Page 113 of The Butcher's Wife

“I heard they opened a box on their front porch, and inside was Lasso’s face.”

My stomach twists with horror. “What? You mean his head?”

Carlo leans in closer. “No. I mean, the skin peeled from his face, like a mask. They found the rest of him dead at some club.”

My blood chills. “Who would do that?”

But I know the answer.

I startle as Dom slides his arm around my waist. “Barbaras! Am I interrupting anything?”

Carlo jerks his head toward Dom as if to say,your culprit’s right there. “Not at all! We were just talking about you.”

“All bad things, I hope.”

Carlo laughs. “You know it. You two have fun. I’m gonna go find Mom and take her home. I saw her talking with Nonna earlier, and she usually dips into the hard liquor after that.”

As Carlo vanishes into the crowd, I level a severe look at Dom.

His eyes light up, and he leans in to whisper huskily, “You keep looking at me like that, we might have to go find a private corner for ourselves.”

“Carlo told me about Lasso.” I study his face, waiting for him to lie or deny it, but he doesn’t hesitate.

Dom barks out a laugh. “Good. I want every bastard here to know what happens if they touch you.”

I should get mad at him, tell him he didn’t have to do that.

But I already had an idea of what he was going to do to Lasso, and I didn’t stop him, even though I could have.

The fear of what’s going to happen tonight, of Carlo’s warning, fades away under the harsh, bright light of my husband’s brilliant smile. I don’t have to be afraid of anything. Dom’s here, and he’smine.

I cup my hands along his beard and graze my fingertips into his cheeks. “You’re a good husband.”

Dom’s smile widens. “Only for you, angel.” He sneaks a kiss against my fingertips. “We’d better head to the upper deck. Salvatore’s waiting for us.”

“Carlo said we should leave. He said Aceto’s planning something tonight.”

Dom laughs. “Don’t worry. We know, and we got a little something planned for him, too.”

He leads me outside where Dad’s waiting for us, puffing at a cigar at the foot of the stairs in the half-light from the windows. He pushes himself up to standing as we approach and follows us to the upper deck.

It’s quieter up here, the flooring muffling the party underneath us. I can barely make out the distant waves breaking against the pier, and I’m unafraid as we pass into the enclosed salon.

In the next hour, the rest of the party will migrate here to eat, but for now, only Salvatore, Marisol, and Nico sit in the center of a sea of white tables, each headed by one of my floral arrangements—a perfectly balanced mixture of dusty green cedar branches supporting pinecones and white roses as they build to a crescendo of show-stopping dark burgundy dahlias.

At the penthouse, I’d been so concerned with making each individual display perfect, that I’d lost sight of the effect as a whole.

Now, looking across all arrangements, and tasting the faintest floral aroma on my tongue? It’s striking and dramatic and uniquely me, and it floods me with pride and the smallest measure of bittersweetness. For all the hard work I did to realize this vision, my sister’s artistic influence quietly and undeniably shines through.

It feels, impossibly, like a collaboration.

Dad pats my shoulder. “You did good, kid,” he says gruffly and takes a swig of his whiskey. “She’d be proud.”

For Dad and me, this is more than just flowers.

I swallow past the lump of emotion in my throat. “Thanks, Dad.”

Together, we make our way to the main table.