Jab.
I know she cried in her studio today.
Jab jab.
Know she was on the go for nearly ten hours and barely ate a fucking thing.
I fucking lay into the bag.
When I return to our room, I sit down on the couch opposite the bed. The newly rising sun drills colour into the sky beside me. With my elbows on my knees and my fists under my chin, I watch Cassidy deep in sleep. She's on her stomach, cheek to the pillow, arms above her head - naked. She's in the exact position I left her in, completely dead to the world.
I rub the stubble on my jaw.
I'm careless. Selfish. I shouldn't have fucked her on her stomach. If she loses this baby because I can't control myself with her, it'll be another thing that I've let happen to her. I shouldn't be home so late. Should be home to have dinner with her - make sure she fucking has dinner. Fuck, she used to love food. I guess the baby is messing with her appetite. I should eat her out and put her to bed nice and early while she's in a delicate condition. Should be here. . . I pull my new phone out and type a quick message to Carter
Max: book an ultrasound for tomorrow around lunch time.
I need to know that the beat of his heart is still strong so I can let that concern lay to rest. She loves him. Already. My jaw suddenly aches, but I didn’t even realise I was clenching my teeth. He didn't have to earn her love or prove anything; she just loves him. It's still a concept I find hard to swallow, but despite that, if she loves him, then I will protect him with my goddamn life. That kid is a Butcher.
Closing my eyes, I exhale roughly.
My blood. . .
He is a part of this life now.
My eyes find her again. So is she.
And Jimmy all but said that he plans on using her to influence our public image. Use her to gain favour with Ben. With the more conservative members of the city. Like she is a fucking personal relations strategy.
And I did nothing.
Said nothing.
I am just a fucking pawn with no need other than to decapitate and slice and fuck my way to a prized asset. Fuck that. My fists tighten until both of my arms shake violently.
Thirteen years! I have been knee-deep in Jimmy's fucking dirt for thirteen fucking years. I've never asked for a goddamn thing and yet, he still thinks he can claim what's mine. The only thing I want. Like hell he can! I stifle a growl.
I won't be sharing her to suit his or anyone else's agenda.
Next time, when I say she is out, she. Is. Out.
And I expect those words to ring between his ears every time he thinks about Cassidy.
Thinks about using her.
She is mine.
Max
Still agitated, I shower, dress, and head downstairs to start my day but not before switching Cassidy's phone off. She will sleep for as long as her body tells her she needs to. Fuck ballet. Fuck anyone who wants to talk to her.
As I take the staircase down to the first floor, I look through the windows over the open balustrade. Connolly. It's my city. Jimmy's too. But it’s not Cassidy's. She loves quaint urban Brussman and yet, she's never once complained about dropping her whole life there. Her family. To be with me. To be in my room every night - alone.
Fuck.
The sight of Butch in his navy tailored two-piece suit, sipping his espresso and reading the paper at the kitchen island, stills my previous thoughts.
Staring at him, I feel my forehead tighten. "You're here a lot these days."
When he peers over at me, I catch a hint of disappointment in his eyes. "Morning, son. How's your girl?"
I smirk, knowing he's here to spend his morning with Cassidy. He has no idea that I know he has breakfast with her before she goes to ballet and he goes to Jimmy's. She has Butch completely smitten, wrapped snugly around her sweet little finger. What a soppy motherfucker. "So do you want to be called Pop, Grandad, or Nànnu?"
A cocky-arse grin hits his lips. "Caught me."
Moving towards the fridge, I say, "She won't be down for a while. She needs to sleep. . ." I sigh angrily. "You probably speak to her more than I do at the moment, anyway."
As I make myself a protein shake, he watches me silently, his sceptical eyes following me around the kitchen.
I freeze, scowling at him. "What?"
He doesn't jump to answer me, seemingly contemplative. Then he states, "Every man has two options in life: either be the man she needs you to be or move out of the line."
I sneer, setting my glass down on the island bench. "I'll torch the fucking line."
He smiles, leaning forward on his heavy arms. "I believe you would. Love is maddening. Hasn't watching your brother all these years not taught you this?"
Scoffing, I say, "Bronson was mad before Shoshanna."
His brows draw in and he sips his coffee. This is Butch in an emotional mood. It's a rarity, and I have no doubt it has to do with Cassidy. "Your brother always leans towards the theatrics," he says, placing his empty espresso cup down. "He's more like your grandfather than me. You, you're so much like me."
His words settle in my stomach, like hunger or sickness, causing me to shift my weight. Was it a compliment or a dig? To know which, I would have to know exactly what Butch thought about himself. And that, I don't know. The discomfort in my stomach is soon fuelled by the
