Page 19 of His Pretty Little Duet

Aurora's breath all but demands my attention, but there is still not a word from her beautiful mouth. I spin in my chair to face her, my back to my family. "Aurora, speak. What do you have to say on this?"

She squares her shoulders, standing strong like the woman I know she is at her roots, beneath this apprehensive façade. "I agree on all fronts," she says, her voice even and velvety. "It is too risky to react hastily and fly to Indonesia with this message. But I think we can move the process along." She directs her words over my head, eyes trained on my brothers. I swivel in my chair to face them, looking at my hands in contemplation while my wife offers her advice. "The girl is quite enamoured by you, Clay." I twist to see her wandering around to meet my rising gaze. A soft smile sets on her lips. "She blushed when you spoke to her."

"That's not surprising, Aurora, sweetheart. Look at him. He's a handsome son-of-a-Butcher," Bronson says, ever the comedic mask in place to hide his true darkness.

Of course, I noticed her pinkening cheeks. I noticed her pulse in her throat, the heavy beat of her chest, the sparks of her arousal when I made her kneel at my feet, when I held her pretty face in my hand. I enjoyed it a little too much myself. "What are you suggesting?"

"I think you should make yourself available to her. Be present. Befriend her. She has daddy issues." I meet her knowing eyes, and there's no hint of jealousy within their whiskey-coloured depths. It is not an emotion that plagues my wife, at least not in relation to me. Our legacy, perhaps, but our relationship doesn't extend to the bedroom, despite us sharing a woman. Aurora has always leaned towards curves, soft lines, and I can’t say I blame her, but since her father's death, she has been far more liberal with her delight in the female persuasion.

Her sexual preference means nothing to me, but I feel she favours the dominant role. A role she simply cannot play with me. And Jimmy wouldn't have allowed such behaviour from his eldest daughter, not with the twin pillars of our existence—theCosa Nostraand the church—a constant shadow.

Reaching up, I rub the short bristles along my jaw as the idea she's presenting, one I had already considered, plays in my mind. Befriending an eighteen-year-old girl who undeniably attracts me is riddled with issues. But they are hers, not mine.

I could gain her trust.

Fuck her, maybe.

Use her, and eventually spit her back out into the world that was so brutal to her. One less person to trust. One more betrayal... I'd be the damn catalyst. She'll probably end up like dear old mum—bullet sailing through her brain. I don't know why I care so much.

"I don't know who the father is,"she'd told Jasmine. Flashing in my mind, the image of her across my knee, bare arse and pussy exposed, while I spank her red raw for such behaviour. Teach her a lesson or two. Spank the addiction, the promiscuity, the fragility out of her.

And yet, I'm not convinced that is her.

Not convinced she wasn't hurt in some way. I have seen a lot of violence, a lot of victim behaviour, and that is exactly what her body language screamed in that witness room, even when her mouth said nothing of the sort.

Nodding slowly, I state, "I have Jasmine to befriend her, but I will be keeping her close."

"The girl... is she just collateral damage? What happens to her and the child when all is finished? Dustin in the ground. The girl homeless again?" Bronson asks, that demon of his riding each word. A warning that he won't let me use or hurt her. His heart beats with pure intent for women and babies, despite the mist of pitch-black volatility circling it.

"She is ultimately aCosa Nostraprincess. And that stands for something. Hopefully, she plays bait and not martyr. If all goes smoothly, we send her on her way with a cheque and an ironclad NDA, but if it doesn't..." I look at him, noting the pulse of his jaw muscles. "We kill her before the boy is born and grows up wantinghisrevenge."

"Now, now, darling," Bronson says, that dark smile forming on his lips. "You know I won't let you kill them."

"I'd prefer not to, Bron," I say, watching his body still, like a mine waiting under the pressure of this conversation. "We will send her off with a cheque then, shall we? Betrayed. Angry we used her to kill her precious father."

"And if the boy seeks his revenge in years to come, if he comes for his grandfather's cut of the diamonds, of the deals hecut with Indonesia, what then?" Xander asks, playing the devil's advocate, I'm sure. There is no way he wants me to kill them.

"He won't," Max states, siding with Bronson on this front. The girl is pregnant at eighteen, blonde, sweet, probably reminds him of his wife, although I see nothing of Cassidy in those dual-coloured eyes. This girl hasn't lived a life of luxury nor been offered opportunity. "But if he does, we deal with the little shit then."

"Do we agree then?" I ask, locking my gaze on Butch, wanting him to have the last say in this room, every room for that matter. The man has sat by the head's side for most of his life, earning the right to finalise our agenda. I am here in lieu of him, because I was bred for this role, a singular path crunched beneath my shoes.

A path paved by theCosa Nostra.

I'm ruthless with this business. Focused. And well, he's getting soft in his old age. He's not the cutthroat boxer he was in his youth; he's a man making amends for years of absence. A family man now solely invested in his sons, daughters-in-law, and his grandchildren. Still, I offer him the esteem he deserves.

Butch nods slowly, eyeing us with straight eyebrows cut above a stern blue gaze. "Show her off at the dinner on Saturday. Let's hope one of the senators takes the news to Nerrock, but if he doesn't, then I'll have our men spread the word that I have his grandson, and the bastard will come to me." He looks over at Max. "I will bring him to you, son. He's yours, as agreed upon."

We settle into lighter matters.

While Xander leads the conversation, being my legal aid in this business, I find my attention drifting to the girl who sat on the counter in my kitchen last night, eating cake as though it was her first and last meal. I'd watched from the camera above; she doesn't have a corner in this house to go undetected.

Something doesn't sit right with me... She doesn't seem to want anything for herself, purely here for her child. But what teenage girl doesn't want anything? Doesn't seem likely.

And she's pretty.

Dropped to her knees so willingly as though someone schooled her on my preferences, and she has this odd reasoning for being here... Why not adoption? Why now? Of all times, months after I took her father's warehouse... I don't want to kill her, but if she's a spy, if she's lying to me about why she's here... I will.

A little deer.

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