Page 27 of The Butcher's Wife

Except for the waxing session, which I thankfully got to do upstairs, Mom hovered over us the entire time like a bee at a picnic, voicing her opinion often. Valeria escaped hours ago.

After all the beauty treatments, I stand to the side in thekitchen, an abandoned doll, while Mom and Jan catch up on family gossip.

Serafina and I always had a rigorous beauty routine, but Mom’s added a few extra steps since I’ve been gone. I don’t know how Serafina kept up with all of this—all I want to do is go lie back down and take a nap.

I consider sidling out of the kitchen to head back to my room. Would Mom follow?

Just as I’m on the cusp of sneaking away, Jan finally says her goodbyes and leaves the penthouse.

Mom picks at a few grains of rice on her plate, leftover from the sushi she ordered us all for dinner and licks the sticky grains off her fingers like she’s not counting every calorie.

I glance at her coat, just within arm’s reach.

“So,” Mom says, as she carries the takeout containers to the trash. “A visitor came by the house the other day.”

I couldn’t care less, but maybe she’ll leave faster if I play along. “A visitor?”

“Giulia Chiarelli.”

My mouth goes dry, and Mom gives me a knowing look.

“She spoke with Dad. Said the family’s heartbroken about her son’s death. They want to have dinner withyou,” Mom says in a meaningful voice that makes me break out in a cold sweat.

“I can’t,” I whisper in a choked voice.

When Giulia sees me, she’ll know. If anyone from Frederico’s family sees me, they’ll know.

“You’ll have to, but we have time.” Mom circles the kitchen counter to lay her hand over mine. Our nails match. “We’ll make sure everything’s perfect, okay?”

I thought I wasn’t going to see anyone from that life everagain. That was the whole point in marrying Dom. He’s supposed to protect me and my family.

I swallow. “Mom?—”

“Sweetheart, you need to do this for yourself as much as for your dad.”

“What have you done?” Mom asked me when I stood, exhausted and weak, at my parents’ front door. Shock and horror painted her face. “She’s dead. What did you do?”

“Don’t be difficult,” she adds before kissing my cheek and leaving.

I lie sprawledover the living room couch later that evening, wearing only Dom’s shirt again, and raise the bottle of Chardonnay to my lips, lifting my head just enough to keep the wine from spilling out of the sides of my mouth.

I’ve never done this. I’ve never been alone with my thoughts, and definitely never long enough to relax. After Dom’s rejection and Mom’s attention, I was exhausted and jittery until I spotted Mom’s open wine bottle in the fridge. I haven’t yet forgotten her motherly advice the day before my wedding.

Get him drunk so he doesn’t realize there’s no blood, and get pregnant as soon as you can.

It was a great plan with only one flaw—my husband doesn’t want to fuck me.

I take a big swig, ignoring a prickle of anxiety. I won’t be like Mom and Carlo, who escape way too often into a bottle—I’m just getting drunk tonight, and then tomorrow, I’ll use the rest in a sauce.

I squint at the digital clock on the microwave in thekitchen. Well, technically, I’ll make the sauce today, seeing as how it became “tomorrow” about an hour ago. I should be in bed, but with my fucked-up circadian rhythm, I’m wide awake.

At least the sparkling lights of the city below and Dom’s fish tank make me feel like I’m not the only one up so late. It’d be almost comfortable if it weren’t for the creaking sounds the high-rise building makes in the far recesses of the penthouse.

Creeeeeak.

I glance upstairs. I know the sounds happen because the building is flexing with the wind—it doesn’t make it any less creepy.

I bet Dom doesn’t get scared of the sounds. He probably never gets scared of anything.