Page 114 of The Butcher's Wife

Once Dom drags my chair next to his and we’re seated, the salon doors swing open.

Aceto and a flank of five tall, strong waiters enter the room, all bearing trays of entrees and drinks. The far-off sound of the party below mutes to complete silence as the doors click closed behind him.

“I’m so glad you all could make it,” Aceto shouts jovially, excess champagne spilling over the side of his flute. He’s the spitting image of his son, with his perfectly pressed suit and coiffed hair. Only his mustache and the greys at his temples set him apart. I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t scowl at him.

Was he the one who gave Valeria her black eye?

The waiters circle our table,placing steaming dishes of lobster and pasta in front of each person.

I move my heavy purse to my lap when one of the waiters sets my plate down. Dom squeezes my knee.

I don’t understand how everyone at the table can be so completely at ease. Dad watches Aceto through half-lidded eyes and his hands propped on his belly like he might doze off. Nico’s cleaning under his fingernails with one of the steak knives. Marisol giggles softly as Don Salvatore whispers something into her ear.

The waiters step back, and in perfect unison, pull out guns and point them at us.

My breath catches in my throat.

No one at the table reacts. Nico flashes one of the waiters a smirk. Dad’s gaze rolls to me, completely calm. Is their plan to shoot at the waiters? Is there another group on standby? Or are they bluffing?

I slip my fingertips into my purse, grazing the warm metal of my gun, until Dom slides his hand over mine and squeezes it.

Okay. I have to trust him now.

My heart’s beating like a snare drum. I squeeze his hand back and force myself to lean into my chair.

“What’s going on?” Aceto asks, and even to my ear, it sounds fake.

In the corner of my eye, Salvatore gives the barest, most imperceptible nod, and the waiters swivel their guns at Aceto.

Aceto’s face pales. He reaches behind him, but one of the waiters shouts, “Nyet.”

Aceto’s hand freezes, his jaw tightening as he scans the waiters’ faces. “What the fuck is this?”

“Business,” the same waiter answers.

Salvatore picks up one of the steak knives and rises from the table in a smooth movement.

“On your knees,” he says in a low voice as he approaches Aceto.

In a silent battle of wills that lasts seconds, Aceto drops to his knees with a heavy thud. “I’ve been nothing but loyal to you, Don Salvatore. I don’t?—”

Salvatore cuts in quietly. “You’ve been trying to undermine me.” Everyone is completely silent, and I get the feeling we’re all holding our collective breaths. I glance over at Marisol, expecting a solemn expression. Instead, she’s smiling hungrily at her husband.

A shiver rolls through me.

Salvatore lifts the knife.

Instead of bringing it down on Aceto‘s neck, he lets it drop to the carpet and walks back to the table, where he sitsand waits expectantly. His arm rests over the back of Marisol’s chair, his fingertips skating along her shoulder.

Aceto whips his head around like a desperate animal. His gaze falls on me, and Dom scrapes his chair back to protect me from Aceto’s view.

“Don Salvatore, you have a rat,” he shouts. It feels like a stab to the chest when he points a finger in my direction. “That girl isn’t Serafina—that’s Annetta, the Chiarelli widow. She’s going to get us all killed!”

Salvatore taps against the back of Marisol’s chair impatiently. “Don’t waste my time.”

Aceto bows forward, fists and jaw clenched, and screams through gritted teeth. Inches away, the knife waits for him.

He turns his head toward it and, with a tremor I can see from here, takes it into his hand. His face is a mottled red, and he doesn’t make a sound as he raises it.