His Pretty Little Queen: A Dark Mafia, Age Gap Romance (Kids of The District Book 5)
His Pretty Little Queen: Chapter 31

HE HASN’T SAID a word to me since we left Max and Cassidy’s house. He gazes at our joined hands in his lap, at his thumb as it trails over my knuckles so softly it’s barely a feather touching the wind.

He’s disappeared into his eyes, and my heart drops under the weight of all the truth set free today.

The energy in the car is thick, smothering me with his melancholy and regret. It’s not his fault. Or… did he suspect all along? I wonder whether he knew—deep down, whether he saw the signs that his mother used to abuse his younger brothers but just like with the little girl in the hospital, he didn’t ask questions.

The Cosa Nostra was infallible.

The Cosa Nostra was his moon.

And his mother is a part of that.

“Can I take you somewhere, Sir?” I turn my body to face his and pull our connected hands to my thighs. His arm is heavy and lifeless until he refocuses and lifts his gaze to meet mine.

“Hey,” I say softly, seeing him dark, consumed, lost within his own blue eyes. “Can I take you somewhere, Sir?” I lean towards him and touch his warm cheek; his jawline is coarse with the start of new hairs. As I hold his face, he closes his eyes and sighs roughly, forcing my heart to twist.

“It’s okay, Sir.”

Desperate to be closer, I twist to unbuckle my belt, needing to crawl onto his lap, hold him, and tell him it’s not his fault, he couldn’t have known, but he stops me by covering my hand with his.

“No.” He shakes his head once and lightly squeezes my fingers over the buckle. “Your belt stays on, sweet girl.”

I blink at him as he turns to face forward, the backs of my eyes burning. He is dealing with his thoughts in isolation.

“How far away is Stormy River Junction from here?” I ask.

“Twenty minutes or so, little deer,” he responds absently, but pulls our hands to his lap, authoritarian and dominant, and continues to stroke my skin with the pad of his thumb. That is it; his way of letting me in, and I can accept it. From a man like Clay Butcher, even the glimmer of vulnerabilities should be cherished, noticed, and appreciated.

I relax my hand in his. “Can I show you something? Can I take you somewhere, Sir?”

“Of course.”

LOOKING through the clean tinted windows at the slums of Stormy River, it seems like a million years have passed since I lived in this neighbourhood.

Housing flats shadow the road on both sides. The lawns have stories to tell̦—secrets in the blades. Like every patch, every dried circle of dirt and roots, tells of a party or a stripped vehicle or a tent from an evictee. The poverty and boredom echo, the grass never having time to recover.

That’s poverty.

Patches of grass.

“Here.” I point, and the vehicle pulls up beside a brown-brick block of flats with a dozen men—older than me but younger than Clay—sitting on the steps.

They rise to their feet, eyeing the sparkling Chrysler like a prize as we park. Behind us, our convoy lines the street, including one shiny red beauty—my car driven by my butler/rat.

Clay steps out in that suave effortless confidence I adore. That everyone is drawn to, envious of, that speaks of danger and warning without the need to scream or demand it. It’s implicit. Infallible.

From inside the vehicle, I watch him take his time, smooth down his tie, and calmly assess the neighbourhood, the park across from us, and the flats to our side.

He rounds the black bonnet and opens my door for me. The air is stale and lacking as it enters the car. Everything in Connolly smells like something: flowers, lawn clipping, cigars, roses, but here, there is little to settle on.

Nothing and too much all at once.

I climb out, and my nerves spike, butterflies taking flight, seeing the world I no longer belong to reflected at me in the stares of the men now swaggering slowly towards us.

Clay faces them, his expression as impassive as the Devil’s might be staring at angry stray dogs. Unimpressed. Unaffected.

Our driver appears beside Clay, halts by the car, and sweeps the sides of his black jacket back when he grips each hip. Guns on both sides flash in the sun.

The gang of men freezes on a patch of dried lawn. A new memory collects there. The day Clay Butcher came to town. The men converse quietly and then return to their spot on the steps, deciding not to cause trouble.

