Page 7 of The Butcher's Wife

Rolling my shoulders, I touch the bite mark. Fucking woman tore a goddamn chunk out of my neck. I may need stitches.

I stride to the driver’s side, get in, and drive us away from the chaos, barely sparing Turi a thought. Whatever is happening, he can handle it. As much as I hate to admit it, his wife’s a tough bitch too. They’ll be fine.

In the passenger seat,Serafinalooks frail as a bird, clutching the seatbelt and squeezing herself into the smallest shape possible against the passenger seat. She has transformed from a she-wolf back to a scared little bunny, casting doubt over my suspicions yet again. I’ve always prided myself on my intuition in any situation, but in the span of a few minutes, the woman next to me has my internal compass spinning in circles.

I drive us down the long, dark road from Turi’s house back to her parents’ house in Oak Brook.

After several minutes of complete silence, I ask again, “Do you remember what I told you in the stadium?”

I’m not the kind of man who can let something go. Used to drive my dad nuts.

“Remind me,” she says in a dull voice.

I nearly laugh. Still playing coy, then. “I told you I wouldn’t let any harm come to you. Ever.”

She snaps her head toward me, her hands still strangling that seatbelt.

“You mean that?” she asks me in an oddly hopeful voice.

I break my attention away from the road to hold her gaze for a fraction of a second.

“Of course,” I say slowly, feeling like I’m missingsomething really fucking important. “You’re like a little sister to me. I won’t let anyone touch you.”

Her gaze burns into the side of my face as she twists the seatbelt in her hands. She doesn’t say anything else for a long moment, until my patience finally frays and snaps.

I ask the question that’s been stirring at the back of my mind since she got out of the car.

“Where is your sister?”

3

ANNETTA

My hands dropto my lap.

The words catch in my throat as I say them aloud for the first time.

“She’s dead.”

Dom swerves violently, swinging the car toward a copse of trees. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“That’s not fucking funny,” he says.

I open my eyes. We’re in our lane again.

Did I imagine that?

The muscles in his jaw shift under his thick beard as he works to unclench his teeth.

“Car crash.” My voice is hoarse. I don’t miss the irony as I add, “Three days ago. Hit-and-run.”

I’m already fading, my consciousness falling away from me like sand between my fingers. There’s nothing I can do to stop it, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to feel anything. Better this fog than that pointless rage. I clasp my hands on my lap, the meat of my palms aching from how hard I hit Dom.

“Who knows?” he grits out.

“Mom and Dad. My brothers. Aldo and Junior.”

He strangles the steering wheel. “Aldo knew, and he still took you to Turi’s?”