It’s early morning in London, so he might not be awake yet. The message sits there with empty little ticks beside it. He’s been travelling for nearly thirteen months, and he is the first person in this new world to accept me, to treat me like an individual.
I miss him.
I place the phone on my stomach and sing along with Danny Go on the television. “Happy moon, happy moon, happy moon, why are you smiling?”
“Happy moon, happy moon, happy moon, what’s so funny?” I hear my henchman/butler sing from where he stands by the courtyard door. And I smile.
He is always there.
“I’m going to the shops to get new underwear!” Jasmine announces cheerfully, peering over the edge of the playpen and down at me. “Want some?”
I lift a brow at her. “Underwear?”
“Oh.” She laughs. “That’s just something you say. I guess not. Want anything else?”
“I’ll take some underwear,” HJ laughs.
I know she’ll get food, probably stop at a bakery. “A sausage roll for me and my rat,” I say, just for the sake of it. “Do you need money?”
I’m not aware of the money situation; Clay pays for everything, for everyone. I don’t know how many businesses we own—a bit premature of me to call them ours—or whetherwehave a mortgage or debts. He controls everything. He quite literally owns everyone in this entire house in a way, Jasmine and her dad included as they are both employed by the Family. I’ve been told that working for the Mafia is an inherited profession. As in, once you work for the mob, your children, your children’s children, and so on, become part of that elite business. Making Jasmine a mob-born servant.
Her dad, Que, Clay’s Head Man, is worth his weight in gold, while Jasmine… I mean, I’ve seen her clean a few times and tidy my closet once…Hm…What does she do for eight hours a day?
“Oh, Boss gives me an allowance for stuff for you, so I’m all good,” she says, shrugging.
“An allowance?”
“Yeah. He puts extra money in my bank each week with my usual pay. Way more than you spend, too. So, thanks for being so unmaterialistic. I got myself a Gucci bag last month.”
I know nothing about brands—maybe I should learn? Now, I’m to be his wife. Not just a pretty little burden or a secret lover. A wifey. Wife of the Don of theCosa Nostra.FawnHarlowButcher.
Do I need a new hairstyle? A trim? Heels? I’ve dreamed about this day since I met him, wanted it more than oxygen, wished for a dangerous man on the moon, but never really dove into the consequences.
Clay’s one-sided conversation comes back.She severed my ties to Jimmy Storm’s ghost. Fawn has already given me two sons at only nineteen— my sons and daughters will be unstoppable. No one will ever question the leadership of the Cosa Nostra in the District again.
Yeah,the consequences of marrying the Don of the fucking Cosa Nostra. The Devil’s Prototype! What will the men and women in Sicily think of me? The ones with centuries of Mafia royalty in their veins and bars of gold in their safes.
What will they think of him?
Will I have weakened him?
Will my mere presence make him less worthy of the awe and fear he has earned?
“So, you have a bank card?” I ask, worrying that thought against my lower lip.
Ugh. Smooth.
She looks at me as if I just asked if she speaks English. “Ah.” She arches one brow. “Yeah, of course. What do you think I have cash? It’s dirty”—she suddenly mumbles—“especially the kind that comes from this house.”
I don’t have a debit card.
Or any card really.
My phone pings, and I lift it off my stomach. “Okay, a sausage roll for me.” I grin at HJ. “And for my rat.” Back at her. “AndGucciunderwear.” I don’t know if Mr or Mrs Gucci makes underwear, but I say it anyway.
I hear her stroll away, muttering something, as I read the reply from my favourite Butcher brother.
Xander: I swear I will be there, girlie! Flights are booked. Kaya and I will be there!
