Page 129 of His Pretty Little Duet

The origin of our last name. A name they used when my father lived in Sicily as Paul Lucchese before he moved to Australia and recreated himself as Luca ‘The Butcher’ Butcher. And now, his youngest and brightest breathes life back into that legendary boxing name.

"The Legend."The room echoes the term, provoking melancholy to settle inside me. I've watched my father fight on the television more often than I've had a meal with him. I've heard the chanting of "The Legend" more times than I've heard him greet me.

It's a pity my brother wants the same life instead of using his massive brain to finally take the bar. I never wanted this for my baby brother, the gentlest of us, even as he spills crimson fluid to their chanting.

Yet, as I gaze across the arena, landing on the Irish as they bet with counterfeits, and the tellers as they clean their money with the real prints from the public, a slow smile settles on my lips.

It's an idealistic setting.

A poetic one, even, when a Butcher spills a pint of fresh blood in this space while the workings of our corrupt empire play out seamlessly.

Boxing is a Butcher space.

We may have bought abattoirs under the ex-Don's—Jimmy Storm's—regime and used them to manage the Family's dealing and rid us of waste. We may run diamonds across the borders for the Family and control the fisheries and the meat industry, butboxing—I stare at my young brother once more.Boxing is a Butcher's world.

My world.

And this is my new order.

My father sits on the far side of the knotted blue ropes, his fists set in tight balls in front of him as he watches the match. His eyes cut lines around the ring, following the motion of Xan's jabs as though he holds a string to each thrust.

Across his sharp features, the ghost of concern fights with pride. We can't keep the kid out of the ring. The world can't keep the ring out of a Butcher's soul.

So this will become the new place to meet my associates—on hallowed Butcher ground. A physical change that shifts the men chosen by Jimmy. I need to create my own mark and ensure my own loyalties. This is the place.

Beside my father, my other brothers watch Xander, and I note their expressions seem to mirror my thoughts. Pride in his abilities. Reluctancy in the situation.

I don't know them…

Not really.

I just know the legacy.

"Keep your distance."

"This is your legacy."

"Your birthright."

And I feel the detachment between us because I wasn't present, because I had a singular focus on the legacy. I forced our segregation. Ignored them as children.

Accepted that a leader is by default alone, only dragged down by common needs and wants. So, while Max played rugby and Bronson fixed his bikes, Xander followed them around, and I listened to the Family heads. Learned.

A leader is always alone.

It is achingly obvious too. My brothers sit together at the east side of the ring—always loyal to one another. I weather the west side alone, circled by sharks. Surrounded by the Capos and the Underbosses hand-picked by my ex-Don. A man who betrayed us, who us Butchers executed.

So today, I show this pack of cruel, greedy fuckers a new order. I don't trust them, yet. They'll want to earn that from me soon. We won't be doing things the Jimmy Storm way. We'll be doing things theButcherway. I'll be splintering teeth in this new world where my last name carries with it utter loyalty, devotion, even.

"Your brother fights like Luca," Joe says, drawing me from my thoughts, his gravelly voice melodic with his old-world Sicilian accent. Had I not known, I would have assumed he was a new immigrant to Australia. But he is one of the oldest Underbosses in the District, one of the most devout to Jimmy Storm, even in memory. One I need to crack open and bleed the loyalty from…

"He does," I agree, my mouth patting the thin port cigar dangling from my lips. I look on at the match but listen to the man beside me as his sighs expel in rough displeasure.

"Your father always was more comfortable in the ring than in a suit. It should have stayed that way," he says with a derisive scoff. "He left the Family all those years ago. Spat on his legacy and left Sicily. Changed his name, a name rooted in Family honour, and still, they loved him. And now, his son, the son of a boxer, is the Don in the District."

"A history lesson, Joe."

He folds his arms over his chest, still watching the match as I do. "What do you want, Clay? I've been keeping up my end of the deals made with Jimmy. Like I agreed to. What is this really about?"

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