Page 58 of The Butcher's Wife

He says his goodbyes to Eduardo and leaves through the elevator.

Frowning, I pull the brown lunch sack toward me and unfurl it to peek inside. There are several boxes with the words “ovulation” and “pregnancy” printed over the top next to pictures of smiling babies.

I crumple the bag like I found a nest of black widows inside and drop it into the trash, my heart beating loudly in my chest—from fear or anger, I’m not sure. I shove it to the bottom of the trash can under dirty towels and old food. My breathing is deep and intentional as I lean over the kitchen counter.

I always thought it’d be Frederico who would grow disappointed with my mysterious inability to have kids.

But it was his mom.

Frederico was perfectly content to let me offer any of my holes before he’d disappear for the night with his brother or his colleagues. So, it was his mom who sat me down at the dinner table one morning while he slept in.

“How long have you been with my son now?” Giulia Chiarelli asked in Italian.

She was a short, round woman with a kind face and soft hands. After her husband went to jail, Frederico had become the de facto don for the Tampa mob, but Giuliaraised two good boys who listened to their mama, so she always had her say.

“Two years, Mamma,” I answered in the same language.

We all called her that.

“Two years and six months, sweetheart.” She took my hands in hers. “And I couldn’t be happier. You are the daughter I never had.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the only part of me she never criticized. “Just between you and me, are you trying your absolutehardestto get pregnant?”

I held her gaze without blinking. “Yes, Mamma.”

Giulia smiled warmly, the edges of her eyes crinkling. She patted my cheek. “That’s good to hear, sweet girl. We’re going to the doctor’s tomorrow to see if there’s anything we can do to help you and my son. If you’re not able to have a baby… well. Let’s go to the doctor first.”

That night, I tore out my IUD myself and buried it in the garden.

14

DOM

I miss her cooking.

The thought comes to me, unbidden, as the waiter from Salt & Stone brings me a still-sizzling ribeye steak.

“What’d the cow do to you?” Aceto teases from across our four-top table. “That’s a grade-A cut of meat, and you’re giving it a look like it talked shit about your sister.”

I pick up my knife and fork, grinning. “Guess I got my mind elsewhere these days.”

“Hey, I understand. You’ve got a lot on your plate. Congratulations, by the way, on the marriage. Serafina’s a lovely girl. She’s helping my daughter Valeria get the flowers and decorations set up for my promotion dinner.”

Riccardo weighs in from Aceto’s side. “She’s a good girl. Damn shame about her sister.”

“Yeah,” I say unconvincingly.

Riccardo would have zero fucking knowledge of any of my wife’s qualities, so I’m not sure why he’s opening his mouth.

Aceto cuts in. “Did she tell you I’m renting out a yacht for the party? I know what you’re thinking. ‘In the winter,are you fucking crazy?’But have you ever seen the Navy Pier in January? Me and the Missus…”

As Aceto drones on, I nod and chew through the rest of my steak, slower than usual. It tastes like shit—it’s overcooked, and practically swimming in butter. Annetta keeps a little jar of bacon grease next to the stove and cooks with that, but hell if I know what her secret ingredient is. All I know is, for the first time in my life, I’m pushing aside the meal in front of me in favor of the one I know I have waiting at home.

“This place is known for their steaks,” Aceto stops his own monologue to say. He glances nervously at my half-eaten plate. “You get a bad one or something?”

I shrug. “Something like that.”

Aceto goes on about the caterers he’s going to hire—some company he scammed to work at half price, and my thoughts drift back to Annetta and what she’s cooking back at the house. Maybe I can get her to bake up more of that cheese bread she made the other night.