Page 96 of The Butcher's Wife

“Hi, Eduardo. Can you wait in the foyer for me? I want to have a little chat with Serafina,” a woman’s voice says.

I freeze, trying to place the vaguely familiar voice.

“With all due respect, I was told by the don himself not to leave this penthouse until Dom comes home.”

“The don knows I’m here. Feel free to call him while you wait downstairs.”

It takes me a moment to place the voice, but I’m certain now.

Marisol Luporini. Don Salvatore’s wife.

“I’ll be right next to the elevator in the foyer.”

“Thank you, Eduardo.”

Eduardo disappears into the hallway, and Marisol Luporini walks around the corner, holding an armful of flower bouquets. She’s a little taller than me—even taller with her black heeled boots—with dark hair secured by a black headband and a burgundy wool coat.

I consider hiding upstairs, but before I can act on it, she spots me and smiles.

“Hi there. I saw your delivery girl downstairs and thought I’d save her the trip.” Marisol’s heels click as she picks her way across my home gun range like it’s the most natural thing in the world and drops the bouquets on my table. Her gaze ticks over the roses and eucalyptus like she’s searching the fresh leaves for blight, before she looks to me. “These are quite beautiful. Are you doing all three for Aceto’s celebration?”

My brain finally kicks back online, and I stand. “Valeria and I will pick just one, Mrs. Luporini. Can I get you something to eat?”

She waves her hand at me to sit. “No. I won’t stay long. Salvatore doesn’t like me to stay out late.”

Instead of resentment, she says it with a certain amount of pride.

My thoughts must be evident on my face, because she laughs as she shrugs off her coat and sits down at the head of the table.

“It won’t surprise you to hear the don is a bit of a control freak.”

I settle back into my seat. Marisol picks up the snips, turns them over for inspection, grins at me, and sets them next to my hand. My pinky twitches.

“So how are you liking married life?” She turns to her bag and rustles through the contents.

“I… Dom is a good husband.”

That’s true, at least. He treats me kindly, listens, and makes time for me. He’s funny, charming, and an enthusiastic eater in and out of the bedroom. I know he’s trying so hard to be patient, but the part of me that used to be able to open up is so faded now, like the impression of an image after it’s been passed over with an eraser a thousand times.

“Sounds like you couldn’t be happier,” Marisol says with a snort. She pulls a card-sized speaker out of her bag.

“He’s agreathusband,” I correct, before considering that maybe talking to the don’s wife like this isn’t especially wise. When Aldo used to bring his girlfriends, wives, even his “lady friends”—which was just code for mistress—to my parents’ house for dinner, Mom made sure we always spoke to them with the utmost respect. “We’re just in a bit of a rough patch, Mrs. Luporini.”

She switches her speaker on, and it fills the room with the sound of people chatting and clinking silverware against ceramics.

“Salvatore and I had plenty of rough patches ourselves,”she says, without addressing the crowd noises. “I’m sure you’ll come to an agreement soon enough.”

I roll a fallen pine needle back and forth on the table.

“You must be wondering why I’m here.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

She lays her hand over mine, and her skin’s soft and warm. Her nails are perfectly manicured and ruby red. “I was actually hoping you and I could be friends.”

I blink at her a few times. “Friends?”

She nods, her dark eyes wide and childlike. She has a strange sort of fae-like beauty about her that makes me nervous, like she’s going to ask me to dance or try to drown me in a lake.