The Butcher’s Bride

Valentina Russo killed her fiancé seven minutes before their engagement cake was supposed to be served. The first cut did not kill him. That surprised her. The silver cake knife slid beneath Matteo Moretti’s ribs with almost no resistance, disappearing through black silk and warm flesh until the jeweled handle struck his body. For one suspended second, neither of them moved. Matteo stared down at the knife buried in his stomach. His mouth opened, but the only sound that escaped was a thin, confused breath. Valentina still held the handle. Blood seeped around the blade and rolled over her knuckles. “You stabbed me.” His voice carried more disbelief than pain. Valentina’s back pressed against the locked dressing-room door. Her throat burned where his fingers had been wrapped around it only moments earlier. One pearl earring was missing. Her white engagement dress hung crooked from one shoulder, the delicate strap torn when he had thrown her against the vanity. She could still hear the party downstairs. Music. Laughter. The crystal clink of champagne glasses. Nearly three hundred guests waited beneath the golden chandeliers of the Russo estate for Valentina to descend the staircase and publicly accept a diamond ring from the man currently bleeding on her shoes. Matteo touched the knife. “Take it out.” Valentina tightened her grip. Five minutes ago, he had smiled while telling her that he knew about the missing women. Four minutes ago, he had shown her photographs of the safe apartment she had spent two years secretly funding. Three minutes ago, he had promised to drag every woman back to her father’s clubs. Two minutes ago, he had wrapped his hands around Valentina’s throat and told her he would enjoy teaching his disobedient wife what happened when she embarrassed him. Now he wanted her help. “Take it out,” Matteo repeated. “No.” The word emerged broken and breathless. His confusion hardened into rage. “You stupid bitch.” He lunged. Valentina ripped the knife sideways. The blade tore through tissue with a wet, ugly sound. Matteo screamed. Blood poured down the front of his shirt, spreading across the expensive black fabric. He stumbled into the vanity, sweeping bottles of perfume and cosmetics onto the marble floor. Valentina backed away, still clutching the knife. Her entire body shook. This was not how she had planned to escape. She had packed a small bag and hidden it beneath the false bottom of her wardrobe. At midnight, after the guests left and the guards changed shifts, she was supposed to climb from the east balcony and enter a waiting car. By sunrise, she would be across the state line. By tomorrow night, she would have released copies of her father’s ledgers to three federal agencies and every newspaper willing to print them. Matteo had found the bag. He had found the duplicate keys. Worst of all, he had found the list of women Valentina had helped disappear. Matteo braced one hand against the vanity. His other hand pressed against the wound, but blood continued spilling through his fingers. “You think this changes anything?” he panted. “Your father knows.” Valentina froze. Matteo smiled. His teeth were streaked red. “He knows you’ve been stealing from him. He knows someone has been moving the girls. He just didn’t know it was you.” Cold spread through her body. “How?” “I told him.” The room tilted. Her father knew. The women were no longer safe. Elena and her two daughters. Marisol. Nadia. Bethany, who still woke screaming whenever a door slammed. All of them had trusted Valentina when she promised that no Russo man would ever touch them again. “You were supposed to become my wife tonight,” Matteo said. “Tomorrow, your father was going to let me deal with you.” He pushed himself upright. Valentina looked toward the door. Locked. Her phone rested on the vanity behind him, its screen shattered from when he had struck it against the wall. Matteo followed her gaze. “You’re not leaving this room.” He stepped toward her. Blood dripped from his fingertips. Valentina raised the knife. “Stay back.” He laughed. Even wounded, he was larger than she was. Stronger. Raised from birth to believe that fear was the same thing as respect. “You don’t have the stomach to finish this.” Valentina’s hand trembled. He saw it. His smile widened. That was Matteo’s mistake. He saw fear and mistook it for weakness. He had made that mistake every time she lowered her eyes at dinner. Every time she allowed him to speak over her. Every time she smiled through his insults and pretended not to notice the bruises he left on other women. Valentina was afraid. She was also furious. Matteo charged. She dodged his first swing, but his shoulder struck her chest and sent her crashing into the wall. The back of her head hit hard enough to scatter white sparks through her vision. His hand closed around her wrist. He twisted. Pain shot through her fingers, and the knife fell. Matteo kicked it beneath the chaise. Then he struck her. Valentina’s cheek exploded with pain. Her knees buckled, but he caught her by the hair and dragged her upright. “Look at me.” She tasted blood. He shoved her face toward the mirror. The woman in the reflection hardly looked real. Dark hair hung around her face in ruined curls. Blood stained her lips. Finger-shaped bruises were already darkening across her throat. Matteo stood behind her, one arm locked around her waist. His blood soaked into the back of her white dress. “You could have had everything,” he whispered against