CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
clay
The ceremony
“We didn’t growup 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 everythingher. 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 Nostrasoldiers, 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.
