His Pretty Little Queen: A Dark Mafia, Age Gap Romance (Kids of The District Book 5)
His Pretty Little Queen: Chapter 3

THIS IS Aurora’s concept of happiness—clothes shopping with a bottomless account.

A spare room has been transformed into a pop-up boutique. I pull another pencil skirt off the rack, wondering how it varies from the previous one.

I peer down my body, at my Bambi print shirt—the one that made Clay smile—and the white flowy skirt that bares a lot of my legs, liking them far more than the piece in my hand—

‘That’s a lovely choice,’ a voice says from behind me.

I smile stiffly, and hook the pencil skirt on the ‘maybe rack’ even though it’s a no.

They are all so same-same. Black. Red. Mauve. Dusty… everything. Dusty pink, blue, green. Why do we want to look dusty? Why is worn and tattered the new… new? The entire concept confuses my poverty-constructed brain.

But then… ‘It’s better to stand out, than fit in,’ I mutter to myself, as my mother’s entire philosophy in life tumbles into my mind while the simple, yet stunning garments around me guarantee I will do far more fitting in than standing out.

The middle-aged woman who is pretending to search for something I may like keeps glancing my way as though she has more words working their way around her tongue.

I pull out a cute white flowy shirt that might look elegant as a dress with a tan belt. If I get a size too large… I might like that. I present it to her, saying, ‘I quite like this… as a dress, though.’

The woman shakes her head, and I frown, not surprised by her attitude. I kind of want to look the part so they’ll respect me, so I go along with this. ‘That’s a Valentino,’ she says. ‘It isn’t supposed to be worn as a dress.’

Right…

I keep looking. I’ve always liked op-shopping because there are trends and styles from every era. I enjoy mixing and matching and wondering what life the garment has already lived… It is one of the few things I remember doing with my mum.

She used to say we were different. I’m not sure I was anything really… an extension of her, maybe. Looking back on what I recall, she was different. Her opinions: wild. Her theories: conspiracies she probably never honestly believed. She just… wanted something to say. Even if she was absurd. At the very least, she was interesting. Enchanting.

Memorable, even.

She felt the same way about her appearance and mine. While other girls wore jeans and tee-shirts, I was dressed in flowing dresses, denim jackets, and cowboy boots. She hid in her boldness, in her bullshit.

‘Be like the moon, Fawn. Light up the dark.’

Then she put a bullet in her brain.

‘I’ve been dressing Mrs Butcher since she was nine,’ the woman says, drawing me from my thoughts. She clutches at her red shawl as she approaches a rear rack of clothes. ‘And her style is flawless.’ She spins to face me with an expression of feigned politeness. She gazes at me like a project. A quiet cringe crosses her face before she recovers her retail smile. ‘Why don’t we try something new? Huh? You know, there is a certain image that Mr and Mrs Butcher uphold and—’ She gives me another once over. ‘You’re stunning, young lady, but maybe we could change your style a tad.’

‘Fawn,’—Aurora’s voice sails through the room, although I can’t seem to place her, the racks creating partitions in the vast space—’has her own style.’

She appears beside me, her long dark hair pinned up perfectly, her chin tilted higher than straight, a pleasant smile set into her lips. She places her hand on my shoulder; her support can be sensed in the weighted touch. My chest tightens with jealousy, with happiness, too, because I like her. Gah, it’s a sucky situation. ‘Mr Butcher is quite fond of her style. Don’t change her.’

That makes me smile.

‘Oh, of course,’ the woman says through a nervous laugh, backpedalling like crazy in the presence of this impressive woman. ‘It was only a suggestion.’

‘And best refer to Fawn as Miss Harlow.’ She looks at me questioningly, and I suddenly straighten under her gaze. ‘Fawn, you don’t need to pick anything. If there is nothing here you want, Prada has a white poplin dress and pleated tulle skirt that I think you’ll love. We can bring you others.’ She studies me as I nod compliantly. ‘You don’t want anything, do you?’

I worry my bottom lip, working the skin as I contemplate how to avoid offending her. I do want to be more like her… ‘It’s just not my thing.’ I squirm, my need to please twisting coils of reluctance through me. ‘But I understand that I live here now, and I need clothes, so…’ I trail off because she laughs softly, her eyes crinkling at each edge.

‘I replace cooking tedious,’ she admits, sliding her hand from my shoulder to smooth my blonde hair down my crown. Her touch makes me sigh. ‘You replace clothes shopping so. You don’t have to be like me, Fawn. You can finally be whomever you want. I know Clay has told you to use your voice. Say what you want here.’

She rubs my shoulder with gentle pressure as she turns to leave, and I follow her with my gaze until she is out of the room. The protective dominance she carries with effortless grace vanishes, leaving me with a little pout.

I realise I like her around a lot more than I like her absence. Having her close is a direct line to Clay. Having her close is like being close to him.

I turn to the lady, squaring my shoulders. ‘I’m actually going to pass…’ I glance around. ‘On everything—Thank you.’

