"Oh, I don’t think,” I declare, apathetic. “But I have a bride to appease. Family comes first. I’m domesticated,se?”
And we both know what that means, but the terms of this agreement are too lucrative to be refused, even when pride begs otherwise. He will become part of my legacy—hisorganization will fold into mine. The bikers, the Irish, the Italians, the District Police will all operate under theCosa Nostraumbrella.
I am making history in the District.
My sons and daughters will revel in this new order, and my little deer, with her bohemian ideals and kind nature, will be the most powerful and dangerous woman in the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY
fawn
Another two weekspass by before I get the call I’ve been quietly waiting for—my wedding dress is in the boutique.
Since that afternoon, when I held Clay in silence over me, his head in my neck, breath heavy with the weight of his evil, with his cock still inside me, he has been a storm moving in and out of the mansion. Dealing with the same business as last week. To do with the hotel, the Dons coming from Sicily, and a new alliance of sorts.
Today, I stand in the large, brightly lit fitting room. The dressmaker—a petite woman with Audrey Hepburn short hair—kneels at my feet, carefully shortening the hem of my wedding gown. I’m nowhere near model height, but the dress… I sigh. It’s perfect. What I had envisioned. A delicate union of lace and silk that reminds me of a dreamcatcher, covering me from neck to toe, clinging to my small curves and transforming me into something sophisticated and elegant and adult—like a tiny blonde Aurora.
“Wow,” Jasmine murmurs from her spot on the plushottoman, crunching honey-roasted nuts, champagne glass waving casually in her hand. My sons are asleep in their dual stroller that Jasmine rocks back and forth with her foot. “Super pretty. Very vogue.”
I turn slowly before the full-length mirror.
The reflection is both mine and a stranger’s. I feel beautiful—radiant, poised—but beneath the thrill, a knot of yearning coils in my belly. For six months I’ve waited for this moment. To slip into this gown that reminds me of churches and the Colosseum. Of royalty, old world, red carpets, and the Bible; I don’t understand why, really.
Yet now, faced with its intricate beading and delicate lace, my excitement shifts to longing. I want to show Sir. To see his approving smile, his narrowed eyes that roar lusty intentions, but I also wish to walk down the aisle towards him and watch his face transform. In front of everyone. In front of the Family. In front of the District. I want them all to watch the moment he sees this dress.
Today, though, I only wish someone else were here to share it with me—a mother. Or a sister.
My foster mother?
She has tried to reach out… Our relationship was never simple. It was dramatic, vicious, and overshadowed by my foster brothers. I think, though it doesn’t make sense, that she was envious of me. But I was young then, a cocktail of hormones and adolescent ignorance playing in my every want, need, action and response…
You’re a grown-up, Fawn.
Wife-to-be.
The bride of Clay Butcher.
And I’m a mother myself. Children are hard. There are moments when I want to scream about the sleepless nights, when little hands have been slapping and tugging at me allday, when Luca’s demands feel relentless as if I’m nothing more than a machine meant to churn out affection and milk.
Was I ungrateful?
Was it my fault?
“Miss Harlow, it looks perfect.” The dressmaker’s cheerful French-accented voice pulls me from my internal breakdown.
I force a smile. “May I see it from the back?” I ask, turning so I can glimpse myself from every angle.
As I study myself, my mind quickly drifts back to Eleanor. So… if she saw me like this, would she recognize the woman I’ve become? Would she be proud?
Butterflies flap inside me.
“Why don’t you step out for some fresh air?” she suggests kindly, and I look down at her. Then at myself again, realising I’m flushed and have no smile to show.
I nod, trying to brighten. “Yes, I need that.” I step down from the little stool, and slip away from the mirror, heading out into the dress boutique’s grand foyer.
I’m gazing around, the ends of my dress pooling around my bare feet, when I bump into HJ loitering by the entrance.
His eyes widen at my dress. He steps backwards to get a better look, a smile hitting his henchman-rat features. “Miss Harlow”—he presses a palm to his heart—“beautiful.”