her ear. “All you had to do was obey.” Valentina met his gaze in the mirror. “I would rather die.” “You will.” His hand moved toward her throat again. Valentina drove the heel of her shoe down onto his instep. Matteo cursed and loosened his hold. She slammed her head backward. Bone cracked. He staggered away, clutching his nose. Valentina dropped to her knees and reached beneath the chaise. Her fingers brushed the knife. Matteo grabbed the back of her dress. The delicate fabric tore as he hauled her across the floor. Valentina closed her hand around the handle. She rolled. Matteo fell on top of her. The impact drove the air from her lungs. His hands closed around her throat again, thumbs pressing into the bruises he had already created. Black spots crowded the edges of her vision. “You should have smiled and taken the ring,” he snarled. Valentina lifted the knife between them. This time, she aimed higher. The blade entered beneath his jaw. Matteo’s eyes widened. Valentina pushed harder. Metal scraped against bone. His hands released her throat and flew upward, but she yanked the knife free before he could grab it. Blood sprayed across her face. Matteo made a wet choking sound. Valentina shoved him away. He rolled onto his back, hands clamped over the ruin beneath his chin. Blood pumped between his fingers and flooded the white carpet around his head. His shoes scraped uselessly against the floor. Valentina crawled backward until her spine struck the wall. She could not breathe. Matteo stared at her. His mouth worked as though he were trying to say her name. Then his body jerked once. Twice. And became still. The music downstairs continued playing. Valentina sat on the floor with the bloodied knife resting across her lap. She had imagined killing a man before. Her father. One of his soldiers. The men who purchased women as casually as they ordered bottles of wine. In those fantasies, she was always calm. Precise. Unaffected. She had never imagined the smell. Copper and sweat. She had never imagined how much blood one body could contain. It covered the carpet. The vanity. Her arms. Her dress. A sharp knock struck the door. “Miss Russo?” Valentina’s head snapped upward. It was Dominic, one of her father’s guards. “Your father wants you downstairs.” She looked at the shattered phone. At the balcony doors across the room. At Matteo’s body blocking the clearest path between them. “Miss Russo?” The handle turned. Valentina had locked the door, but Dominic carried keys to every room in the estate. She forced herself onto her feet. Her legs shook so violently she nearly fell. “Just a minute.” Silence answered her. Then the unmistakable scrape of a key entering the lock. Valentina crossed the room and dragged Matteo’s pistol from the holster beneath his jacket. Her hands were slick with blood, and she almost dropped it. She had fired a gun before. Her father insisted all his children learn. He had told her a Russo should never be helpless. She wondered whether he would regret that lesson before the night ended. The lock clicked. Valentina raised the pistol. The door opened three inches. Dominic looked inside. His gaze moved from Valentina to Matteo’s body. His expression did not change. He slowly pushed the door wider. Valentina aimed at his chest. “Do not come in.” Dominic looked at the gun, then at the knife in her other hand. “Your father said you might cause trouble.” Her stomach dropped. Matteo had been telling the truth. “How many men are outside?” “Enough.” “I’m leaving.” “No, you’re not.” Dominic reached beneath his jacket. Valentina fired. The gunshot shattered the music below. Dominic jerked backward. The bullet struck high in his shoulder, spinning him into the hallway wall. Screams rose from the party. Valentina ran for the balcony. She stepped over Matteo’s body, slipped in his blood, and caught herself on the vanity. Behind her, Dominic shouted for the guards. Footsteps thundered toward the dressing room. Valentina reached the balcony doors. Locked. She pulled at the latch. It would not move. Her father had sealed them. Of course he had. The bedroom door slammed fully open. Two guards entered with guns drawn. Valentina turned, raising Matteo’s pistol. “Put it down!” one shouted. She fired first. The bullet struck the wall beside his head. Both guards returned fire. The vanity mirror exploded. Valentina dropped behind the chaise as glass rained over her hair and shoulders. Bullets tore through upholstery, spraying feathers into the air. The pistol clicked empty. She had not checked the magazine. Her father’s men spread through the room. Valentina curled her fingers around the knife. She would not be dragged downstairs. She would not allow her father to parade her before the guests and explain away Matteo’s death. She would not tell him where the women were. The first guard rounded the chaise. Valentina surged upward and buried the knife in his thigh. He screamed and struck her across the face with the back of his gun. She fell. The knife slipped from her hand. The guard raised his weapon and aimed between her eyes. A second gunshot cracked through the room. Blood and bone burst from the side of his head. His body collapsed across Valentina’s legs. For one stunned moment, no one moved. Then gunfire erupted in the hallway. Not two or three shots. Dozens. Men shouted downstairs. Guests screamed. Glass shattered. The music stopped abruptly, replaced by the violent rhythm of automatic weapons. The surviving Russo guard turned toward the door.