Page 11 of The Butcher
Men like my father and Francesco Rossi didn’t waste time repeating decisions or dressing them up as something they weren’t. And the moment the agreement was finalized, the room shifted from negotiation to execution as if it had never been anything else.
The marriage was locked in, the timeline set, and everything that mattered was already moving forward before we even stepped out of the mansion.
Two weeks was all it would take to bind two families together and solidify something that hadbeen building long before today. That kind of timeline didn’t leave room for hesitation or missteps. It meant everything that came next would move fast, controlled, and deliberate. Exactly the way it needed to.
The marriage was first. But the true action that would bind our families was producing an heir.
I didn’t speak as we walked out, my focus forward and steady, already moving past what had been said and toward what came next. Because the conversation itself didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was what it created, and what it placed in my hands was power, business ties, money, and especially Lucia.
The car door shut behind me with a muted, solid sound, cutting off the outside world as I settled into the seat. My father took his place beside me, just as quiet, his presence controlled in a way that didn’t need to be acknowledged to be understood. For a moment, neither of us spoke because there was no need to. Everything that needed to be said about the situation had already been handled inside.
“You held yourself well,” he said finally, his voice low and measured, no praise and no approval, just acknowledgment.
“I did what was expected.” The silence thatfollowed carried the weight of what had just been agreed upon.
“You understand what this means?” he asked after a moment.
We’d already discussed this in depth. I knew my role. I turned my head slightly, my gaze shifting toward the window as the estate began to fall away behind us, the gates opening without hesitation as we passed through them.
“I understand the arrangement and what’s expected of me. I’m here to make the family proud. The rest will come in time.”
He studied me briefly then gave a slight nod like that was the answer he expected, his attention shifting forward again as the car moved steadily through the city.
“She’ll fall in line,” he said, his tone certain.
I glanced at him, measuring the confidence in that statement. “You’re sure of that?”
“I am.”
He wouldn’t have agreed to this whole thing if he wasn’t, and that alone told me enough about what he saw in her, even if I had every intention of coming to my own conclusions.
“She’s been raised for this and knows her role,” he added.
But what my father wouldn’t like to admit is there was a difference between being shaped into something and choosing it, and that difference mattered more than most people realized.
The city passed by outside, but I barely registered it, my focus already turned inward, settling on the one thing that hadn’t left my head since the moment she walked into that room.
Lucia.
I hadn’t expected her to affect me like that, not the way she carried herself and not the way she held my gaze without hesitation or uncertainty, like she refused to pretend this was anything other than what it was.
Most women in this world knew how to survive a room like that by making themselves smaller, softer, easier to overlook, lowering their gaze and choosing their reactions carefully so they didn’t draw attention they couldn’t control.
She hadn’t done any of that.
She’d stepped into the room like she understood exactly what she was walking into and refused to bend under it, her posture straight, her focus steady. And when her gaze met mine, she hadn’t looked away. That wasn’t something I overlooked, and it wasn’t something I dismissed.
Because she should have been affected by what I was, by what I was known for. The fact that she hadn’t let it show told me more about her than anything else in that room could have.
Everyone knew who I was. The Butcher wasn’t a name given lightly, and it wasn’t one built on exaggeration or reputation alone. It came from the work itself, from the fact that I didn’t stand back and give orders others carried out.
I stepped into my role as if it were the very reason the blood coursed through my veins. That was what made the name stick. Most people didn’t hold my gaze once they realized who I was.
But she had. And that made her stand out in a way that made me feel things I’d never experienced before.
“You’re thinking too much,” my father said, his voice cutting through the quiet without raising it.
“Am I?”
