Page 106 of The Butcher's Wife

The bouncerat Pink Palace is smart enough to let me in without fuss. The interior of the club is one long room, a single floor with two exits and four stages, and I spot Lasso immediately. He’s in a circle of friends while a pair of run-down-looking strippers make out in front of them. Even from here, I can tell he’s drunk. That’s the problem with these fucking wannabes. They all think this lifestyle is drugs and pussy, but that’s the shit that catches up with them the quickest. The smart ones know this lifestyle demands you live like a monk.

I stride up to Lasso’s little group of friends. One of them, a man with more neck than chin, spots me first, his eyes growing comically wide. Beer sloshes over his hand as he slaps Lasso’s back, who shoves him away to lean in toward the strippers.

I hook Lasso from under the shoulders and drag him over the top of his chair, and the club erupts into chaos. The women scream and run away as the men in Lasso’s group turn tail. Not a single one of them lifts a finger for their buddy as he fights and squirms in my hands like a rabbit on a snare.

I haul the idiot kicking and screaming into one of the backrooms. Guess he’s getting the VIP experience tonight.

I throw him inside, grab a stained purple chair, and shove it under the door handle. He reaches for a trash can and misses, throwing up on the carpet at my feet.

Fucking great.

“What… the…fuck,” he says in between retching sounds.

“So you like beating up women?” I walk up and kick him in the dick like I’m launching a soccer ball.

Lasso screams, high-pitched and pathetic. His drunken eyes slide from the ground to me.

“No,” he groans. His face is turning all sorts of interesting shades of red and green.

I aim and stomp on his hand. Was it the one he touched Annetta with? I kick his other hand for good measure, and he screams out.

“You like seeing a woman with a bloody nose, is that right?”

He shows his first glimmer of intelligence by covering his face with his broken hands as he shakes his head.

I do the unexpected thing and squat down in front of him.

“You know who Serafina is, don’t you?”

He peeks at me through his fingers and shakes his head.

I cock my head and suck in air through my teeth. “I think you do. You know, she named you. Said you were the one who fucked up her face. I happen to like her face just the way it is.”

His eyes fill with tears. “Please. I was… I was just following orders. Stefano told me to grab her. His dad told him. She-she’s not who she says she is. She’s the other twin. The bad one?—”

He chokes and scrambles back as I pull out my knife from my leg holster. “That’s where you’re wrong. Cause you see, my wife? She’s a fucking angel.”

“When can I go after Aceto?”I ask Turi over the phone.

I drive with the windows down to air out the car after my quick stop at Aceto’s house. He’s not going to like the little present I left on his front porch. Most of the blood washed right off, but I’ll have to take a stain remover to my T-shirt later.

Turi’s silent on the other end, which means he’s thinking. That, or finger fucking Marisol. Those fucking idiots can’t keep their hands off each other.

“Once he gives us something damning about the Chiarellis.”

“Or I could just pop down to Florida and kill them all now.”

“Don’t. I have too much on my plate right now. I’m working with Ottavio,” he spits out his dad’s name, “to choose a suitable replacement for the Chiarellis. They’ve kept the peace for now. We need a little more time.”

I squeeze the steering wheel. “So we can whack our don for your girl, but I have to wait for mine to get murdered before I’m allowed to raise a finger?”

He sighs, and I imagine him squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Use whatever resources you see fit to keep her safe. I want to try diplomacy first. If that doesn’t work, we’ll act.”

Turi and I both know history repeats itself. If he doesn’t act in time to keep my wife safe, he won’t be happy with the results.

Instead of saying that, I tell him in a dry voice, “Sure, boss.”

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