Page 30 of The Butcher's Wife
Riccardo scowls.
Before he can think of more complaints, Ettore chimes in with drunken cheer, “Mario said we’re going to start marrying their daughters.”
Russell wrinkles his nose. “You know how those girls are,” he grumbles.
Everyone grunts in agreement, even though I’d bet my left nut not a single one of them other than Carlo has visited New York.
Russell continues. “I’d want proof I’m getting a cherry with the sundae, you know what I mean? I’m not trying to catch something.”
I take a big swig of my watered-down piss drink, regretting my sobriety. I’ve been hanging out with straight-edge Turi too much. I should have been drunk to deal with this lot.
“Man’s got a point.” Riccardo points his beer at Ettore. “Remember when you got chlamydia?”
“It burns!” someone shouts.
Ettore yells over the burst of laughter, “It wasonetime!”
“Getting more drinks,” Carlo calls out among the noise and dips down the stairwell.
When he’s turned the corner, Russell shoots me a defiant glare.
Interesting.
“Dom, you lucked out, huh?” he says, his voice barely audible over the men cracking jokes at Ettore’s expense.
Looking into his glossy eyes, I realize Russell’s had a lot more to drink in the past hour than the rest of the night.
“There’s no one sweeter than Serafina,” he says. “I can’t believe her dad signed her off to you. She must have the sweetest, tightest—gak!”
I don’t think. Just act, swinging a fist into his windpipe.
Russell dry heaves over his lap, clutching his throat, while the men sit up straight.
The room falls into dead silence except for the radio playing downstairs and Russell wheezing and coughing.
I take a sip of my beer as I lean back.
Ettore leans over to Russell, who’s turning a mottledshade of red. Russell knocks over his glass, which drops to the ground with a thud and rolls away. Ettore looks up at me in mild panic.
I wrap a hand over Russell’s shoulder, and he tries to jerk away, but I clamp down harder.
“You’re a kid, so I’m going easy on you,” I say. “This is a good lesson to learn. Next time you speak disrespectfully about my wife, I’m not holding back.” I look out across the men.
A mix of fear and resentment looks back at me.
“That means inprivate, too.Il diavolo ascolta sempre.”
The Devil’s always listening.
I don’t drop Turi’s nickname often, but when I do, I make sure it’s for good effect.
“Yes, boss,” a few of the men mumble.
Riccardo scowls into his glass, but he says it along with the rest. I know that look. Every man here has fought and scraped to the top of his tiny world, and it can be a jarring realization to be reminded they’re little more than shit on the bottom of my boot.
“Ettore,” I drawl, “take Russell to the doctor.”
Ettore’s already on his feet and dragging Russell toward the stairs before I finish my sentence.
