Page 104 of The Butcher's Wife
"What didyoudo?”
Of course, I know exactly what she did. I had a nice, longchat with Turi about his wife's decisions, which fell on deaf ears. He’ll never accept criticism of hisperfectwife.
“I went out,” she says.
“Go home, Eduardo,” I grit out. “Mommy and Daddy need to have a little chat.”
“Yes, sir.” Eduardo exhales, giving us a wide berth as he runs to the elevator.
“What happened to his hand?” Annetta snaps once the elevator doors shut behind her.
I’m torn between grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her until some sense falls into that pretty head of hers and cradling her against my chest and making her swear never to leave without telling me again.
So, I act like a jackass instead.
“Youhappened. You left without telling anyone except your new best friend, Marisol. When I came home to a guard who had no idea you had left, I had to take matters into my own hands."
"What doesthatmean?" she asks with deadly slowness.
“That means I cut off two of his fingers. One for each hour you were missing."
Which I know she’ll disagree with, but I was incredibly generous. If he's smart, he'll run his ass to the Family doctor and get them sewn back on, and if not, I hope he's at least smart enough to have learned his lesson. I don't give a shit if she cuts into the glass window like a goddamn international spy and belays down the side of the apartment building—there's no fucking excuse for letting her out of his sight.
“That's horrible.”
I give her my most roguish grin, the kind that usually has men clutching their rosaries and whispering their final prayers. Blood smudges my hand as I cup her face in mypalms, and she glares up at me without blinking or pulling away.
I’ve always liked that she’s never been afraid of me, but right now, I could use a little fear. She needs to understand she can never do this again—that she can’t make me go through this. How the fuck will I ever be able to focus if I have to worry that she’s going to run out of the penthouse and get herself hurt at any moment?
“Who the fuck did this to you?” I ask as softly as I can while my wife’s blood mars my skin.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” When she doesn’t give me an answer, I lower myself until we’re almost eye level. “Annetta, if you don’t tell me, I’m going to kill everyone in that house. I need a name, angel.”
Her eyelashes flutter.
“Lasso,” she breathes.
I file that name away. I know a Lasso who hangs out with Aceto’s kid. I’m about to dump a can of gasoline on him and burn that little shit alive.
Annetta grips my wrists like she’s reading my mind. “Dom, you shouldn’t have done that with Eduardo. He didn’t deserve that.”
“And you shouldn’t have gone to Aceto’s.” I meet her gaze so she knows I mean every word. “But you leave the house, and your lapdog might shit on the rug.”
She scowls, twisting her face to wipe her blood on my palm like she’s a cult leader marking me as her disciple. Heat travels south. I crowd her, inhaling her sweet shampoo and the metallic scent of her blood. My neck throbs. For all her baked bread and soft smiles, this is the woman who bit me hard enough to leave a scar.
“I’m not responsible for what you do when I leave,” shemurmurs defiantly. She looks so fucking beautiful with her wild, golden hair framing her furious gaze.
Anticipation thrums through me, but for what? A fight?
I don’t want to fight with her. I want her safe, alive, and happy. The rest doesn’t matter.
I cup her waist, my thumb brushing against the bulge of her holster tucked in her pants, and drag us together until our bodies melt together. I rest my cheek on the top of her head.
“Yeah, I know.” I glance at our homemade gun range, where she’s worked on her shooting more than I’ve seen anyone practice. “Do you feel better at least?”
Finally, her arms come to circle my waist. Her head rests against my chest. “I do.”
