Page 125 of The Butcher's Wife
I take in my surroundings. I’m on aflimsy bed with thin cotton sheets. Beeping monitors circle me. How did I get into a hospital?
In his winter coat, Salvatore Luporini looks like a great black bat that fell into the armchair opposite my bed. He rakes a hand through his hair and blows out a sigh.
“Where are we?” I ask.
Turi doesn’t bother standing from his chair, the lazy bastard. He waves a hand. “The hospital, obviously.”
Jackass.
“That little wife of yours somehow got you to the ER. Set off about a hundred different alerts of mine. I paid a small fortune to have men go out and do a discreet cleaning of the huge fucking mess you made,” he says without heat. He stifles a yawn. “I had you sent to Chicago after you were stable. Doctors said you barely made it.”
I glance out the window of my room’s door and spot the back of Eduardo’s head. Then to Turi and Annetta.
“So, I’m not in trouble?”
Turi scoffs. “If by ‘not in trouble’ you mean I’m going to have you do the most disgusting grunt work imaginable until I feel better about the mess you made, then yes.”
I set that aside. Turi thinks touching a public doorknob is disgusting, so we have vastly different ideas on the subject. “What about the Chiarellis?”
“Dead. All of them.”
“And the Commission just accepted that?”
Turi frowns. “I had to pull quite a few strings. Nico and Valeria will be married immediately?—”
“Valeria?” Annetta blurts out.
Turi’s gaze cuts to her.
“I… I didn’t think they even knew each other.”
“Yes, well, somehow seeing Aceto on the verge of deathstoked the flames of Nico’s desire for his absent daughter.” He pauses, as though waiting for Annetta to object, but she chews on the news in silence. “Nico’s marriage will be good for our relations with New York. We’re also in negotiations to marry off Carlo. And the old Chiarelli don in jail—he’s been taken care of.” He sighs. “The Commission was happy enough to promote one of the Florida capos as the new, loyal leadership in place of the Chiarellis. One who will happily lick their boots and won’t encourage the skin trade like the old dynasty.”
I lean back in my shitty hospital bed, feeling lighter than I have in months. I reach for Annetta’s slender hand and rub my thumb along her knuckles. She smiles at me, even as exhaustion lines her young face and ages her ten years. In different conditions, it’d suit her, but right now, I’m aching to get her home and in bed so she can take a well-earned rest.
Turi stands. “Marisol is expecting me for dinner. You can leave after the doctor does her final check-up, and Eduardo will help you get back to the house. And, Annetta, we’ve explained the mix-up to the family. You can go by your real name now.”
Annetta sighs with relief.
“Turi,” I say. A dozen forms of gratitude cross my mind, but Turi appreciates efficiency above all else, so I just say, “Thank you.”
A rare smile pulls at his mouth. “Next time you pull a stunt like that, I’ll have you cut off your own finger.”
And with that lovely thought, he leaves.
I turn back to Annetta. She glances at the door. “Was he…?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, grinning roguishly at her. “Come here, angel.”
She shakes her head, tears filling her eyes, and touchesher fingertips to her lips. “Dom,” she says in a choked voice, “I’msosorry.”
“Angel, don’t cry.”
“I thought I’d lost you. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry I left. You were right. I never should’ve gone without telling you.” She laughs bitterly, rubbing her face into her palms. “I thought I was protecting everyone by leaving, and I almost got you killed.”
“It’d take a hell of a lot more than a few bullets to kill me.” Or to kill Marco, apparently. I shot the bastard three times, and he still had enough strength to come after us. I wish I could’ve dragged him to Turi’s basement for risking Annetta’s life, but he wouldn’t have survived the trip, and knowing he died in emotional agony is a good-enough compromise.
Annetta’s lower lip quivers. “You were lying in a pool of your own blood.”
