I wrinkle my nose in confusion, having thought he was talking about Jimmy all along. "Wait, who?"
"Luca Butcher. . . " He pauses with his thoughts, rubbing his hands down his cheeks and entwining his fingers at his chin. "How do I explain this to you? Do you know what the District was like before Jimmy Storm flew in from Sicily?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Drugs." He leans back in his chair. "Poverty. High unemployment. We are far away from the capital and the Eastern States didn't care enough to aid in infrastructure or pay us many dues. Ninety percent of the mines employed fly-in-fly-out workers from other countries or the other side of Australia. We had a tiny budget for public servants - police, nurses. No one wanted to work here, so we had poor trades and poor doctors. There was so much violence in the streets. Bashings. Breaking and entering."
My body feels strange, like my heart can't decide whether to beat uncomfortably fast or slow down. I have known for a while that the District is built on corruption; stitched into the lining of most prosperous families' pockets is that truth. It just sounds so concrete coming from my dad's mouth. "But there is still violence," I say. "Lots of it."
He smiles tightly. "Not on our streets. Not in our homes. Can you imagine if people started breaking into houses under Jimmy's watch?"
That elderly lady's distraught face flashes behind my eyes. Her harrowing cries ring between my ears. And a name - his name - finally claws out from the depths of my subconscious. Marco.
"People die under his watch," I blurt out, feeling my face pale as the truth whirls around me like a frosty breeze.
Marco is dead.
This man is dead, and he has people like me that love him - miss him. Max's cold stare bores into my mind, his impatient dismissal when all along he had known. . . had maybe even done the deed himself. "The brother you want!" Xander's words blister my ears, demanding my attention. "One that can hack a guy's head off and sleep soundly at night!"
My lungs strain for air, but I try to hide it, sneaking in long, vibrating breaths.
Is Max capable of such an act?
"Not our people," my dad states. "Remember that. Not honest, hardworking people. Our employment rates are the best in the country. Jimmy secured our residents a huge tender for employment on the mines. He cleaned up the streets. He has given us wealth. Safety. I decided a while ago that I would accept the good in that man until I saw the devil in him."
So Marco wasn't an honest, hardworking person? Is that what I am to believe and hold on to like a fricking lifeline? I let that sink in, move through my body, and expand my chest, filling it with fresh air.
Blinking at my dad, I ask, "So what do I do?"
"I suggest you do the same. I didn't want this life for you. I fought very hard to keep you out of it. But you fell in love and the rest is history. I know love. And I'd never deny it for you nor push you away from it."
Remembering how sensitive my father is, I project a smile. "You're such a softy."
He shrugs. "Yeah."
I leave my father's office with my mind and body in a state of absolute exhaustion. The need to choose whose side I'm on seeps through me like dye, spreading out and changing the very essence of me. My heart. My morals. I accepted the gun. Accepted that in his line of work he hurts people. But can I accept that he's capable of real brutality?
Walking out onto the veranda, I stare across at Carter who is leaning patiently by his car. He's a good man. And he works for Max. Max doesn't hurt people like me. . . And he's a great judge of character. . . Blinking a few times, I realise it's not a hard decision.
I trust Max. Always. Blindly or not, I do.
Nodding at Carter, I climb into the car.
Max
I push open the bedroom door, and Cassidy sits up in our bed, batting her eyelashes as though they are made of solid lead. Carter wasn't wrong. She is exhausted. She's been pushing herself with ballet. With fighting the urge to sleep just to be awake for when I get home. I can't allow this.
"What time is it?" she murmurs, wiping at her half-mast eyes.
I don't answer.
Instead, I walk towards her and stop just shy of the bed. As I trace her naked little tits and smooth stomach with my gaze, my cock stirs within the confinements of my pants.
Tucking my hands into my pockets, I frown at her. "You should be asleep."
"I worry about you."
Well fuck. I try to soften my expression. Not cocky or smug, just gentle and reassuring. "You don't need to, little one."
Rolling her shoulder up, she looks down at my spot on the bed. "I miss you." I stare at her for a moment, stare at this sweet little girl in my bed wanting me. Needing me.
Climbing onto her hands and knees, she crawls towards me. Her pink-blonde hair hangs down her back and plunges over her shoulders. Her petite but curvy, naked body moves provocatively to the edge of the bed. She takes a big breath in before arching her neck to meet my narrowed eyes. Her lips are set into a coy little curve and her hazel eyes, glossy with fatigue, gaze up at me through thick heavy
