Page 19 of The Butcher's Wife
A few chunks of deer meat have already been packed in parchment paper—where is she getting this shit?—and the sight of that thoughtful action pisses me off even more.
At the end of the kitchen bar sits a plate loaded with a steaming serving of focaccia and a sizzling steak. A drop of condensation slithers down the tall glass cup of amber beer placed next to the food.
She stands, a hunk of raw meat in her bloody little hands. Before I can suppress it, my brain notices how the meat seems to dwarf her tiny frame and how small she’d look in comparison to other?—
“Are you hungry?” she asks sweetly.
It takes all my decades of training not to look back at the trap she left on the counter. But apparently, my body doesn’t catch the memo because my stomach lets out a growl so long and pathetic, I’d be surprised if it’s not audible from outer fucking space.
She and I stare at each other for a long moment. Her rosy lips twitch like she’s fighting off a giggle.
“No,” I grit out. If I express anything other than anger, I’m gonna laugh.
She raises her eyebrow in a way that looksexactlylike Annetta, and I don’t give a shit what her parents told me.
Serafina would never laugh at a man who didn’t want to be laughed at, and she’d never give him the look she’s giving me now. But Annetta? She loved to laugh.
“You don’t like focaccia? I put extraalicion it,” she says, putting a little Italian accent on the words. Cute, given that she can barely speak the language.
I glance back at the plate once before snapping my eyes to her.
No. I’m getting to the bottom of this twin mix-up, and then I’m kicking her out. This isn’t my shit to deal with. My stomach growls again, the traitorous bastard.
Her smile lights up her face, and she drops the deer flank on top of a sheet of parchment paper on the counter. “Sit down. You must be tired and hungry. I almost have this cleaned up.”
I don’t say a damn thing. I don’t trust myself right now, and my mouth’s too fucking full of saliva—drooling like I’m a goddamn dog. I walk across the kitchen, past all the temptation.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
Without stopping, I answer, “Out.”
“When are you coming back?” Her voice is so soft and vulnerable—it pierces my heart like a needle.
“Later.” I turn the corner and jam the elevator button to escape my own fucking house.
Moments later,I pull out onto the street in my SUV—still starving, I might add—and when I spot Mauro again, I make a snap decision. I park down the street, far away from him, and jump out of the car. My blood boils as I stroll up to his driver’s side window without him once looking up from his phone.
I rap sharply on the window, and he jumps, throwing his phone up in the air and scrambling for his gun. His terror transforms into a wide-eyedoh-shitface, his stupid caterpillar eyebrows eating up his entire forehead.
I grin at him and motion for him to lower the window, leaning a forearm against the roof of the car.
“Mauro!” I say, the moment the window’s rolled down.
He swallows dryly. “Signore.”
“How’s the family doing?” I ask in Italian. He barely understands English past the word “shoot”. “Six kids, is that right? Palermo? They doing good?”
Mauro nods, sweat already breaking out along his hairline. “Yes, sir. Thank you for asking, sir.”
Some guys eat up the kowtowing and the bootlicking, but that’s never been my style. I couldn’t care less if they respect me, so long as they do their fucking jobs. Right now, though, that attitude is the only thing keeping me from reaching into Mauro’s car and strangling him with my bare hands.
My grin widens, and I drum along the roof of the car. “Who sent you here, Mauro?”
I don’t bother with threatening him to tell me the truth. He knows who I work for. I’ll find out if he’s lying.
“Uh… the don, sir. He wanted me to help keep an eye on thesignora.”
“That it?” I exhale a chuckle, and Mauro relaxes a little. “Tell me, Mauro, you got eyes on the back of your head?”