‘MR BUTCHER?’ I question, squinting at a muscular, suited back. Clay’s dad moves towards the double front doors.

At least I think it’s Luca Butcher.

Dude looks super scary…

Just like I remember him.

It’s edging 5 p.m., and Clay still isn’t home, so I’m not sure why his father is wandering the halls. Not that it’s any of my business what the comings and goings of a man like him are, or—

He turns to acknowledge me; blue eyes not unlike Clay’s settle on me. Matching chilling orbs of power and indifference like a fallen angel might have. Beautiful, yet heart shattering.

His muscles are larger than Clay’s, his form monstrous even within a black suit, and there wouldn’t be much left of the person who decided this suited man was gentlemanly in nature.

The last time I saw him, he was watching my ultrasound with entitled interest in the baby in my belly. An interest I didn’t quite understand like I do now. He is my dad’s enemy. Just like Clay.

The baby—me—we were bait.

I wonder what I am to him now…

‘Fawn,’ he says my name without emotion. A polite acknowledgement of sorts. ‘I was looking for my wife.’ I expect him to ask if I have seen her, but he doesn’t.

‘Oh.’ I glance around the empty corridors, which is ridiculous because it’s as though I must prove I haven’t seen her by indicating her absence around us. I shuffle awkwardly, saying, ‘I haven’t seen her.’

Ugh. Clever girl, Fawn.

He smiles tightly and nods his response and his farewell in that gesture, but before he can turn to leave, I step towards him, my mouth rushing as my mind struggles to catch its heel. ‘Mr Butcher?’ He stops, and I take a step closer to him. ‘Tell me about my dad.’

‘Luca,’ he insists, casually turning to face me as though I didn’t just drop a bomb of a statement on his arse.

‘Okay. Luca. Can you tell me about my dad?’

‘You should ask my son.’

‘I’m asking you,’ I press, unsure at what point I became so ballsy that I’m ready to stand my ground while literally standing on his. Maybe it was Aurora… I can still feel her hand on my shoulder. A humming reminder to be myself. That, of course, doesn’t stop my hands from shaking, so I reach for my hair, twirling a golden ribbon around my finger to avoid the idling tremors. ‘You said that you have known my father for many years—’

‘My son will decide what you—’

‘But you didn’t tell me that you meant to use me and my baby to lure him out for your revenge, which might have worked if he cared enough about me, but he doesn’t, does he?’ I take a big breath and say, ‘I’d like to know why?’ I hold that breath when the last word leaves my lips. Realisation settles. I interrupted him and poked at him without any knowledge of the kind of man he is or how he would respond to my surfacing contempt. I don’t hate him. I don’t think I like him though. Which only lumps him in with almost everyone else I’ve met.

They lie.

They use.

He did both.

He remains neutral, eyeing me with scepticism shifting over his rough, hard features. Then a hint of approval taps at a corner of his mouth—a tick of a grin. ‘Okay. Let’s discuss your father. But if you are set on talking business with an old man then it would be customary to offer him a whiskey.’

I breathe out my relief, nodding at him in agreement. ‘Okey dokey. I can do that. Clay keeps his whiskey in the office.’

His grin slides a hint further, and his arms widen, indicating that the next move is mine. That I should lead the way. It’s a kind of act because, I am certain, he knows exactly where the whiskey is kept.

Even though I know the way to Clay’s office, I second guess myself at a few corners in the hallway, but Luca pretends not to notice.

When we enter the rich navy-blue office space with the delicate wooden trimming around the recessed ceiling, I rush towards the glowing cabinet and cringe as I try the glass door, hoping it’s unlocked.

It is.

I pour into a short glass, stopping at about halfway up the globe, but as I go to screw the cap back on the bottle of whiskey, Luca says, ‘And one for yourself, my girl.’

I look at the carpet and notice the cream-coloured fibres entwined with slightly darker ones, the image of me on my knees as I tried to rip the miss-coloured fibres out flashes behind my eyes.

I clear my throat.

Pouring myself a glass that matches his, I ignore the memory. I sit down on the sofa opposite him, setting his glass down on the table between us. And his silence is so powerful; I bet men and women spill all their secrets and show all their cards as he assesses the scene in effortless pensive silence. ‘I don’t know what to ask because I don’t know anything about him. All I know is that he is my blood, and everyone hates him, and I can’t help but feel— Were you ever… friends?’

He grabs the glass. ‘No.’ He leans back and hangs his thick arm over the back of the leather sofa, rocking the amber liquid in his glass with his thumb and forefinger. ‘I despised him from the moment we met.’

I swallow hard, those words moving deep into my heart as though he were talking about me. I lift my chin to hide the vicarious hurt. ‘Why did you despise him?’

‘You are not your father.’

