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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
fawn
The reception
Aurora glidesinto my husband's vacant seat, leaving just the two of us in the centre of the table, with Max drinking whiskey at the far end.
Leaning easily into her side, I let my gaze pan over the glittering scene of the ballroom, finding Luca Butcher standing in front of the band, hands moving, fingers pinched. I smile, waiting for the music. Sure enough, the next song sailing from the front stage is Frank Sinatra’sSomethin’ Stupid.
Someone just won fifty bucks.
In my mind—my mildlyinfluffymind—I’m transported to another time, maybe in Chicago, surrounded by mobsters, just really absorbing the culture in this room.
Clay is sitting at the Dons’ table, talking intensely. Cigar smoke flows along the white tablecloth from several lit cigars.
I miss him.
Even from this distance.
But I feel content too.
Confident. Secure.
Watching the conversation with fascination, I study the ease with which their mouths move, watch the long pauses, nothing hurried, everything smooth and controlled.
