Cosa Nostra: A Steamy Mafia Romance (Kids of The District Book 3), Nicci Harris [read a book txt] 📗

"Max?"

I shift my gaze up to meet her eyes. "Do you like the ring?"

She smiles nervously. "Where are you right now?"

"Here."

Lifting onto her tippy toes, she kisses my neck, and it's such a gentle chaste show of affection, it burns my chest.

I miss this already.

Clearing my throat, I place my palm on the soft white skin of her cheek and drag my thumb possessively along her pink lower lip. Following my thumb with my gaze, I watch as her tongue lightly touches the tip, watch as she draws in weighted breaths and–

My eyes snap to hers again. "Don't fucking touch anyone else with these lips."

She sucks a sharp breath in. "Max."

I straighten. "I'm just getting another drink, little one." I tap her little nose and she smiles softly in response. It is a sad little smile though, and it screws with my head. I fucking hate that I just said that. Hate that I felt the need to. Hate the bullshit inside me wreaking havoc with the constant reminder of how I won't be here to touch her, smell her, fuck her when she needs to come. . .

Keep her safe.

Walking past her, I keep my head high and move with purpose towards the billiard room to find Butch's Gold Label.

When I enter, I'm thrown by the scent of cigar smoke. Butch is sitting in the corner of the room, fixated on the translucent brown liquor in his glass as he swirls it around.

"I haven't seen you today," I mention gruffly, coming to a stop. "Aren't you going to celebrate with us?"

He doesn't look up. "My son is losing three years of his life. I don't feel much like celebrating."

I sigh jaggedly, but somewhat appreciative the bitter honesty. We really are so alike.

"I was so fucking close to giving her what she wants." I shake my head at the bullshit that just expelled from me, at myself for being pitiful. A man can either be powerful or pitiful, but he can never be both.

"Max, sit with me for a moment."

Frowning at him, I contemplate snatching the whiskey and heading back to my wife, smiling at her family, and kicking Konnor's arse in rugby. But I stroll over and position myself on the red leather chair opposite Butch instead, giving myself some time away from the false cheer.

Smoke fills the space between us, the cigar he just blunted out still snaking a line of grey into the air. Cracking his fists, he alleviates some of the ache. I know that his years of boxing have left him with arthritis in his knuckles. They have started to tremor, but I would never admit to noticing such deterioration. I wonder how much worse it'll be when I get out.

He leans forward onto his knees. "You're not alone in there, son."

Mashing my teeth together, I try not to feel anything.

He fixes me with his stern gaze and the fucking pain in his eyes twists something deep inside me. They scream at me. Scream that he failed me. I see remorse and regret shadowing those worn blue irises. And it's a look so foreign, I barely recognise him.

"There are lots of our men in there," he states, his eyes telling. "And they will follow you. Keep your head in the moment. Don't let your guard down for anyone. Don’t be loose with your temper. Save it. Save it for the right moments." He pauses and I try to relax my shoulders. "And son. . . you have to forget about Cassidy when you're in there. Her memory will only bring you torment and make you weak."

All true. Too true. I'm not prepared to admit to anyone, especially not my wife, that I have been preparing myself to enter the chaos since the moment I found out I was royally fucked. Prison isn't safe for anyone. Someone like me though, with my family name and reputation, it could be fatal. I know this. And by the darkness and despair in Butch's reddened blue eyes, he clearly fucking knows this too.

Looking down at my finger, the tattoo I have in lieu of an actual wedding band still raised and red, I'm reminded that I only need one thing to make it out intact. "Look after my wife," I murmur, my voice deep with self-loathing.

"Don't think about her right now."

"I said look after my goddamn wife!" I roar, slapping the table with my palm and levelling him out with narrowed eyes.

He leans back in his chair, the leather protesting beneath his weight. "I will."

"No." I smile contemptuously, feeling fucking sick of the bullshit, wanting to rip the walls he put up between us down. The walls he built around himself and made us build around ourselves to keep us emotionally impenetrable. From being victims. From being gentle. Open and raw and fucking vulnerable. I want to take my fists to those walls. "Not like you look after Victoria. Not like you look after your own fucking sons. Goddamn it, Dad. Look. The fuck. After her!"

Dad.

He nods his head firmly. "You have my word, son."

In this moment, I want to tell him so much, but the words are so unnatural they don't even form in my mind. I reach for his cigars and draw one out, biting it and lighting it in quick succession. I breathe it in and lean back, focused on the movement of the smoke as it leaves the cinder. Butch's shoulders relax on a sigh and he joins me in contemplative silence.

Several minutes later, a knock interrupts us and I twist to see Konnor-fucking-Slater by the entry.

He leans his shoulder on the door frame. "I want to speak with you about Cassidy."

I smirk. "There is nothing you can say about Cassidy that I don't already know."

Twisting back to face Butch, I'm hit with a