"Grow up, boy," Joe sneers at me, and I ball my fists in tight, volatility creeping along my shoulders like a beast wrestling with my muscles that twitch to jump the rope and teach Eddie a lesson of my own. Using the lump of meat to splatter blood all over Joe's face. "Do you think we wanted to work for a boxer? And now you think we are all going to call you—"
"Boss," I hiss as Xan finds the strength to cut a jab to Eddie's ribs, the snap of a bone almost audible through the detonating spectators.
Joe finally looks at me and I at him. "What?"
"Boss," I ground while in my peripherals, Xander ducks and then pushes up, driving an uppercut into Eddie's mandible, the lights dimming from his opponent's eyes on impact.
The crowd explodes. "Butcher!"
My last name, the name of a boxer, rumbles through the gym as I smoothly say, "If you ever address me as boy again, you will find parts of your children stuffed inside the cow I gift you for your Sunday roasts."
"Butcher!"
"The Butcher!"
I continue, "I'm so glad we had this conversation, Joe. I've been meaning to ask you where the fuck Dustin Nerrock is hiding, and now I'm certain you have an answer."
Joe's face is bright red with rage as he huffs like the sixty-year-old man he is and snatches his jacket from the back of his chair. "You want a war, Butcher?" He stares up at me for a moment, and I smile. "You've got it," he growls.
He thunders away, shouldering his passage through the disorderly audience that is now on its feet, the chanting like tangible waves of intimidation my associate seems desperate to escape.
"Butcher! The Legend."
I watch him leave.
Turning back, now alone, I tower over the arena.My space.I gaze past the ring at my brothers as they pat each other on the back, celebrating Xander's win. And at my father, who accepts Bronson's commentary and understands Max's nod of approval…
I now stare at the Irish. The Capos. The sharks.
Perhaps devotion and utter loyalty are unrealistic expectations at this early stage in my reign. In the meantime, I will, of course, settlefor fear.
CHAPTERFIVE
clay
"She's beenin the bathroom for over an hour," Bolton calls after me, hesitation and uncertainty tightening his vocal cords, not unlike my palms will be to his jugular should she be in any discomfort.
When I push the bathroom door open, the steam blankets me, curling around my body as I stride over to where she sits. A tiny figure amidst thick humid air. She's huddled on the tiles, her knees held to her chest by her slender arms.
The faucet is pivoted to the wall, creating a stream down the white porcelain tiles, a mild spray misting the air. I wonder for a moment how she reached the head in order to twist it. Quickly noting the small step in the corner, I frown at the image of her carelessly bracing herself on top of it.
I walk straight into the shower when I hear her little sigh. My heart shatters at the vision of her so tiny. The need to wrap my body around hers, to visually give her mass, muscles that shield her, is consuming.
She stares ahead, lost in the white marble until I slide down beside her. Scooping her up, I position her between my outstretched legs. She rests her head on my dress shirt which is slowly absorbing the spray of water from the faucet above.
When I tilt her chin, two big apologetic eyes lock on me. "I'm not sad. I just sat down, and it was nice."
Lies.
"We don't lie to one other, sweet girl." I push the wet blonde strands from her pinkening cheek. "It'll get better." Light streams of water trail down her face, a coat of mist collecting on her, settling in tiny beads. "I'm not a soft man. I won't always say or do the right things. You're a young woman and you need a mother. Or a sister. But all you have is me. Forgive me if I don't comfort you the way you need."
She sighs, batting her blonde lashes, opaque watery orbs collected between the bristles bursting on her skin with each slow flutter. "This works, Sir." She rolls her head on my shirt, nudging me gently. "You're all I need."
"Look at me," I order, bringing my hands up to cup both of her wet cheeks. She lifts her head obediently and then crawls around my lap until she straddles my thighs.
Her body is completely exposed, open. Pert breasts—sloping perfection to her delicate ribcage. Her nipples—bullets that twitch my cock.
Her nervous habit kicks in; absentmindedly, her fingers make work of her wet hair, twirling thick wet ringlets around each digit.