Page 102 of The Butcher's Wife

My heart’s pounding so hard, I might die of fright before I manage to do anything.

I catch the edge of the outlet with the prongs of the plug and push down with enough force to press it into place. The glasses on the cabinet tinkle, but nothing falls over.

I scrape my arm against the cabinet as I jerk my hand out from that gap and stand. No one’s come upstairs yet, thank God. I walk out into the waiting room, wipe my sweaty hands against my jeans, and pull out my phone.

A missed call from Marisol and a few texts.

C is on his way

10 minutes

Leave now

C? My fingertips are numb. Aceto?

I approach the stairwell, but when I hear footsteps stomping up, I back away. They sound heavy, nothing like Valeria’s silent tread, and there are two sets. I spin around and dart to the second stairwell to the last floor of the house, creeping up the steps as silently as I can.

“Serafina,” Stefano calls out. “Come downstairs. We’re taking shots.”

I pause at the top of the steps, my hand clasped over my mouth so he can’t hear my wild breathing.

“Serafina?”

I don’t move a single muscle.

“Fucking bitch,” he mutters. “Bring her down.”

“On it,” Lasso says.

On the last floor, I race past the leather furniture to a glass door leading to a large balcony outside. I slip outside and tuck myself next to a storage shed, listening for Lasso.

If he catches me up here, I’ll pretend I came out to smoke another cigarette. Maybe I can find a fire escape before he does. I scan the edge of the roof for a ladder. The memory of scaling down my parents’ house on a ladder to go to that bar on my eighteenth birthday bursts into my mind. Serafina held the top of the ladder so I wouldn’t fall, even as she begged me not to go.

For several long seconds, I can barely hear anything above the wild beating of my heart. I turn my head to peek for Lasso.

He’s right next to me.

I jerk back, stifling a scream as he throws a hand out and slaps my head like a fly against the plastic sliding of the storage shed.

I stumble backward as he laughs. A gush of heat drips from my nose, and I taste blood.

“You trying to run?” He shoves me.

My back crashes against the table behind me, and I scream out as the table tips. I go with it, the night sky careening over my head.

I land hard on my back, all the air punching out of my lungs, and I groan.

“You think we wouldn’t know who you are?” Lasso asks from behind the table. “Aceto’s telling everyone the truth.”

My head is pounding, but I force myself to my knees, reaching for my belly.

“I can’t believe you’d be so fucking stupid as to come here,” he says with a disbelieving laugh. “But I’m not surprised when Valeria’s a fucking dumb?—”

He chokes on his last word as I whip my gun around to point at his face.

After all of my practice with Dom, the shape and weight of the gun in my hand are as familiar as a lover’s body.

Lasso’s face reddens. His jaw clenches, and his hands flex. He chokes out a laugh. “Stefano didn’t say you’d have a gun.”