Page 4 of The Butcher's Wife
But Serafina doesn’t cry. It’s part of why I like her. She bottles up all her feelings like a good Catholic, stuffs them in a prayer box once a week, and goes about her day, no one the wiser. The last time I saw her cry, she was seven, and even then, a sharp look from her mom had her shutting down in seconds.
Serafina’s twin sister, on the other hand? Polar opposites. If Serafina feels nothing, Annetta feelseverything. That woman will cry at a sad puppy commercial or news of some estranged family member’s divorce, no matter how many dirty looks their mom throws her.
So if Serafina is crying, something is really fucking wrong.
I already scanned her over as we walked up to the house. No bruises or cuts, which tracks. Aldo’s been too lazy to hit his wives after his second wife started fighting back.
I’d chalk it up to her finally snapping—Serafina’s wound tighter than a clock—except that she caught Junior’s eye too. For all of that sick fuck’s many flaws, he’s perceptive. If he thinks there’s something worth watching Serafina for, then it could be the difference between life and death that I figure it out first.
Serafina jolts in her seat when Aldo drops his fork to his plate with a clatter. He pats his belly and pushes his chair back. “Let’s go check out your bar in the kitchen. I want to talk shop. Let the ladies catch up.”
Fuck yeah.
Just a little longer, then all hell breaks loose. Years of practice have me glued motionlessly to the wall instead of shaking my limbs around like a baseball player about to walk up to the pitch. Better to be like Barbara and have no one pay attention to you until it’s the perfect moment.
Turi and Junior maintain eye contact as they rise, their tense animosity only breaking when Turi bends down to whisper in Marisol’s ear.
Barbara jerks up with a snore and funnels out with everyone else, leaving behind Serafina, Marisol, and me.
Barely visible in the cradle of the formal dining chair, Serafina’s thin shoulders slump forward, and she chokes out a sob. Even if I don’t know what’s going on with her yet, I’m already pissed off that Aldo ignored her—or, worse, he saw his fiancée’s tears and still brought her to his stupid celebratory dinner. If Turi doesn’t shoot him tonight, I will.
At the head of the table, Marisol shifts in her chair. “I… uh, need to go to the bathroom.”
Goddamn, she annoys the piss out of me. She’s always got some scheme or another up her sleeve when all she needs to do is follow orders. While I guard over her andSerafina in here, Turi takes Aldo and Junior and shoots them out there.
“No,” I say, without pulling my gaze away from Serafina’s back. “Stay here.”
Serafina spins around in her chair, her eyes wide. “Dom?”
She’s normally more observant than this. Her eyes are rimmed with tears, and her face is all puffy like she’s been crying for a while. Hours, probably.
“It’s okay.” I use the same tone I would use with my brothers and sisters when I wasn’t fast enough and Dad hit them.
That’swhat it is—she’s acting like she’s been hurt. Just because I didn’t see any injuries earlier doesn’t mean there weren’t any.
I clench my hands into fists. Aldo was supposed to wait until the wedding to consummate his unholy union. Did he force himself on her early?
Or—fuck—I think of Junior’s attention on her. DidJuniortouch her?
I nearly forget Marisol’s in the room with us, and tell her in a hard voice, “You need to stay here until Turi says otherwise.”
She pauses. “I need to check my phone.”
She can’t help herself, Turi’s little hacker wife. She’s just like him—always has to know what’s going on.
“You want to watch the cams? Go ahead.”
She glances deliberately at Serafina, who’s following our exchange with wide, doe eyes. Marisol thinks we can’t show Serafina what’s going on? If Junior fucking touched her, she deserves to see him shot in the face more than anyone.
I jerk my chin toward Serafina. “She’s good. She can see too.”
“Fine.” Marisol scowls, pulling her phone out of her pocket and jabbing at the screen.
Serafina turns to look up at me with an unfamiliar, meek expression that has my stomach souring.
I extend a hand to her, murmuring, “Come on.”
She takes my hand and lifts from her chair, putting extra weight into my palm like she needs me to keep her upright. Dread settles into my bones. So much has been going on lately—I haven’t been watching over her like I should. I thought she’d be free of Aldo and Junior tonight, but I might already be too late.
