Chapter 5
Wrapping her mind around the idea of her newfound freedom was not an automatic or an easy thing. Beatrice no longer trusted words. She’d been burned by them too many times. At first, she considered Montrell’s talk a trap. Her husband used to trap her like that. He’d say the opposite of what he truly wanted, and then he would punish her when she took him at face value.
So the first few days after the talk, she continued to skulk around. She started by breaking the ingrained habit of spending her time cooking and cleaning. The Albanians had expected that of their women. She’d been less than skilled at both. As a daughter of La Cosa Nostra, she’d never been expected to learn that type of skill. Montrell had said that she could do it if she wanted, but she’d never fucking wanted to.
She got used to walking the property barefoot. It was easier to sneak around that way. As she peered around corners and became comfortable with her new prison, she also listened to the Coronellas.
They were a rambunctious lot. They talked shit and ragged on each other when they thought no one was watching, but it was all for show. She’d thought their gushing about Montrell was put on when he was present. It wasn’t. They practically worshipped the man as a god, even though he was a relatively inexperienced head of the family.
Fighting for his place among them meant a lot to the other made men. She overheard snippets about his father and was glad the man was dead.
The Albanians had acted close-knit, and if you crossed one they’d react as a group to support the injured party, but they also tore one another down and meant it. Oh, they wouldn’t act directly, but mistakes happened, and sometimes they let them. She’d warned her husband about his cousin in good faith, but he had turned on her as the traitor.
Beatrice had rarely gone unnoticed before. When the Coronellas did catch sight of her, they greeted her kindly. Sometimes she didn’t let them catch sight of her. After the first time in the stairwell, she never caught them saying anything bad about her. Montrell had asked them to respect her, and as far as she could tell, they did.
It was so different from the vulgar comments the Albanians had subjected her to. A few had even found her doing whatever task she’d been assigned that day and pushed against her, using their bodies until she cowered. She’d fucking hated cowering, but it was the only way to make them stop—if they would stop.
She’d threatened Montrell with the possibility she’d experiment with other men, but she couldn’t imagine rekindling that part of her. Oh, when she was younger, she used to practice flirting on her father’s soldiers. There had been a safety to it. They all knew the rules.
Since then, she’d been shown that type of safety was a lie.
It was huddled against the stairwell on the third day in the Coronella estate that she caught sight of herself in the wall mirror. She didn’t recognize her timid expression. Her cowering posture. And she hated the way she looked.
The first push out of her self-enforced prison was a shopping trip. Giulia had brought her credit cards to use. The temptation to order a new wardrobe online was strong, but that would just be another way of hiding, so she took extra pains to dress in one of the last new outfits that fit. She put on her makeup carefully, until her eyes and face looked mostly familiar, and slipped on the only heels she had before straightening her back and sauntering down the stairs.
There was an ache at the bottom of her spine by the time she reached the first floor, but she ignored it by forcing a smile at the two soldiers there and asking them to take her out.
They were a bit adorable in the way they jumped to obey, calling more soldiers to join them. The Albanians were tough cockroaches to kill, and they still permeated the city.
The multiple able bodies came in handy when her shopping trip took on epic proportions. By the time it ended, she had an entirely brand-new wardrobe, one that rivaled what she used to have before she’d become a wife.
Her first husband had gotten rid of her taste and replaced it with his own preferences, things that made her a beautiful doll with less skin showing. She hadn’t protested. The joy she had taken in her prior sexiness had lapsed by then.
As Beatrice dressed in one of her new outfits the next day, there was a slither of something as she looked in the mirror. She thought it might have been pride.
Her tastes had changed from when she’d been younger. She preferred long sleeves and only slitted hints of her shapely legs. It was easier to hide the scars that covered her body that way. The new dress hid the fading bruises on her neck but had a large enough cutout at her chest to show off the deep valley of her breasts.
She used to love the way her breasts drew men’s gazes. Her hand cocked on her hip as she studied the creamy flesh. Maybe she still did. Her nerves were too present to figure it out.
Her makeup was just as it used to be. She’d been the one to change her brands over the years. It completed the shift in herself, letting her almost think of the person she’d become as a stranger. The smell of her preferred brand of makeup was soothing as she finished putting on her face.
The new heels that cupped her feet lovingly tapped along the floor as she made her way downstairs. There were only a few guards at the bottom, who straightened upon seeing her. When their eyes flitted to her cleavage, she almost turned around, but then their gazes dropped and she forced her feet to move forward.
Most of the soldiers were in the conference room around that time with the capos. It wasn’t how things were normally done, but the Coronellas had their own ways. Their voices stopped as she pushed open the door. The stares almost sent her running. The old Beatrice used to enjoy drawing a room’s attention, but now it only created doubts.
Montrell cleared his throat, his eyes the first to move away from her. “Come on. Speak up if you have something to say,” he commanded the last person who had been talking before her arrival.
