Page 7 of The Butcher's Wife
Rolling my shoulders, I touch the bite mark. Fucking woman tore a goddamn chunk out of my neck. I may need stitches.
I stride to the driver’s side, get in, and drive us away from the chaos, barely sparing Turi a thought. Whatever is happening, he can handle it. As much as I hate to admit it, his wife’s a tough bitch too. They’ll be fine.
In the passenger seat,Serafinalooks frail as a bird, clutching the seatbelt and squeezing herself into the smallest shape possible against the passenger seat. She has transformed from a she-wolf back to a scared little bunny, casting doubt over my suspicions yet again. I’ve always prided myself on my intuition in any situation, but in the span of a few minutes, the woman next to me has my internal compass spinning in circles.
I drive us down the long, dark road from Turi’s house back to her parents’ house in Oak Brook.
After several minutes of complete silence, I ask again, “Do you remember what I told you in the stadium?”
I’m not the kind of man who can let something go. Used to drive my dad nuts.
“Remind me,” she says in a dull voice.
I nearly laugh. Still playing coy, then. “I told you I wouldn’t let any harm come to you. Ever.”
She snaps her head toward me, her hands still strangling that seatbelt.
“You mean that?” she asks me in an oddly hopeful voice.
I break my attention away from the road to hold her gaze for a fraction of a second.
“Of course,” I say slowly, feeling like I’m missingsomething really fucking important. “You’re like a little sister to me. I won’t let anyone touch you.”
Her gaze burns into the side of my face as she twists the seatbelt in her hands. She doesn’t say anything else for a long moment, until my patience finally frays and snaps.
I ask the question that’s been stirring at the back of my mind since she got out of the car.
“Where is your sister?”
3
ANNETTA
My hands dropto my lap.
The words catch in my throat as I say them aloud for the first time.
“She’s dead.”
Dom swerves violently, swinging the car toward a copse of trees. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“That’s not fucking funny,” he says.
I open my eyes. We’re in our lane again.
Did I imagine that?
The muscles in his jaw shift under his thick beard as he works to unclench his teeth.
“Car crash.” My voice is hoarse. I don’t miss the irony as I add, “Three days ago. Hit-and-run.”
I’m already fading, my consciousness falling away from me like sand between my fingers. There’s nothing I can do to stop it, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to feel anything. Better this fog than that pointless rage. I clasp my hands on my lap, the meat of my palms aching from how hard I hit Dom.
“Who knows?” he grits out.
“Mom and Dad. My brothers. Aldo and Junior.”
He strangles the steering wheel. “Aldo knew, and he still took you to Turi’s?”
