Page 16 of The Butcher's Wife

I circle my arm around his neck, pulling him toward me as he brushes his lips against mine—no, that’s not enough, he’s going to leave. Before he can stand, I flex my arm with all of my strength and lunge onto my tiptoes to press a hard kiss to his lips and lick along the seam of his mouth.

I hear it.

A grunt—no, amoan.

I release him just as quickly, and when he stands, his expression is wild—pupils blown out and the whites of his eyes visible—like he’s processing what just happened.

“Congratulations,” the old priest says.

The spell breaks. Dom blinks a few times before turning from me and storming out of the church, slamming the doors shut as he leaves.

I turn back to my family to see Rafa watching me with araised eyebrow, looking just like Dad, though he’d hate to hear it. Mom’s on the verge of breaking into tears, and not the happy kind. Dad watches me with a twist to his mouth, and I can practically hear his thoughts.

You asked for this, daughter.

Only Carlo’s grinning. He throws me a thumbs-up.

As we’re shuffling out of the church, I look out across the parking lot into the street for another glimpse of my new husband, but his car’s already gone.

It’s the shape of a different man that catches my eye. He’s built like a knife—tall, thin, and dressed in black. I can’t quite make out his face from here, but it doesn’t matter. I’d recognize him anywhere.

He’s haunted every dream I’ve had since I came back to Chicago.

The same white shirt he wore that night winks at me from the split in his black coat like a flash of bone in torn muscle. His hair is just as I remember—dark and perfectly gelled into place.

He’s staring right at me.

I’m frozen. My heart pounds in my throat. My mind races.

That couldn’t be. There’s no possible explanation. Frederico’s dead. His brother—it has to be his brother, Marco.

As I watch, he turns and walks down the sidewalk, disappearing behind a building, while I waver on my heels.

Frederico’s supposed to be dead.

I saw him die.

“Serafina,” Mom calls, shocking me into reality like a bucket of icy lake water.

I turn. Rafa and Carlo are on their phones, and Dad’s napping in the passenger seat.

Tears prick my eyes.

Where is Dom? He said he’d protect me. He gave me his word.

My mind folds in on itself, rejecting conscious thought and forcing my legs to move forward like an automaton until I reach the car.

A week later, I move into Dom’s penthouse.

5

DOM

I stink.

The ungodly smell wafting from me into the open windows would rival a pig fresh from rolling around in mud and cow shit. And while I won’t be admitting this to Turi anytime soon, I feel great.

After that disastrous wedding with Serafina—the poor woman was nervous and on the verge of tears the entire time—my presence was demanded at Aldo’s funeral. It passed in a dark haze, and when Turi took me aside to order me to fuck off to the woods for a week, I left without a fight. I packed just enough shit not to die and disappeared to Devil’s Lake, perfectly timed for open hunting season—maybe a coincidence, but over the years, I’ve learned not to underestimate Turi.