‘I didn’t say—’

‘Bad blood within the Families isn’t uncommon, but made men take an oath and we keep the peace. There is a lot of bad blood when it comes to your father and the people I care about. A lot of pain. Deceit. A lot of disappointments. You—’ He pauses, measuring me up, and my chest tightens under his scrutiny. ‘Your existence, my girl… is not part of those disappointments or that bad blood.’

I exhale hard over the sentiment laced through that statement. Despite the fact I can’t read him for the life of me, he clearly has a view of my very visceral thoughts. I’m as transparent as a glass castle. Behind that thin sheath, I’m testing my place within his family, dipping my toe in to see if he’ll accept me.

He nods at the whiskey I have clutched in my lap, and I smile, bringing it to my lips. The smoky scent that reminds me of Clay caresses my nostrils, then my mouth as I take a small sip. It is like drinking a bushfire that tore through vines of overly ripe fruits and berries. It is sweet and chaotic, delicate yet masculine; I hum around the flavours.

I fucking love it.

I’m a whiskey girl now.

‘You like whiskey. Good girl. Now, what do you want from this new world you replace yourself in, Fawn? It is a part of who you are, so what part of it do you want to accept?’

I swallow the woody fire and clear the scorched aftermath before saying, ‘I just want to be with Clay, be what he needs, but he’s…’

Married.

The word drops into my mind quietly, my mouth parting to say it aloud. He has a wife. And I like her. Which makes this whole arrangement even stranger. It would be easier to hate her. The rational parts of me know that she is just his business partner, that they don’t share a bed, have never shown any sexual affection, just mutual respect, but a part of me wants to be greedy.

A big part of me.

I want all of him.

A white dress.

To walk down the aisle.

To be his everything, like he is mine.

Happily-ever-after for Fawn Harlow Butcher.

‘Aurora will not give my son children,’ Luca interrupts my thoughts, another contemplation that must have played out across my face.

I slowly shake my head, saying, ‘I don’t think he wants children, Luca. He was only willing to care for me because—’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Neither did I until later in life, but I found myself with them before I was ready. My son is smarter than me. He doesn’t do things in halves. If he’s a father… Well, he won’t be like me. I made mistakes with them all. All my boys suffered, but with Clay—Clay was basically an orphan, like you, my girl.’

‘You did give him family. His brothers. There is so much love between them. I—’

‘They created that bond all by themselves. They could have been at each other’s throats, but they weren’t. I don’t know who that bond is accounted to… but it sure as hell is not me.’

‘You are too hard on yourself—’

‘None of that. Don’t soften the situation for my benefit, girl. Listen and understand,’ he states, and I hold my breath along with my innate need to comfort him. In that way, he’s just like Clay. He’s discussing his mistakes, showing a sense of guilt, but that’s only half of what he’s saying.

What he’s really saying is: ‘I fucked up. I want you to know that I fucked up, and I’m accountable for it, but you may not make me feel better about it or console me.’

Are all men like this?

I wouldn’t know. If I’d had a dad or even an uncle, maybe I would have a point of reference.

I think Luca and Clay would prefer me to stone them for their mistakes rather than forgive them. As though neither of them has a person to show them forgiveness, to allow them to wallow in their mistakes, to grieve them.

He goes on, ‘The fact is, I saw Clay exactly thirty-six times from the day he was born until he turned twenty-four. I loved another woman and the pain of seeing her with your father was more than I could bare to witness, so I spent every damn moment I could away from the District. Away from my family. I was a shitty, selfish father, and I did what I wanted. I boxed. I ran boxing gyms and the competitions for the Family all over the world. That is where I lived my life. I did it because I refused to see her in his arms. So, I don’t need my failings forgiven or softened, Fawn. I need the right woman in my sons’ lives moving forward because I neglected to give them the right one at the beginning. So are you prepared for the part you need to play?’

He doesn’t love his wife; he loved my dad’s wife… My heart pounds in my throat. ‘Is that why you hated him? Because you loved her?’

‘I was right to… ‘ His gaze loses focus as he stares at the glass of whiskey rocking back and forth in his fingers. Then he says, ‘Madeline and I had a son together, and… dammit… I knew if he thought the boy was his, he would love him, so I stepped aside. And I proved to be the worst kind of father as it stood, but he knew, somehow. Or someone told him. He tried to have the boy killed—my boy with his mother’s green eyes. Konnor. Everything changed from there. The bad blood was rancid. There was no going back. Are you prepared for what that means for your father?’

I take another sip of my whiskey, using the delicious liquid to bide me some time while I contemplate.

My father tried to have a child killed simply because he was not his own blood.

Who does that?

A smile hits the corner of my lips at the memory of Clay swearing to care for my baby and me, asserting that the baby is his despite the blood father.

My heart steadies.

And I know I want to be the right woman for him because he chose me when no one else did. I’ll choose him now. I’ll choose him forever. ‘What part do I need to play?’

‘You’re very young—’

‘I’m not weak—’

‘No.’ He nods slowly, his blue eyes panning my resolute face as though he can measure my strength like he’s the authority on the subject. ‘No, you’re not.’