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Two open eyes.
One button-shaped nose.
When I turn to lay sideways with my legs making a pyramid over Clay’s thigh and my back held by his arm, it’s just the four of us in the slow-motion world.
Under the moonlight, it’s so still now. Everything else melts away. Clay’s blue gaze drops to take in his keening little boys, and perhaps for the first time since I met him, he has nothing to say. No praises. Or encouragement. No words of wisdom. The sweet sight of his sons has rendered him speechless.
“They did so good, Sir,” I say softly, while both boys quieten down, nuzzling into my sides. Barely feeling the aches through the endorphins and euphoria, I turn to face Clay so I can properly present him with his sons.
He accepts both boys, holding their heads in his palms, with their backs cradled along his tattooed forearms.
And just like that, he’s a dad.
Not the Don of theCosa Nostra.Not my Sir or the mayor or the most powerful man in the city, but something far more important and infinitely simpler.
Just a man.
A man holding his twin boys for the first time. A man with tears rushing over his chiselled jaw. With a smile—a genuine smile—the kind that lights up every inch of his face, that glows along each line. The kind that only comes around once in a while from a man like Clay Butcher.
“Madonna Mia,” he finally says, his voice overcome as his gaze sweeps over his perfect little heirs. “Look what your magic made for me, little deer.”
CHAPTERELEVEN
ten months later
Luca Butcher
“Play gentle with my daughter,se?” I declare to my son Bronson, mild humour set into my tone.
I lean forward and grab my whiskey from the outdoor table. The ice clicks as I bring the amber liquor to my nose, inhaling what I can only describe as the scent of my life and business.
“It’s our bit,” Bronson calls over, pretending to mind my word before jerking back to push Cassidy into the pool with a smile of innocence on his face.
She yelps. The sound disappears with her body beneath the surface. Her husband wouldn’t be too pleased with the antics; I know this. But my son Max is inside with their baby, trying to get the boy to take a nap.
He is teething.
Madonna Mia.
I know nothing about these things, and despite a lack of a role model, my boys are hands-on with their children.
My granddaughter Kelly, the only female born Butcher Girl, lies on a giant inflatable pelican. She is wearing pink sunglasses and a floppy sun hat that covers most of her tiny body. Nothing thaws this weathered old fool like my granddaughter does—she is my sunshine.
It's a good thing that I didn't have a daughter; I fear for my sanity and reason if I had.
“Mummy!” she screeches, excited. “Come up here with me. I’ll keep you safe from the nutcase.”
Bronson bursts into a fit of laughter that echoes the outdoor entertainment area. It’s as wild as him. “Oh, don’t you start, Outlaw.”
Beside me, my eldest son Clay watches the gathering with the same contentment I thought neither of us would truly feel, yet undeniably do.
A sense of rest.
Comfort, even.
His wife is fast asleep on the sun lounger to his side with their twin boys, Luca—my namesake—and Ash, tucked under either arm. The boys are easily distinguished, Ash with his lighter hair and Luca with his thick frame.
A big boy.