Beatrice made her way to the free spot along the wall near him instead of taking a seat. She positioned herself far enough away to study his face as he led the continued discussion, but close enough to be considered one of his nearest.
Not as close as Vespa, who was up his ass like usual. Vespa crossed her arms and scowled at Beatrice from his side, but she said little during the meeting.
Beatrice had heard all the soldiers’ and capos’ talk during her skulking phase. She let her mind wander as she studied Montrell instead.
His movements among the family confused her. She’d seen him least of all since she’d taken up residence in his home. That shouldn’t have been the case; he was the head of the family. It seemed to her that he wore all the hats—capo and consigliere, as well as being the face of the family.
It was a gorgeous face. She’d always thought so. Not sleek and sheened like the faces of most of the men she’d met, but he’d trimmed his beard and hair a little, and his eyes had a lot of laugh lines near them. He was confident and charming and happy all rolled together.
It must have felt nice to be him.
Montrell tapped the table with his palms, satisfied with the meeting. He straightened, his tree-trunk-like arms folding and straining the dress shirt he wore with the sleeves rolled up and no jacket over it.
He turned to her, his head cocked. “Anything new to add, Bea?”
Her mouth tried to seal shut. She swallowed instead, pulling a folded piece of paper from where she’d tucked it in her cleavage. She strode forward, placing it on the table in front of him and tapping it with her finger.
“The names of the men we talked about,” she said before straightening.
A smile played at his lips, making his beard twitch. “And your orders?”
Those words were easier. “Bring them here. I want to kill them.”
She expected murmurs from the capos and soldiers present, not the deafening silence that pressed against her skin.
Montrell reached for the paper, holding it over his shoulder to Vespa. “See it done.”
“Hell yes,” Vespa said, opening the paper. She was using both hands again, no longer wearing her sling. “Shit, some of these are a no-go. Already dead.”
Beatrice regretted the time she’d wasted. Her tongue ran over her bottom lip, tasting the faint flavor of her lipstick. “How many?”
Vespa crumpled the paper in her fist. “You’ll get a solid three. That enough blood?”
“It’ll have to do.” Beatrice backed toward the wall, leaning against it.
Vespa studied her, frowning. “You want to join the hunt, or just after?”
Beatrice let her gaze drop to her own body. All she saw was curves, and she felt a flash of something warm and foreign now. Her eyebrow rose as she met Vespa’s gaze again. “I’m not dressed for it. After is fine.”
Vespa nodded, waving a group of Coronellas together to talk strategy.
Beatrice could feel her energy draining, but she took a breath. “One more thing.”
Montrell nodded, his eyes locked on her. “Anything.”
“Set up a meeting with my father.”
This time the murmurs came.
“He owes the Coronellas!” The strength in her sudden shout surprised them to silence. Her own anger surprised her, even if it was what she always felt when she remembered her father’s last words to her, and she had to take a moment to regain her composure. “I’m going to see to it we collect.”
Montrell’s jaw tightened, but he nodded again. “I’ll set it up.” His eyes swept over those present, but none protested. “Give us the room, will you?”
The few men that passed Beatrice nodded as they left. Vespa was the only one who hovered, her gaze locked on Montrell.
“It’s okay, Vespa,” he said, nodding toward the door. “See to the other thing.”
Vespa’s lips thinned, but she pulled the door shut behind her.
Montrell’s eyes skimmed over Beatrice. He’d compliment her now, she thought cynically. He’d try to touch her.
His crossed arms only tightened, and his gaze dropped. “You need to know this, but I hate to have to say it. Your father didn’t support your rescue, Bea.” Montrell scowled. “He was kind of a dick about it, actually.”
Her own memories of the one time she escaped almost suffocated her. “I know that well enough.”
Montrell’s eyes tightened as they focused on her.
“I still need to do this,” Beatrice said, though her lips felt numb saying it. “For me, and for you.”
Montrell shook his head. “Not for me, Bea.”
“He broke the contract,” she reminded him. Her father had gone back on his word. With Montrell, yes, but there were other examples she’d discovered among the Albanians. “You should have killed him back then.”
Montrell stepped toward her, his hand rising and causing her to flinch. It closed before dropping to his side again.
Her own arms tightened around her body, and she forced herself to breathe. Montrell hadn’t hit her. Not yet.
He retraced his step. “The Coronellas have already taken our pound of flesh for the broken contract. If we do this, we do it for you. Not for what I was once owed.”
“I’m going to get both out of him. You can watch.” There was no longer enough slow and steady breathing in the world that would stop the chills that were racing down her arms. She turned toward the door, needing to escape. “Let me know when.”
“I will,” Montrell murmured at her back, letting her run away.
She hated that she needed to. One step at a time, she reminded herself, forcing a serene expression over her features as she raced to the self-imposed prison of her room.