Page 93 of The Butcher's Wife

“They were naked when I found them,” Riccardo says in Italian.

I’m nearly vibrating with the desire to hide all of this from Annetta. I know her. This isn’t the type of shit she needs to find a purpose in.

Like she can read my fucking mind, she approaches the girls with two plates of the fresh grilled cheese sandwiches.

They accept the food nervously.

The younger-looking one whispers, “Gracias.”

Riccardo watches the steaming, cheesy sandwiches go to the girls with a droopy frown, then turns to me. “They’re from Cuba,” he says in Italian. “They said some guy just pulled them off the street on their way to school and took them here.”

I glance at Annetta, who looks like she’s following this conversation way too closely for someone who should only know a few words in Italian.

“How long have they been in the States?”

Riccardo glances at them. “They said they woke up, some guy came and inspected them, and they traveled in a truck to the warehouse I found them in. Another guy looked them over, and then I found them.”

“How’d you know they were talking about Aceto?”

“They said he had a mustache. Then I showed them his picture, and they freaked out. I don’t know if he touched them or what, but they basically wouldn’t talk after that.”

I stroke my beard. Guess I figured out why Aceto was being weird about his warehouses when we met for lunch ages ago. This also explains why he was sosupportiveof Turi’s ascension to Don—he saw the way the tide was turning, and thought he’d ingratiate himself with the new boss so he could hide this shit in plain sight.

If he’s trafficking girls, he’s going to be enjoying a nice, long vacation in Turi’s basement. Pretty much anything goes in the Family, except the skin trade. It brings way too much heat on us. Aceto’s even dumber and greedier than I thought, which is saying something when he’d sell his daughter for two shiny quarters.

“What did the man who took them look like?” Annetta asks in English.

Riccardo blinks a few times before glancing toward me for permission.

I shrug. The cat’s out of the bag now.

Riccardo speaks in a low, respectful tone to Annetta, which raises him several notches in my book. Maybe I’ll recommend him for a promotion after we off his capo. “They wouldn’t say anything about it,signora. I think they’re a little afraid of men right now.”

I roll my eyes when Annetta shoots me an “I told you so” look.

“What are your names?” she asks the girls in a clear voice.

The younger one answers, pointing between them. “Maria. Lucia.”

“Okay, Lucia. The man who took you, what did he look like?”

Lucia thinks for a few moments. “Smallbarba.” She points to my beard—the word for beard in Spanish and Italian being the same, making her meaning clear.

Riccardo swears under his breath. “They speak English?”

Annetta approaches me. “Taller?” she asks, holding her hand to indicate a height taller than me. “Or shorter?”

The girls confer for a moment. Then Lucia answers in a stream of Spanish.

“Hold on,” Riccardo says, and fishes out his phone for the translation app.

He has the girl repeat herself, and she tells us the man is about Riccardo’s height, with green eyes and a very short beard.

Annetta frowns. She asks the girls several times through the translator, “Green eyes? Are you sure?”

I have a bad feeling when she turns to me. “I need to speak with you. Privately.”

“Watch the girls,” I say to Riccardo.