Page 110 of The Butcher's Wife
I can’t help the smile that creeps across my face as I tuck myself into his arms. “He won’t like hearing you say that.”
Dom’s grin is wide and infectious. “Fuck.Salvatore.”
A low voice cuts in. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”
Dom and I look up from our embrace.
Salvatore watches us from a few feet away without any emotion in his amber eyes, and Marisol smirks at us from his side. She’s stunning tonight in a red gown that clings to her curves underneath her thick black coat. Salvatore looks like a mortician next to her in his all-black suit.
Another man, tall and lean with a crop of dark hair, lurks a few steps behind them. He looks so completely out of place with his hoodie, oversized bomber jacket, and ripped jeans that I reach for my purse. He glances toward me with a flicker of interest, his eyes the same intense amber as Don Salvatore’s.
“Serafina, this is my half-brother, Nico Matassa,” Salvatore says without affection.
“You’re late.” Dom shifts his body between me and Nico.
Nico smirks.
“We had a small change in plans,” Salvatore says.
As if on cue, Marisol reaches out for me. “I heard lemon tarts are on the menu.”
Salvatore turns his head to the side to speak to his half-brother. “Go with them.”
Nico makes no sign that he heard, but when Marisol takes my hand and pulls me toward the yacht, he trails behind.
“See you inside,” I call out to Dom.
He frowns at Marisol’s back as we walk away.
She leads me up the steps of the concrete dock to the yacht, her arm hooked around mine, and leans in to murmur in my ear, “They found more women the other night. Another warehouse.”
Her gentle tug is the only thing that keeps me from completely stopping in my tracks.
Marisol waves off the pale bald man with a headpiece on the deck. “They’re with me,” she says smugly and pulls me forward.
Apparently, the man recognizes Marisol by sight, because he lets us and Nico through without a problem.
As I step forward, I look down into the dark gap between the boat and the deck. I can just barely make out the glint of the icy water far below, and for one heart-stopping moment, an intrusive thought—what if I slip?—enters my mind before Marisol guides me fully onto the deck.
A server appears from the small crowd of people and extends a tray of champagne to her.
She waves him off. “Just orange juice, please, and a plate of those lemon tarts.”
A tendon jumps out in his sharp jaw, but he bows his head respectfully and retreats.
Marisol pulls me under one of the space heaters while Nico watches us from the yacht’s edge, leaning carelessly against the railing. Just one push and he’d go tumbling into the water.
I turn away from him. Most of the guests are milling around the inside of the first deck salon, but a few are huddled around the space heaters, smoking cigarettes or cigars.
Behind Marisol, the city twinkles and glitters like thousands of diamonds. She’s talking, but it’s the lake that takes hold of me, stretching out endlessly into a pitch-black horizon. Is it my imagination, or is it lapping higher against the hull of the boat than I first thought?
“What do you think?” Marisol asks.
I blink a few times, dragging my attention back to her.
The other women they’d found—she wanted to know if I could help them. She said they didn’t want plane tickets back home. They want to stay here, but they’ll need help finding jobs and housing.
“Why do you wantmyhelp?”
