Page 74 of The Butcher's Wife

And just like that, I like the kid a little better. I’m glad he’s scared shitless—I won’t have to do anything painful to him tonight.

“Yeah. Mrs. Lombardi. You owe her something, don’t you, Neil?”

“S-she said, she said it’d be okay!” His face is already shiny with sweat. “She was gonna get me a piano. I told her I can’t get the money back from my landlord.”

A gifted piano? That seems like something my sweet little wife would do. I’ll do her one even better.

“I don’t really give a shit. You figure out a way to get her back that money, or when I come back later this week, I’ll cut off a finger.”

He goes completely pale, pressing his stiff body against his refrigerator.

“But I’m a pianist,” he whispers.

I lean in, meeting his eyes until he drops his gaze down to my boots.

“Sounds to me like you have a pretty good incentive then.”

18

DOM

When I got homelast night, the shooting target’s paper heart was obliterated.

I stood there for a while, playing with the velvet box in my pocket while she finished dinner.

I’ve trained a lot of men over the years, and there are three things I’ve learned to look for that make them a good fit for the Family.

A man who takes initiative.

A man who keeps his fucking mouth shut.

A man who can be cruel when he needs to.

The last part is the easiest to find. Lots of people are cruel. I’m cruel. My dad and his dad, before him, were cruel. The tricky part is finding someone who can turn off their viciousness to be a normal part of society. Some people can do it. They can go home to their wives and kids and compartmentalize the rest. Others, like me and Turi, always have cruelty lurking underneath the surface, waiting for the chance to show its ugly head. It’s easier for us to reach, but also harder to hide.

Annetta is the rarest combination—a person who usescruelty when she has to, but is also compassionate. It’s not a malignant part of her personality—it’s an evil necessity.

It’s why she won’t understand.

After my first bite of under-seasoned pasta, I knew something was wrong. I ate my entire plate anyway—no use arguing on an empty stomach, and even her half-assed meals are still pretty damn good. Once my belly was full, I turned to face my wife.

She looks like a painting tonight.

Behind her, the night sky is obscured by dark clouds and light pollution from the golden streets weaving through glittering skyscrapers. She’s sitting at the dining room table, in black leggings and a flowing black top, her hair scraped back into a sharp bun. She snips at a rose stem with a violence that suggests she has castration in mind. She looks beautiful, though I’m not so stupid as to voice that thought aloud.

I’m already late to threaten some asshole city council member at his family dinner, but I’m in no rush to leave. If she’s upset, it’s for good reason.

She’s supposed to be working on the arrangements for Aceto’s party, but this doesn’t look like any of the elegant white and cream designs I’ve seen her make before. A fan of black plant fronds stabs into the open air as she fills the rest of the vase with blood red flowers. Maybe this is an artsy outlet for what she’s feeling—or maybe she’s sending a message. In either case, I’m ready to listen.

“Let’s hear it,” I say, leaning back on my elbows against the kitchen island.

She huffs a heated exhale and points her snips at me in a way that has my balls tingling.

She shoves the rose into a terracotta vase. “Why didn’t you trust me to get the deposit back for Valeria?”

That’swhat this is about?

I drum my fingers against my thigh. Sounds like that little worm Neil ratted me out—a shame, too. I liked the kid.