Chapter 11
Montrell woke up with the worst headache. It served him right for allowing Vespa to force whiskey down his throat. He’d always had horrible luck holding his liquor. Not that he got mean with it like his father always had, but he became pouty and needy and vulnerable under the influence, like a lost little boy.
It was embarrassing as hell.
His mind had still been sharp enough to latch onto Beatrice the night before. To plead with her to stay and help him.
Having her touch him had been the worst kind of torture. He’d known Beatrice could be passionate. At least, he’d experienced it once for himself, and he suspected that passion was still buried within her.
He’d never suspected that she could be soft and compassionate. Her low, murmured words, walking him through her ministrations, had gripped his cock and hadn’t let go. Skimming and gentle hands had dragged a needy groan from him that he’d been unable to keep within. He’d sunk to the ground to press his face and his hands into the cabinets, terrified he’d give himself away. Her voice had changed, becoming worried she was hurting him.
Montrell had a high tolerance for pain, despite how he’d ribbed Vespa, but Beatrice’s sweet breath brushing over his naked skin had been exquisite torture. He’d wanted her, the want too strong to completely ignore, but he’d been in control of it. Then she’d been the one to touch him—not to heal him, just to touch—her hand so soft on his face, that it had blown all his thoughts away.
He still shouldn’t have kissed her.
The reminder of how her eyes had looked, shocked but also slightly heavy, as if she hadn’t hated the gentle pass of his lips against hers, had him groaning in the shower as he surged into his own tight fist and came under the cold spray of water.
His back pressed against the dry part of the tile wall as his legs braced apart, but his hand didn’t drop. The chilled water continued to pound onto his cock. That and his release should have been more than enough to cool him off, and yet they didn’t seem to. Not this time.
Masturbation had been his go-to habit for years. He’d honed the memories of their one time together to a point that he’d started to doubt it had been as epic as he remembered. It didn’t matter. He’d created an ideal scenario that he could beat off to in mere minutes. He’d always had a high libido, and jerking one out both morning and evening usually softened the edges of his need. His preference was to take care of it himself.
No woman had caught his attention. Not since Bea had pushed him to the couch in her father’s study and told him exactly what she would do to him.
He bumped his scraped shoulder into the wall on purpose, hoping the pain would help ease his renewed ache, but it only reminded him that she’d been the one to put on the bandages. He could hammer nails with his fucking cock. His hand tightened, beginning to work himself from the base again, tighter and rougher than Beatrice would ever be.
She’d been so confident when she’d shoved him down to her father’s couch. He replayed his memory of the way she’d freed him from his zipper and into her eager hands, the knowing smile she’d worn as she’d brought him so achingly close. As he stroked himself, he often imagined letting her finish him off.
On her father’s couch, he’d dragged her up his body, a little rougher in his urgency than he normally would have been. He’d been eager to touch her in kind, but when he’d delved under her dress, her face had shown nerves for the first time, and he’d realized she wasn’t as experienced as she’d let on.
So he’d done what he always did when he got nervous. He’d talked. About how amazingly wet she had felt—she’d already been fucking dripping. He’d talked her through exactly how he was going to touch her. And as he continued to stroke her, her body had begun to shake, so he told her how he fucking loved that, asked her how close she was. The memory of how quickly she had climaxed had him coming in the shower again.
He forced his hand to drop away as he sucked in his breath and let the cold water continue to beat down on his sensitive cock.
It was probably never going to be that easy for her again. He remembered the panic that had taken over her face the night before, from nothing more than a soft press of lips. Picturing the way she had scrambled away and run finally softened his hard-on.
Beatrice had said she was raped. Montrell wondered if the only pleasure she’d ever experienced had been with him. He hoped that wasn’t the case.
He should have had better control the night before. He never should have kissed her, not without her permission.
Montrell half expected her not to show up at the daily meeting. Vespa was the first one there. She studied his face, and then her lips spread open in a shit-eating grin.
“Feeling guilty about something?” she asked.
Montrell tugged on his beard, not returning her smile. “Leave it.”
She laughed. “That’s what I figured when I saw you on the bathroom floor alone. She do a decent job of bandaging you up first?”
Montrell shifted his shoulders. The sting was still there, but it was nothing to complain about. “Sorry about yesterday.”
Vespa’s humor bottomed out. Her lips twisted before she huffed out a breath, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against the wall. “You better be,” was all she said as the men began to file in.
Beatrice entered the room a few minutes into the meeting. Montrell paused, but then finished his instructions. It wasn’t a complete surprise that the Bratva had been behind the hit the night before. The Russians had been going off half-cocked ever since their pakhan had fallen. They were scrambling for any type of foothold in a crumbling empire.
