Page 120 of The Butcher's Wife
I take a moment to steady my racing heart and lie back down against him.
He cups my waist with his hand.
“What happens after this?” I ask.
He leans his chair back and blows out a sigh. “We head home. I beg for Turi’s forgiveness. You go to therapy, and we live happily ever after.”
“You think we will? Live happily ever after?”
He kisses my temple. “I know it, angel.”
29
ANNETTA
The closer we get,the more relaxed Dom seems to become.
Hours ago, he turned on the radio to a low volume, humming along with the music in a deep baritone as he toys with my fingers. If I concentrate, I can pretend we’re going to a cabin in the woods for a relaxing vacation.
But as I start to recognize the streets and buildings where I spent the last few years of my life, the fantasy dissolves into reality.
We’re going to Marco’s house first.
Even this close to midnight, the neighborhood is brightly lit, and Dom weaves through the streets until he finds a slice of road that cloaks us in darkness.
He turns off the radio and faces me. “Get in the driver’s seat.”
Gone is the man who serves me in the bedroom, and the woman I become with him. I follow his order without question.
We step out of the car. Mild night air brushes against my exposed skin, and I inhale the familiar saltwater scent of thebay as I walk to the driver’s side. This late at night, almost all of the lavish, two-story homes are dark and silent.
I’ve visited a few of the families in this neighborhood. If any of them recognized me on this empty street, they’d invite me into their homes with bright smiles as they reported me to Marco or Giulia.
Dom’s adjusting the bulletproof vest under his clothes, the gun at his waist, and the knife at his calf. I remember our wedding when I thought him a warlord. Now, the only difference is I’ve tasted the truth of it.
When he looks at me, the teasing, playful smile he usually wears is nonexistent. He’s businesslike as he moves, tugging at the Velcro of my bulletproof vest and speaking in a firm tone.
“Stay alert. If you see anyone approach the car—man, woman, or child—drive away. We’ll meet at the neighborhood entrance. If I take longer than thirty minutes, drive away. Use the burner in the glove box to call Salvatore. Keep your gun out and ready to use.”
I hang on to every word, nodding.
His hands pause on my waist as his gaze skates over my face like he’s memorizing my features. Then he wraps me in a tight hug, the bulk of our vests making the movement stiff and awkward.
“Stay safe,” he whispers against the top of my head.
I swallow. “You too.”
He waits until I jump into the car and lock the doors, and he’s gone, jogging down the street through the backyard of the nearest house.
I wait.
Without Dom at my side, I’m hyperaware of how exposed I am, parked in the middle of the neighborhood with great big houses looming over me on every side. Noone’s out this late at night, and judging by the lights in the windows, only the house across from me has someone still awake.
To keep myself alert, I check my radius every minute, circling my head hundreds of times. Only one other car passes me with a young woman inside, seemingly oblivious to the gun I had pointed in her direction as she headed home.
After twenty minutes, a figure limps from the shadows of a nearby hedge.
Dom.
