Page 117 of The Butcher's Wife

“You gonna take care of my daughter?” Barbara asks.

Everything around me stills.

I can’t do it.

I can’t go on this suicide mission to keep Annetta safe. I can’t be the rusty blade that cuts through her enemies—I need precision. I need to make a better decision. She deserves better than what I intend to do. I have to be a good husband.

“Yeah. I’ll take care of her.”

Barbara grabs the back of my neck and pulls me down until our foreheads touch briefly.

“Good,” he says and walks to his son’s hospital room.

For a moment, I’m blinded by the glaring white lights in the hallway as I stare straight up. I gather myself and stride toward the waiting room.

Carlo sits alone.

“Where’s your sister?” I ask harshly, covering the distance between us in a few long steps.

Carlo jerks upright. “You told her to get something from the car.”

It hits us both at the same time.

She ran.

28

ANNETTA

I killed my ex-husband.I did the hard thing. I made the difficult choice.

But his fucking ghost won’t stop haunting me.

A drizzle of rain drums against the windshield, broken up every few seconds by the wipers.

I bought a black T-shirt and gym shorts at the last gas station, but I’ll have to make another stop soon for better shoes. My heels won’t do. Under the passenger seat, I found a hunting knife and another handgun. Both rest in the cup holders next to me as I drive.

Over my new clothes, I’m still wearing my big wool coat. No matter how much I crank up the heat, I can’t stop shivering.

I called Marisol once I was on the road. I thought she’d demand I come back, that she’d tell me how angry the don was. Instead, she gave me all the information I asked for.

The Chiarellis are leaving for France tomorrow. While my brother’s in the hospital, they’re going on vacation.

Marisol told me to find the tiny GPS tracker under Dom’s SUV seat and throw it out the window along with myphone. I don’t know if she’s treating my decision with respect or if she’s letting me go to Florida as a lamb to slaughter, but I suspect she’s being an opportunist—if I kill them or they kill me, one of her problems will disappear.

I glance at my rearview mirror again.

After eight hours of driving, I’m not even halfway there, but a black sedan already clings to my car’s shadow. At first, I thought it was one of the Chiarelli mercenaries, but the grey morning sunlight shining through the windshield tells me a different story.

It’s my husband.

He’s coming for me.

My gas tank burns a glowing redEinto the corner of my vision. I have to stop, but I can’t—he’s going to take me home. He’ll tuck me into a corner of his penthouse, guarded by strange men—or worse, hand me off to Don Salvatore or my parents.

He’s going to tell me to wait. To be patient.

Tears track down my face.