Page 83 of The Butcher's Wife

As usual, Mom’s stuffed every spare corner, banister, and surface with Christmas knick-knacks and fake snow. I used to think it was cheesy, but now it’s nice to see that some things are still the same in my childhood home.

Dad, Rafa, Carlo, and Cousin Red are all at the dining room table, drinking whiskey. The skin on Dad’s knuckles from Don Salvatore’s basement is healed, not that he givesany sign of that night as he snoozes in his chair with his hands resting on his belly. Carlo’s slumped onto one hand, swirling his nearly empty glass of whiskey with his other. Rafa’s tapping something out on his phone under the table.

Red’s gaze skates all over me, lingering at my hips like always, as we approach. Dom’s hand tightens over mine.

“Serafina, will you help me get the first course?” Mom asks and steps off to the kitchen. I hate that it’s always me and never my brothers who have to help.

Dom releases me easily, waltzing over to sit next to Red. He slings an arm over the back of the other man’s chair.

“How’s it been?” he asks Red, who’s slowly wilting into his seat.

In the kitchen, Mom makes a beeline for her Pinot Grigio. After a few gulps, she motions to the cabinets. “Serafina, can you plate everyone’s food and take it out to them?”

And just like that, I feel like a kid again in my parents’ house, doing exactly as I’m told. “Sure, Ma.”

I open up the nearest cabinets and pull out a stack of plates.

Mom leans one hip against the counter as I pile up a ceramic plate with sauced pasta and fillets of fried eggplant. The breaded eggplant is burnt on one side—normally something Mom would never let slide. I almost hesitate to plate it, but it’s best to shut my mouth.

“When did you start wearing your hair like that?” Mom asks about the waves. Serafina always kept her hair pin-straight.

“Just thought I’d try something new.”

“Now’s not a good time to be trying new things.”

“Dom likes it.” I turn with my full plate.

Mom’s mouth twists down.

“I’ll go bring this out to Dad.”

When I return, Mom’s moved the wine bottle closer to the stove, and she’s got that look in her eye like she wants to offer my diet tips or ask me about my grades. I load up the second plate a little faster. My calves burn from the effort of standing in heels after working out.

“Did Dom like the wine I sent over?” she asks.

“Yes, thank you.”

“When was your last period?”

“Ma!” The eggplant I was balancing on a serving spoon slips back into its pan and splatters oil onto my dress.

“Honestly, Serafina!”

I blow out an exhale and reach for the paper towels, but Mom’s closer and snatches a handful off the roll to dab at my breasts. Without thinking, I slap her hand away.

“Serafina!”

“Ma!”

A burst of masculine laughter erupts from the dining room. Mom’s gaze flickers from the doorway to me.

“Your dad is going to Florida next week to meet with the Chiarellis.” She levels a serious, sober stare at me.

I’m as stuck as a fly in honey. Guilt coils in my belly.

This was all your fault, her look tells me.

I lower my eyes.