Page 21 of The Butcher's Wife
I know better than to disobey her, so I pull out a stool and balance on top. Conchetta’s only supposed to be getting me a single bowl, but I don’t argue as she loads a big plate with cut meats, bread, and cheese to snack on first. She reminds me so much of my own mom that way—using food as a love language.
“Eduardo said you were bringing us back fresh venison,” Nola calls to me without looking up from the delicate garlic skins she’s peeling away.
Thankfully, Conchetta brings over my plate at that moment to distract me from thoughts of the woman and the deer at my house. I just ate, but my stomach growls again at the sight.
“I bet that wife of his is hoarding it all,” Conchetta says without malice.
I choke on my first bite and have to cough to clear my throat.
“That’s what I’d be doing. Is she a good cook, Little Dom? I’m a little worried you’re so hungry after coming back. If she needs to learn, bring her here, and I’ll teach her. That’s what happens when you marry for looks—empty bellies.”
Nola nods solemnly behind Conchetta’s back, even though she’s also stunningly beautiful and recently got engaged to one of Turi’s soldiers, Camillo, and I know that bastard will never go hungry with her around.
I think of the focaccia and steak steaming off my plate back home and that cold, cold beer dripping with condensation. I fix on a grin and point it at Conchetta.
“She’s a great cook, but you know I always save room for you,bella.”
Conchetta rolls her eyes, but a blush colors her wrinkled cheeks as she turns back to her cooking.
Once I have a belly full of good food, I head upstairs to Turi, with a huge bowl of perfectly cut strawberries in hand, “for that sweet angel wife of Turi.” I don’t bother knocking as I key the code into the door of the nerd lair he calls his watchtower.
Inside, the room is cool, and a couple of skinny lamps light the corners. Most of the light comes from the thirty computer monitors hanging over Turi’s huge desk. From the opposite side of the room, about a dozen monitors hang over his wife’s desk—no, thirteen. She adds a new one every time I visit. On the last wall, instead of windows or anything that could remind you that you weren’t stuck in a dark cave, a huge network of beige interconnected cat towers threads together against the wall. Marisol’s asshole orange cat Buck narrows his eyes as I enter. I shoot him the middle finger.
Marisol hunches at her computer chair like a gargoyle, reaching past her legs to move her mouse around. Instead of the usual sixteen bags of candy littering the top of her desk, she’s got a few bowls of fresh fruit that she occasionally stabs at with a single chopstick. I will never understand why Turi obsessed over her so hard—she’s such a little freak. She raises her hand in greeting without turning to me as I drop the bowl of fruit at her desk.
She still suspects I’m a rat for following Turi’s orders at that dinner and letting Barbara take her to the basement while I saved his daughter, even though she was never in any real danger. Leave it to a woman to hold a grudge over something you haven’t done. She’ll get over it eventually.
In contrast to his wife, Turi stands in a perfectly straightmilitary posture as he stares at his computer monitors. He must have come back from a meeting because his black tie is tossed on his desk. The shape is suspiciously noose-shaped. I glance at Marisol, whose hair is messed up, and there are a few overturned trinkets on her desk.
Ugh.
“Is there a single square inch in this room that’s safe from a black light?” I ask as a greeting.
“No,” Marisol calls over her shoulder.
Turi doesn’t even blink. “How was the trip?”
“Good, I only got diarrhea twice.”
Turi’s jaw twitches, which is as close as I’ll get to a laugh from him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”
“Yeah, well, turns out there’s a whole home invasion situation going on. Why the fuck is Serafina in my house?”
“She’s your wife.”
“She’s a little girl.”
Turi’s untouched. “Barbara said she wanted to live with you, and you said you’d protect her.”
I throw my hands up in the air. “Yeah, from Junior and Aldo! But they’re dead now, so why the fuck is she with me? Her sister’s dead. She needs therapy, not another old man pawing at her.”
“You’re not that old.”
“I’m pushing forty. She’stwenty.”
Turi does that stupid, annoying thing he likes to do when he wants to distance himself from an argument and turns away from me to change the images on a few of his computer monitors. I recognize the inside of Red’s bedroom, the Capital, the street outside my house, and the camera that shows my own penthouse interior—the entrance to the elevators, the one I installed myself. I wouldn’t admit under torture that I’m a little disappointed not to see Serafina.
“I imagine she was scared,” he says. “The Family deals with instability through marriage, and the beautiful, virginal daughter of an establishedconsigliereis a powerful bargaining chip. She knows you, and better for me to strengthen the Family from within than look to outsiders. Unless you’d prefer we marry her to one of the New Yorkcapi? Nico?” A flash of annoyance crosses Turi’s face at the mention of his younger half-brother, and I have to admit I do get a little sick bubble of amusement from that. “Better for her to marry a known factor than a strange man who might disrespect her.” Turi turns and makes eye contact with me. “Where’s your wedding ring?”
