13 | The Butcher
SANTO
Fiorella trails two steps behind me as I head for the sitting room. Voices drift through the heavy door—Italian, warm, familiar. I glance back at her and extend my hand. “Come on, bella. Game face.”
She’s stunning—navy dress brushing her knees, hair in loose waves that beg for me to run my hands through them. I want to grab it, drag her mouth to mine—but instead I just watch her lace her fingers with mine as I push open the door.
Cigar smoke and floral perfume hit us. I clear my throat and guide her in. My sister lounges on the sofa looking unimpressed; my father reclines in the armchair like a king on a throne—even in my house—and my mother is already rising to greet us.
“Santo, figlio mio, she’s beautiful!”
She cups Fiorella’s face, studying her approvingly.
Fiorella handles it flawlessly. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Valenti.”
“Call me Beate, per favore. We’re family now.”
I settle a hand at the small of her back, steering her toward the sofa. “Let’s sit, sì?”
I drop down beside Mariangela and pull Fiorella into my side. “This is my sister, Mariangela. Mari, this is Fiorella.”
Mariangela gives her a saccharine smile. “She doesn’t look like your usual type.”
My jaw tightens. “She’s better.”
Mariangela leans back, wineglass dangling from her fingers as she sizes Fiorella up. “So how’d you two meet?”
Fiorella shifts. “At an… event.”
I give her a slow look, mouth curving. “She caught my eye immediately. She was wearing something pretty, weren’t you, amore?”
Her blush sparks heat low in my stomach.
She bites her lip and glances at me. “Santo likes me in pink.”
“Giusto,” I murmur, sliding my hand to her thigh. Right. “Though she looks good in anything.”
“And was it instant for you as well?” Mariangela asks, pinning Fiorella with that relentless stare.
Fiorella threads her fingers through mine, steady. “It was. I couldn’t look away.”
My heart skips two beats. I can’t help it—she delivers the line like she means it, and for a second I almost believe she does.
Mariangela hums. It’s a sharp little sound, the kind she used to make right before snatching a toy out of another kid’s hands. “Of course you couldn’t. Men like Santo have that effect on people.” She tips her glass, watching Fiorella over the rim. “Tell me, tesoro, do you know who you’re marrying?”
Fiorella blinks, caught off guard. “I… know enough.”
Mariangela’s smile curves slow and mean. “Do you? Do you know what they call him?”
I feel Fiorella straighten beside me. My thumb brushes over her knuckles—warning or reassurance, I’m not sure. “Mari,” I murmur, voice low, “don’t start.”
Too late. She leans forward, eyes glittering. “Il macellaio. The Butcher.”
Fiorella’s breath catches almost imperceptibly.
Mariangela keeps going, voice low and honey-sweet. “You know why?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Because he’s the one Papà sent in when he wanted things… handled. When he needed a message written in something thicker than ink.”
My mother huffs from the opposite sofa. “Mariangela, basta. Don’t scare the poor girl.”
“She should be scared.” Mariangela lifts a shoulder.
“Everyone else is.” She ticks off a finger.
“There was that man from Catania, the one who stole from the famiglia—remember him, Santo?”
She glances at Fiorella. “They found him hanging from a meat hook in a cold room. Like something out of a slaughterhouse.”
My jaw tightens. “It wasn’t like that.”
Mariangela laughs under her breath. “Sure. And the one from Palermo wasn’t found kneeling on broken glass? Or the dealer who tried to kidnap that girl—what was left of him had to be scraped off the asphalt.”
My mother crosses herself. My father doesn’t move—just watches Fiorella with the detached interest of a man watching something he didn’t approve but will allow.
Fiorella swallows, eyes fixed on my sister even as her fingers tighten around mine. She plays it well—wide-eyed, a little breathless, but not running. Brave little thing.
Mariangela cocks her head. “So, bella. Knowing all that… are you sure you’re ready for tomorrow?”
Before Fiorella can speak, I slide my hand up her thigh, squeezing—gentle enough for the family to miss it, firm enough she’ll feel it later. “She is,” I say, voice soft but carrying. “And unless you want to discuss your own sins, sorellina, maybe you should let my fiancée finish her tea in peace.”
My father’s mouth ticks, the closest he ever gets to approval. My mother is murmuring prayers under her breath.
