Page 25 of The Butcher's Wife

“I would love to suck your cock.”

Dom’s eyes blaze and, for a second, I think he wants that too, but then he grins andlaughsin my face.

“I don’t want a fucking blowjob from you,Serafina,” he says.

He knows.

My eyelashes flutter. He grins, shakes his head, and walks down the stairs.

When he disappears around the corner, I fly back to my room, slamming the door behind me. I lay a flat palm against my racing heart as I suck in a steadying breath. Then another.

Fuck.

I undress quickly, goose bumps rising across my skin from the drying sweat in his freezing cold bedroom.

Fuck!

Dom knows I’m not Serafina. What else could his tone have meant? And if he knows, he’s going to tell Turi, and if he tells Turi… well, I don’t know what’ll happen exactly, I just know it’ll bebad. I don’t know Turi all that well, but even I know he doesn’t like liars. And if he finds out Dad, who’s supposed to be his trusted advisor, has been lying to him?

I walk quickly to the bathroom, set a timer on my phone, turn on the shower, and step inside. The water’s so cold, I suck in a shuddering breath, my stomach caving in, but I don’t leave the icy spray. I scrub my face with my palms, tears already leaking from my eyes. I’ve trained my body—showers are for crying, although the embarrassment of being rejected so completely is plenty of fuel on its own.

New plan. I stay as far away from Dom as possible. I don’t give him any reason to suspect anything different about me, and I cook delicious meals every night to build up some goodwill in the meantime.

And if he changes his mind and comes into my bedroom?

Hot and cold spiral inside me. I wouldn’t deny him, if that’s what he wanted. But for now, I’m nothing. I’m a mouse, living in the walls of his home. I won’t give him any reason to dislike me.

A sob wracks my chest. I can’t hold the tears in anymore. Hot and ashamed, I cry my humiliation under the water until my timer goes off.

Then, I pull myself together and get dressed.

A few hours later,the elevator door dings, and I stand at attention.

I’m wearing my best black skirt and a cashmere sweater, and my makeup is tastefully done just like Serafina used to do. After my second crying session, I took a long nap, only stirring when Mom called to say she was headed over.

Mom sweeps into the penthouse in a pair of cream wide-leg trousers, a mauve sweater, and a trench coat that couldn’t possibly be warm enough in this weather. Behind her, a tall woman about my age with a bob of black hair struggles forward with several grocery bags. I vaguely recognize her face from family events, although I can’t place her name. I remember her brother, though—Stefano, an ambitious asshole who hangs around my brother Carlo sometimes.

“Serafina,” Mom says. “You know Valeria? She’s going to be helping with your grocery deliveries.”

I smile blandly at her.

Valeria eases the groceries onto the kitchen counter and takes a step back. She’s dressed stylishly in a black Nirvana T-shirt, jeans, boots, and a big black coat. She’s pretty, but she always looks at people like she just heard their favorite food is stale bread, so I’ve never tried to get to know her—I get enough judgment at home.

She measures me for a moment before cracking her cold, uninterested expression with a tiny, surprisingly warm smile.

“Let me know if you need help figuring out where anything goes,” Mom calls over her shoulder.

Valeria’s smile disappears, and she sets herself to putting up the groceries.

Mom wraps me in a hug, then pulls me back for a good look. Her eyes, hidden by sunglasses, catalog my appearance. She touches my hair briefly.

“You’ve lost weight,” she says approvingly. Over hershoulder, I see Valeria freeze for a split second before she continues pushing a bag of sugar into the pantry.

Just a few hours, and I can crawl back into the warm bed.

“Thank you,” I say, trying my best to inject some sincerity into the words. But by the way Mom’s mouth twists in frustration, my best isn’t very good.

With a sigh, she pats my shoulder and turns to the kitchen. She sheds her coat and folds it over one of the stools before she walks to the refrigerator and opens the door. “Did you feed Dom last night? There’s a lot of leftovers in the fridge.”