Page 95 of The Butcher's Wife

She pushes against my hands on her shoulders and plants her feet in a wide stance like we’re about to spar.Fuck.

“Annetta…”

“Dom.” The corner of her mouth spasms like she’sholding back tears, but her eyes are clear and dry. “I waited three months to kill Frederico after I saw him in bed with a girl. I let that go on for three goddamn months. And in the end, the only reason I did it was to save myself, so I wouldn’t get pregnant. How many girls did I let get hurt because I was too scared to do anything?”

“None of this was your fault. You got him, didn’t you? You did more than anyone could’ve asked of you.”

“No. I can’t lie to myself anymore. I can do something to help Maria and Lucia.Wecan help them.”

She gives me a firm look that makes my heart swell and my stomach sink. “Promise me you’ll get those girls the best hotel money can buy, and then promise me you’ll get them home.”

She’s stealing a piece of my heart every time she rips another promise out of me, but I do it anyway, becausethisis the Annetta I know.

If saving the entire fucking world is what it’ll take to bring her back to me, then she’s going to learn I meant every word of my vows. I’m not letting her do any of this alone.

I cup the back of her neck and press forward until my forehead touches hers.

Her eyelashes flutter shut.

“I promise.”

22

ANNETTA

“Wow,Mrs. Lombardi, those look real nice,” Eduardo calls out from the kitchen as I step back to survey my work.

Flower petals and pine needles are scattered around three arrangements in the center of the dining table, each one designed as a mix of rustic elegance with birch twigs, roses, anemone, berries, and pinecones.

I know they’re at least as good as something my sister could do on a lazy Sunday afternoon, but when I wait for a sense of satisfaction to wash over me, there’s nothing. It’s just a few handfuls of tiny, delicateflowers—existing only to look pretty and give you something to fuss over until they promptly wither and die.

At least they don’t look drunk.

“Thanks, Eduardo,” I say.

“You’re welcome. Also, we’re out of salami, Mrs. Lombardi.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Eduardo.”

He flops onto the couch and pulls out his phone. To the soundtrack of revving motors and giggling women, I snap a picture of the arrangements and send it to Valeria.

As the last pieces of her dad’s dinner celebration fall into place, we’ve met less and less, which suits us both just fine. I haven’t wanted to chat lately, and the dark circles under Valeria’s eyes are more pronounced every time she comes by to drop off groceries. Whenever I ask her about it, she yawns, claims she had another late night at work, and swears to me that she wants to keep bringing groceries, because Mom pays her well and she’s saving up for a new car.

In the kitchen, I pull out the chicken I’ve been letting brine all day and pat its pale flesh dry with paper towels before sliding it into a stoneware baking dish. As I wash my hands with thorough, mechanical movements, I stare out at the flickering city lights cushioned against the night sky, my thoughts drifting to the same place they’ve been going for weeks.

Dom said he was going to make sure Maria and Lucia were getting sent home, but every day, I ask, and every day, he tells me Salvatore hasn’t given him an answer yet.

Every night, he crawls into bed and tells me he won’t break his promise, to give him time.

How long am I supposed to wait?

My old family stole those girls from their homes, and my new one won’t send them back. Maybe I can barely keep myself alive, but here, I have some influence. I can at least try—this, at least, matters.

I’ve just gotten the chicken in the oven and returned to the kitchen table to tidy up before I practice shooting when the elevator door beeps.

“It’s just Valeria,” I say to Eduardo.

But when he sees the newcomer, he tucks his phone away and stands at attention.