ballerina a few seats down is a bottomless pit.
Cassidy hums and leans back, rubbing the gentle swell of her food-baby beneath her cream bridesmaid dress.
“I need to make space for more cake.” She stands and looks down at Max, still seated beside her. “Come dance with me, Menace?”
“He is a majestic dancer.” Bronson smirks, waving an unlit cigar towards his brother. “Beautiful brother—show us some of your moves.”
From the other end of the bridal table, Konnor laughs. “If by moves you mean stomping and shouldering everyone, sure. Show us, arsehole.”
Yikes.
Is he kidding?
Bronson’s shoulder touches mine. “Don’t worry about those two, darlin’. They love each other, really.”
Max grunts at Konnor, grabs his wife’s hand—who is Konnor’s baby sister—and tugs her onto his lap, plunging his tongue into her mouth, growling obscenely.
Cassidy yelps.
Konnor groans. “Fuck, my eyes.”
“Your eyes are beautiful,” Blesk says softly. Gripping his jaw, she guides his attention away from Max’s obnoxious display. “Just look at me, my green-eyed boy.”
“Don’t have to ask twice, Duchess.” Konnor kisses her gently—far more PG than Max’s antics further down the table.
Cassidy seems to push Max away and pull at his shirt all at once. They make-out for a few moments before she breaks their kiss, flushing and panting. “Ugh, you’re a menace.”
Then she stands.
From the guest table in the front row, Toni, Cassidy’s best friend, shoots to his feet, calling out to her, “Oh, my giddy aunt. Is it time, Golden Girl? Let’s get freaky.”
Max frowns. “Hard pass.”
Cassidy giggles. “See you soon, Menace.” She plants a chaste kiss on his cheek, and he closes his eyes, savouring it, blocking out every other sensation.
Soon, Cassidy joins Toni, Stacey, and her sister Flick on the dance floor. Little Kelly rushes over, ordering them all to form a hand-holding circle, dancing like schoolgirls.
“Thank fuck for Toni,” Xander laughs, taking Kaya’s hand and helping her up. “Glad we don’t have to do that.”
Kaya smiles. “Not the communal dancer, Hothead?”
“Only dancing with you, Woman.”
“Speak for yourself.” Bronson rises to his full six-foot-five height, vivid tattoos on his hands and neck licking from beneath his tuxedo jacket, his black suspenders displayed under the open lapels, looking every bit a 1920s gangster. “I have a fairy circle to fucking join.”
I catch his hand, warm affection moving through my chest as I consider all he has done for me recently, what he seems to selflessly do for everyone. “Save a dance for me, Brother Bronson.”
“Sister Fawn.” He tips his fedora at me politely. “What the bride wants, the bride receives.”
“Nutcase,” Shoshanna laughs huskily as Bronson’s tattooed fingers trace her exposed back, sliding down her arm, where he grabs her hand.
Mischief flares in his eyes. “Come with me.”
She chuckles. “I’ll meet you down there.”
So, Bronson kisses her knuckles and descends the steps to the dance floor. He takes Kelly’s hand, and then Toni’s. Toni mock-swoons.
Xander calls after them. “I thought I was your favourite Butcher, Toni. Should I be jealous?”
Toni winks up at him. “Don’t get me started with you—you gorgeous thing. I’d let you do bad things to me.”
Kaya smirks. “I don’t share.”
One by one, the bridal party dissolves into different areas of the reception.