I switched cameras when she ran to the nursery, following her over to the cribs. Her smile returned. She laughed and played with them. It was easy and enjoyable to watch. I found myself lost for nearly an hour, simply watching my favourite people play.
A week passed by, and I didn’t see any signs that it was bothering her… A hiccup. Or was I too caught up in business? I’d convinced myself that Cassidy and Bronson's friendship—and fucking Bolton—would be enough to sever any further need for attachment. Now I see the roots run deeper than I expected. That was careless of me. A rare miscalculation on my part. I don't make mistakes—not with her. Never.
Fuck.
"Time?" I ask my driver, watching the city blur outside the tinted windows.
"Five minutes, Boss."
Not soon enough.
My little deer needs me now; luckily, she is blissfully unaware of how much so. The thought of her alone with that woman makes my Butcher blood roar.
I check my watch.
My little deer may believe in karma, she may believe in redemption; I do not. I have seen too much, carved a path of dread and revenge, to believe that people can change. I don’t wait for the world to punish my enemies; I take the pleasure for myself.
Revenge is sweet.
Hers is fucking delectable.
There have been moments over the past two years with my sweet girl that I thought I could be softer, warmer, more merciful. For her. I was wrong. Having her in my life has given me more to protect. Accepting my love for my brothers has only thickened my Butcher skin. There is no room for mercy, not when it comes to family.
Now… the foster mother.
What to do with her…
People do not change. Something about leopards and spots—well, her foster mother is a snake. When a snake sheds itsskin, it only becomes stronger, healthier, and more alive. If she weren’t a foster carer and registered with the Department of Social Services, I would have already taken care of her weeks ago, fed Bronson’s need for creativity and Chinese food. But alas, the search party for her, as a government-funded citizen, would be—expansive. Unfortunately.
Inconvenient.
Especially before the wedding.
I have not had time to dismantle her existence piece by piece, to scatter the evidence across Stormy River's depths where my dark deeds go to drown.
But I will.
The car glides to a stop on the boutique's circular drive. I don't wait for my driver to open my door.
The moment my Italian leather shoes hit the pavers; cameras flash and voices circle me and coo.
Madonna mia.
I gaze around, taking note. I do not see anyone from Lorna’s crew, only freelance operators. I button my jacket and force my lips into a public smile. I was once their mayor, but the District has always been interested in the lives of the Butchers. They flock behind me, the reporters, thrumming with questions, frantic to feed their hunger with a word, a glance, anything I’ll give. But none are reckless enough to block my way. No—they know what I am.
"Mr Butcher, just one question, please?"
"When can we see more baby photos?”
"How's fatherhood treating you?"
"Mr Butcher, any wedding details to share?"
"Could we have an exclusive?"
The crowd splits as I stride forwards, parting like the sea before a stronger force of nature. They hover at my back,trailing in my wake, but I do not slow. The path towards my little deer is clear—rightly so.
I enter the building, ignore the gasps of the women and the eyes of the men, spotting Bolton immediately at the other end of the lavish gold and glass space.