Staring across the street at the open park with the old tombstones, I take a big breath and thread my fingers through Clay’s. I lead him across the street and into the cemetery. It was the cheapest one in the District at the time.

I only had the money from the sale of the caravan to use, and it all went on this plot. “Cremation is cheaper,” they had told me. But how would she become a butterfly if they burned her body? It was an unbearable question.

It still is.

It represents my innocence.

It instils my ideals.

The parts of me that are ‘her.’

My eyes start to scorch, hot pokers of sorrow sliding in while tears are wanting out. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m suddenly affected by this place, by her. I just wanted to introduce Clay to my mum. Thought he might talk about his if he knew more about mine.

We get to the spot—at least, I think. I use my sandals to move the overgrown grass on the metal plates until I replace her. Then I sit down on the grass, folding my legs below my backside.

I read the plate. “Ashlee Harlow… my mum.” I pause and look up at Clay. His dark brows are pinched together, a thick worry line protruding between them. I like his frown. All his emotions, really.

Every. Single. One.

“Mum, this is Clay Butcher.”

Smiling sadly, I look back at her name. It cost extra for more letters. So, I only put her name. Not ‘beloved mum or friend or… whatever.’ Just her name.

“I know it’s been a while.” I pull my hair over my shoulder and play with the ends at my waist. “But then, we spent so little time together when you were alive; it doesn’t seem that strange. I didn’t really miss you—” I’m suddenly choked on that redundant lie as it moves to the back of my throat, forcing me to swallow around it. “I do miss you,” I admit aloud and to myself. “It’s just easier to miss you now because I missed you so fucking much when you were alive. I miss you less now because I don’t expect you… but I do still miss you.”

Suddenly, Clay sits down behind me. He pulls me back to rest my spine on his hard, packed torso, with his long muscular legs bracketing mine. He’s processing today, and I understand. He’s still present, though, and he’s making sure I know it.

“I’m pregnant,” I say to the plate and the patchy grass, and Clay’s heart thumps faster behind me. “The happy kind, though, Mum. Not the mistake kind.”

I lean further into him, rolling my head along his hard chest. “Sir?” I muse, and he hums in response. “I think… you didn’t know your mum very well”—I twirl my hair around my finger— “and I can relate. But we shouldn’t lie anymore. I miss my mum. I missed her when she was alive, and I miss her now. And I think that you should ask questions this time. That you should replace the truth and not let the lies keep everyone apart.”

He hums. “Are you taking care of me now, sweet girl?”

I smile at that. “Yes, because you’re letting me, Sir.”

“This truth is dangerous, little deer. There is no good that can come from—”

“I think your brothers need you to do this. I think, they need you to be their protector now. It’s not too late.”

“What would you suggest?”

I swallow and whisper, “Make her liable. I wish I could make mine see what she did, understand it. She killed herself and left me to the system. She was never liable for me, alive or not. And now she will never be liable for me. Make sure your mum is.”

“I have my father to consider.”

“It will destroy your brothers if you ignore what happened today.”

“I don’t plan on ignoring it, sweet girl.”

“End the secrets, Sir. If they have to continue to live with this secret. They may look like big, strong men now, but inside they are still letting her hurt them.”

“They’re still protecting her.”

“Yeah, but who is protecting them?”

He exhales hard.

As he contemplates, moments move between us with the breeze and the stale Stormy River air.

Finally, Clay says, “My pretty little queen.” He leans down and runs his nose against the curve of my neck, breathing me in hard. “Strong and confident and full of opinions. Using her voice.”

Beaming at my mother’s grave, accepting her ideals and my own inner strength, at peace with me, I cuddle my middle, cradling my stomach. “Because of your baby in my belly, Sir.”

“No, sweet girl.” His arms sweep over mine to mirror my position. My heart expands in my ribcage, hope streams through my veins, and our future grows in my womb. “Your power has nothing to do with me, little deer.”