Page 5 of The Butcher's Wife

I arrange her so I’m supporting her upper back and gripping her forearm. She slumps into me like a house on a bad foundation, and I guide her to stand behind Marisol’s chair so we can watch over her shoulder.

The kitchen camera is displayed on Marisol’s phone. A miniature Turi and Junior glare at each other from either end of the kitchen bar while Aldo drinks from a glass of wine and gestures between them. I’m almost impressed to see how quickly Barbara is dozing off on one of the barstools.

As Aldo talks, his desperation oozes through the screen. Good. He starts making wild promises—promising to promote Turi to underboss and help him kill his dad if only he agrees to give his wife to Junior. Fat chance. I’ve seen the covetous, obsessive gleam in Turi’s eye when he looks at his new wife. He’s not giving her up for anything.

Serafina whispers, “He’s talking about killing Ottavio?”

“Fucking idiot,” I mutter in Italian and scrub my hand over my beard. Aldo’s not getting anywhere near Ottavio, especially not to kill him. If it were that easy, Turi would have done it years ago.

I can’t figure out why Turi’s stalling as he askshow Aldo plans on killing his dad, but even as Marisol’s breathing speeds toward hyperventilation, I’m not stressed. Turi’s got things under control. He always does.

Aldo lays out a harebrained scheme, outlining how he’s going to take downOttavio,the head of the Commission—the five ultra-powerful Mob families in New York. The old man is completely oblivious to how deranged he sounds.

Serafina makes a choked noise next to me when Aldo waxes poetic about taking her to a beach somewhere after this is all over.

I squeeze her hand.

“What do you think, Turi?” Aldo asks.

Turi watches Aldo in that unnerving, too-intense way of his, lifting a hand to the gun at his waist—hidden to the others by the kitchen counter. As he moves, so does Junior.

Turi needs a distraction.

“I think we have ourselves a deal,” Turi says, clearly lying through his teeth.

Marisol sucks in a breath.

Aldo falls for it hook, line, and sinker. He claps Turi on the shoulder and praises his loyalty as Turi asks Barbara to escort Marisol to the basement.

The phone screen turns dark. Marisol starts to stand, but I drop a hand on her shoulder and push her back down.

Serafina jerks her head toward me. “Dom! Don’t.”

I can’t tell if I’m impressed or amused that Serafina is daring enough to clutch her slender pianist fingers around my arm and try to pull me off Marisol.

“Trust Turi,” I say. “He has a plan.”

“His plan is to sacrifice Marisol,” Serafina hisses, yanking on my wrist. Where’s that meek little girl from a few moments ago? What am I still missing?

I lean toward Serafina, peering into her face, and sherears back, her eyes growing wide like she’s been caught red-handed doing something she shouldn’t.

A ridiculous thought enters my head, but before I can act on it, Barbara strolls around the corner, not looking the slightest bit surprised to see me wrangling both women at the end of the dining room.

“Dom,” he calls out. “Take Serafina home. Now.”

About fucking time.

I snatch her up by the waist, my fingers biting into her ribs, and cross the room.

She kicks me hard in the shin—which fucking hurts—but I only grunt and throw her over my shoulder like a bag of flour.

“Dad,” she screams as she pounds her fists against my back. “Dad, please. He’s giving her up! She’ll die!”

Barbara doesn’t even spare his daughter a glance, locked in a silent standoff with Marisol.

Serafina thrashes against me like a kitten in a burlap sack as I carry her out the front door, my boots crunching across the gravel toward one of Turi’s SUVs.

She’s all skin and bones, practically weightless on my shoulder, but her squirming and fighting make it hard to keep her from hurting herself. She rains her fists down on my back like she thinks her little tantrum will have any effect.