Page 92 of The Butcher's Wife

She takes another sip of her coffee, looking at me over the rim of the cup. “If the Chiarellis were going to try something else, don’t you think they would’ve already?”

“We’ve talked about this. There’s no set timeline for these things. You might be waiting years.”

I expect more of a fight, but she only smiles up at me and touches my arm. “I’m glad you’re here to help me through this, at least.”

I feel like I’m grabbing at a fish that’s wriggling out of my fingers.

“What if we got you a dog for Christmas? And I’ve been thinking about converting the downstairs bedroom into a darkroom for your photography. You could keep busy. It wouldn’t be so bad.” I grin. “You might even like all this time to yourself.”

She smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah. That sounds like a good idea.”

Annetta stirsunder the blankets as I reach over her to grab my phone off the nightstand.

“What?” I snap, answering the call. They better have a good fucking reason to wake me up at five in the morning.

Annetta murmurs something in her sleep, and I run my hand along her shoulder blades while Riccardo blatherson about some sex workers he found in a shipping container.

“I don’t give a fuck,” I hiss in a low voice.

Annetta’s already waking up, blinking at me in the dim light. Returning to sleep is becoming an increasingly distant possibility with each passing second.

“Where’s Aceto?” I ask, stroking my beard.

Riccardo reports to Aceto, so he should be wakinghimup, not me.

“That’s what I’m saying, boss,” Riccardo says in his mopey voice. He drops to a whisper. “The women are saying theyknowhim.”

Fuck me.I exhale and tug on my beard.

“I can bring them to Don Salvatore’s?”

“Fuck no.” Not that he could anyway. Turi’s on a honeymoon to Italy right now with his little hacker wife. “Bring them here. I want to talk to them.”

“On our way, boss.”

The moment I hang up, Annetta sits up in the darkness, the white sheet pooling around her waist and exposing her sweet little breasts. I want to so badly to touch her, but she’s got that look on her face like she’s got something to say first.

“Let’s hear it,” I say grumpily, leaning one arm against my knee.

“Who was that?”

“Just some guests. One of my guys found some women in a warehouse. Supposedly, they recognize Aceto. They’re gonna swing by, and I’m gonna talk to them.”

Her dark eyes glitter in the darkness. “Let me talk to them.”

“Fuck no.”

“Dom.”

“You ever talk to a sex worker? They’re not gonna taketoo kindly to some spoiled rich girl. They’ll be comfortable speaking to a man—more comfortable, even.”

“I’m not spoiled.” She pouts adorably. “And just because they can speak to men, doesn’t mean they want to. When are they going to be here?”

When she rises from the bed to pull on clothes, I’m truly fucked.

Annetta already has a few grilled cheese sandwiches sizzling in a pan by the time Riccardo brings up the two women—or thegirls.

They must be no older than fifteen, and they must be sisters. They huddle close together, staring around my penthouse with wide eyes. Despite the snow outside, they’re both wearing flip-flops and loose-fitting dresses. No visible bruises, I note with a tiny measure of relief.