Mariangela only smirks. “Well. At least she knows what she’s signing up for.”
I look down at Fiorella, at the pulse fluttering wildly at her throat. She feels my gaze and lifts her chin a fraction, offering the tiniest smile—fake, but believable.
It shouldn’t thrill me as much as it does.
I bend, brushing my lips against her temple, letting my voice drop to a private rumble just for her. “Careful, bella. She’s trying to shake you.”
Fiorella whispers back, barely audible, “I’ve dealt with worse.”
I grin. “Oh yeah? And what would that be?”
She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, glancing sidelong at me. “You.”
And I swear—my blood warms.
Beate claps her hands together suddenly, the sound sharp enough to make Fiorella jump. “Allora! We have much to prepare before tomorrow.” She turns to Fiorella with a bright, earnest smile. “Your family—when are they arriving? We must make the letto degli sposi tonight.”
Fiorella blinks. “The… the wedding bed?” Her face goes scarlet. Full flush, high on her cheeks, creeping down her neck.
Perfect.
My mother doesn’t notice—she’s already checking off a mental list. “We will need fresh linens. Silk ones, of course, and the lavender sachets, and—oh!” Her eyes widen. “Fiorella, cara mia, I hope your mother is bringing embroidered pillows.”
Fiorella shifts. Her voice comes out thin. “My… family isn’t—”
“—here for the preparation,” I cut in smoothly, squeezing her hand in warning, “they’re delayed.” I smile at my mother, all polite son devotion. “They’ll only make it in time for the ceremony. Flights, you know. But don’t worry, Mamma. They’ll be there.”
My mother’s face softens instantly. “Ah. Che peccato. What a pity. A bride should have her family the night before. But that’s alright.” She reaches out, patting Fiorella’s cheek with warm, motherly affection. “Then I will make the bed for you.”
Fiorella stiffens beside me. She wasn’t planning to stay in my room, but to my mother, this is the start of something beautiful. She isn’t far off.
Mariangela watches all of it unfold with thinly veiled amusement, swirling her wine. “I bet you can’t wait for your wedding night, huh, sorella?”
Fiorella shoots me a look, glaring briefly when she catches my eyes.
I brush my thumb over the back of her hand, leaning in close. “Relax, bella. It’s just one night.”
She whispers back, “In your room.”
The way she says it—nervous, breathless, with just a hint of something else mixed in—lights something dark and hungry in me.
Beate clasps her hands, beaming. “Such a beautiful couple. I am so happy. Tomorrow will be perfect.” Then her attention snaps back to Fiorella. “And don’t you worry, cara. I’ll make sure everything is ready for you two.”
----
We walk the hallway in silence, my hand still warm from holding hers. When we reach her door, she turns like she’s bracing for whatever comes next.
“You don’t need to worry about the wedding night,” I say. “I won’t breach the contract.”
A breath leaves her—relief.
“But you will sleep in my room. My mother believes this marriage is real. She expects us to share a bed.”
Fiorella scoffs. “Right. And if I don’t, I end up on a meat hook?”
I’m on her before she finishes.
Her back hits the door, my hand planting beside her head, my body close enough that her breath stutters.
“Are you scared of me, fiore?” My voice drops to something dangerous and soft.
Her jaw goes tight—and then she spits.
Right at my cheek.
I freeze, then wipe the wetness away with my hand, eyes locked on hers.
“Good,” I murmur. “I like you better when you fight.”
She swallows hard. “Don’t pretend that doesn’t make you want to hurt me.”
I lean in, mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “If I wanted to hurt you… you’d already be hurting.”
Her knees almost give out—I feel it.
I open her door without looking away from her.
She stands there, trembling and furious and so damn alive.
I lower my head, barely brushing the corner of her mouth with mine—a ghost of a kiss, nothing she can call me on.
“Goodnight, Fiorella,” I whisper. “Try to sleep. You’ll need your energy tomorrow.”
I turn away from her, already pulling out my phone. “Annabelle,” I say when the line picks up, my voice deliberately casual, “let Giorgia know I expect her in the guest room tonight.”
I let that hang just long enough, then glance over my shoulder at Fiorella. “My own room is being prepared for me and my wife.”
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The Butcher, huh? What did we think of that? ??