Cosa Nostra: A Steamy Mafia Romance (Kids of The District Book 3) Nicci Harris (primary phonics books TXT) 📖

want to. I do know, as clear and true as my love for him is, what my Max looks like. "A nine-to-five job. Home for dinner every night. Holding each other all night long. Rugby on the weekends. . . Bruises that can be explained." I touch the red-purple discolouration on his jaw. Wincing as if his pain were my own, I say, "I don't want violence to be so trivial to you, Max."

He threads his fingers through mine, lowering my hand. The tunnelling grey eyes of the man who consumes me soften further as they search my face. "The bruises are from boxing. I told you that."

"And the rest of what I said?"

"That's a fairy-tale."

"It doesn’t have to be," I state adamantly, thinking about how my parents have dinner together every night with fresh-cut flowers, settings and placemats on the table. Even when their children are too preoccupied or busy, they still spend dinner together. I think about how they still shower together every night. Still steal touches and kisses when they think no one is looking.

"I'll give you everything I have to give," he murmurs, stroking his palms down my cheeks.

I press into his firm, possessive touch, closing my eyes to feel the warmth of those hands. Suddenly, I'm fraught with the vision of Max and his brothers soaking in ice baths, beaten and bruised. My eyes bat open. He's lived in a kind of emotional poverty. I'll show him it's possible. A real and sweet, however normal, existence. I'll give Max Butcher the fairy-tale.

I'll give him peace and placemats. "It is possible."

Searching his eyes as they scan my face affectionately, I want to ask if he's in danger, want reassurance he will come home at night in one piece because God, I won't survive losing him. And this is it now. A big leap towards a forever with Max Butcher and oh my gawd, that sinks in. This isn't life-changing news about someone else; this is our life-changing news. Life-sealing news. Life-fricking-cementing news. Instead of all that rambling, I simply agree, "I'll move in."

His lips curve, setting into that magnetic, yet menacing Max Butcher grin.

I smile back, unable to refuse him when he's like this. When he's calm. Relaxed. "You're so happy right now, why?"

"Wallabies won against the All Blacks," he states with a shrug, picking up the mallet and throwing it through the wall. When white clouds of dust fly around the room, Max's eyes snap to me. "Leave until it's clean in here, little one." When I giggle at that, he lets out a long, satisfied sigh. "I've missed that sound."

"Why are you so happy?" I repeat.

He slowly runs his tongue along his lower lip. "I can still taste you."

I bite back a nervous smile. "Max."

"You make me happy, Cassidy. Remember?"

Cassidy

With a pair of angel wings strapped to my back, I rush around, trying to find candles and a lighter as the party carries on around me. This is the very first party I've ever hosted. Ever. My mum and Flick usually do the honours. They are the queens of hosting parties with their extensive lists of friends and their expert tastes in food and wine.

Luckily for me, though, Bronson's birthday falls on Halloween, so I got away with making fun spooky-inspired food and silly multicoloured beverages. I'm all over that.

As for the guests, it wasn't exactly hard to get most of the District here given The Butcher Boys' social status - especially Bronson's. He's, well. . . he's a paradox. There isn't a girl here who wouldn't climb him like the tall, muscular, colourfully carved tree that he is.

Well, besides me, Flick, and Stacey.

Of course, it was me and my big mouth that insisted on throwing him a twenty-fifth birthday party. I love my Bronson bear, but I also wanted to showcase my being a part of the Butcher household without actually coming out and saying it. Loudly. Proudly. So every fricking person in the District can hear and see.

Turning to look in another drawer, I take a step forward. I'm immediately jerked back, my wings snagged on a black chrome pantry handle. Laughing at myself, I pull my wings free, then riffle through drawer after drawer.

"If those white jeans were any tighter, I'd be concerned about your fanny dropping off from the lack of blood," Toni says to me from the other side of the breakfast bar.

A few days ago, I found the most beautiful sparkly white jeans at an op-shop. They are like Lycra on me, clinging to every curve. I'm wearing a white crop-top, fricking big white wings with sparkles and lace, and six-inch white stilettos. I have glitter smeared all around my exposed shoulders and over my exposed belly.

"Max likes my bum in jeans," I say whimsically.

"You seem to have settled in." When I hear Victoria's posh British voice coming from around the corner, my back stiffens.

Toni spins to face her, and I plaster a wide smile on my face when she appears. "Um, I've been here full time for a few weeks now." Not that she would know; she's never around. Her head tilts as she bats her false lashes and smiles insincerely at me. Subtly and quickly, her eyes then scrutinise my body, stopping briefly at my exposed midriff before bouncing back up again to meet my gaze. I suppress a shudder.

She usually looks at me with disdain, but now that disdain has a tight red bow wrapped around it and is glued on with honey, probably from wasps she stung with the venom of her speech. And then ate. Ugh. I hate this woman. She hasn't even bothered to dress up for the event. She is in her usual body-fitted power dress. Nails long, red, and manicured as if she's never worked a day in her life. I wonder where this feigned nicety has come from.

Butch.

Yep, it must all be an act for him.

"You're not showing," she states softly. "That must be nice."

I