Page 99 of The Butcher's Wife
The girls’ faces flash in my mind. They’d need me totake it. I take the weapon and its holster and shove it in the front of my jeans like I’ve seen Dom do. And then I throw a big sweater over that and a coat for good measure.
I glance at my phone. The last message I sent to Dom was about dinner. He responded a moment later.
Dom
Goddamn angel, I’m dying to get home for a taste
Guilt prickles my skin, but it doesn’t stop me from taking Dom’s keys and standing next to the second-floor elevator.
Eduardo has his show playing loudly in the living room downstairs. Maybe he won’t hear the elevator. I press the call button, waiting for several long seconds with my lungs frozen, straining my ears to pick up any sound. Guilt burns into my chest. Dom will punish Eduardo if I leave without telling anyone.
I’ll be back before they know. Dom will understand.
The doors open with a soft beep. When I don’t hear any movement downstairs, I step inside and descend.
23
ANNETTA
I drive exactlyat the speed limit, just like Dad and Rafa do. Even so, when I stop next to a cop at a red light, anxiety bleeds warmth from my fingertips until the light turns green again.
No one’s called or texted me except for an unknown number, which I assume was Marisol, because she sent me Aceto’s address and a cryptic smiley face.
That woman has a few screws loose.
Aceto’s house isn’t so far from my parents’ neighborhood. He lives in a slender three-story building with a half dozen well-lit windows and what looks like a garden on the roof, though it’s hard to tell against the darkening sky.
I park on the street and drum against the steering wheel for a few moments.
My palms are sweaty and my heart is pounding, but I unclip my seatbelt and walk silently up to the house. The gun digs into my belly as I knock on the front door. Out of the corner of my eye, two old men walk their mini Schnauzer along the sidewalk. I wipe my palms against my jeans and exhale little white clouds into the chilly air.
Just when I start to seriously regret not calling Valeria ahead of time, the front door opens.
It’s Valeria.
And she has a black eye.
She’s done a good job of covering it with her makeup, but there’s a bright red patch on the white of her eye that can’t be hidden, even with her hair pushed forward against her face.
“Serafina? What are you doing here?” she whispers. She raises a hand self-consciously to her right eye, but corrects the movement at the last second and traces a strand of hair around her ear.
All of my grim determination flees at the sight of my friend. “What happened to your eye?”
She blanches. “You need to go. My dad isn’t here and?—”
“Valeria, who’s at the door?” a young man’s voice calls from behind her.
Her brother steps into view. He gives me a once-over and smiles. “Well, hello, Serafina.”
I’ve never spoken to Valeria’s brother, but I’ve seen him at family events, and he’s hung out with Carlo a few times. He’s got a cruel glint to his eye that I don’t trust. His black hair is perfectly coiffed with not a single hair out of place, and his button-up and trousers look like they’re freshly ironed.
“Hello, Stefano.”
“Come in. You missed dinner, but Valeria and I were just about to enjoy a smoke.”
Valeria glances toward him with a guarded look.
“I was hoping to work on the dinner plans with Valeria tonight,” I say.