With the Albanians also falling, Montrell wondered if Di Salvo’s plan to unite La Cosa Nostra was worth attempting. They were all rabid wolves that needed something to sink their teeth into. It was only a matter of time before they turned on each other.
He’d say as much when he met with the Di Salvos the next day.
When Beatrice started to follow the soldiers out, Montrell called after her. “Can you stay?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
Vespa glanced over her shoulder, but there was no smile on her face when she pulled the door closed behind her.
Montrell took a breath. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Beatrice’s lips tightened. She continued to stare at the door. There was no shift in her eyes. It was almost as if she hadn’t heard him.
Not that words were enough. Montrell ran a hand over his hair. “I should have never kissed you. I broke your trust. If I can—”
“You were drunk,” Beatrice said flatly.
“That’s no excuse. There are no excuses.”
She shook her head. “I’ve learned never to trust a drunk.”
Not knowing exactly what that meant, but not liking the feelings the words raised inside him, made his hands tighten into fists under the table.
“Vespa indicated you don’t get that way often.” Beatrice’s eyes flicked toward him as if in question.
“No. Alcohol doesn’t agree with me.” Montrell grimaced at the truth of that.
“You seemed… different,” she said. Her lips pursed, and her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m not going to say I forgive you, but let’s forget about it. Besides, I…” She swallowed hard, staring at the wall. “I didn’t hate the kiss.” This last part was spoken so softly, Montrell almost believed he’d imagined it.
Only his imagination wouldn’t have said that. His throat tightened while whispers of air brushed over his bare forearms.
As the silence drew out between them, Beatrice’s body grew more and more tense, as if she was bracing herself for him to pounce on her.
“Oh,” was all he managed to say before trying to clear his throat.
“Let’s stop talking about this,” Beatrice blurted, her heels snapping as she headed to the door.
“Oh,” he repeated, feeling like an idiot. “Wait. There was something else.”
Beatrice paused with her hand on the doorknob. When she turned to look at him, her face was in its perfect mask. Her skin appeared flawlessly smooth. She’d done something different with her eyes. It made them look bigger somehow.
“What is it?” she snapped as he continued to stare.
Montrell cleared his throat. “Tomorrow I’m meeting with the Di Salvos at their estate. I wanted to know if you’d like to come along.”
Her eyes lost focus the way they did whenever her mind was trying to wrap around something.
“Giovanni Di Salvo has a wife. Even Vespa likes her, though she’d never admit it. I thought maybe—” At her sudden glare, he broke off his sentence.
“What?” Beatrice moved forward, her hands slapping down on the table. “Because we’re both women, you thought we’d get along? Become best friends?”
“She’s nice,” Montrell said weakly.
“Nice, is she?” Beatrice laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Then we’d never get along. I’m the opposite of nice.” She sighed, straightening. “You need to stop this. Is that why you keep sending Giulia to me? It seems like she’s there to greet me most mornings.” She shook her head, beginning to pace. “Having a woman to talk to isn’t going to fix me, Montrell.”
“I’m not—”
“That’s what it is, isn’t it?” she interrupted, whirling around to glare at him again. “You think I’ll open up to them. Then these women will tell you all about what happened to me. If you want all the sordid details, ask me yourself.” Her hips had an extra sway as she walked along the table, her hand trailing. “Is there something you need to know, Monty?”
The singsong way she butchered his name made him want to hurl. His mother had sometimes called him that. He swallowed as she perched on the table in front of him, and he shoved back from it so he wouldn’t touch her by accident. One of her legs moved toward him, the tip of her heel pressing into his chest as if it were a knife.
“Are daydreams of what happened to me making you all hot and bothered?”
Montrell’s gaze moved to hers as her taunt loosened his throat. “That’s not it.” He couldn’t prevent the harshness of his tone.
Her leg dropped as she studied his face. Whatever she saw there had her wrapping her arms around herself.
Montrell swallowed his frustration. “You never talk about it.” That truth allowed him to soften his tone. “You don’t have to. And you don’t have to come to the Di Salvos’ estate. I just thought a potential friend would be nice. I like Nera Di Salvo.” He shrugged as he watched her look away.
“Yeah, but you also like Vespa.” Beatrice’s tone went for flippant but didn’t quite hit the mark.
Montrell smiled anyway. “Hey, Vespa is a good friend. And I never said she was nice.” He never expected niceness from his best friend. She’d rip him a new one even as she took a bullet for him. That was worth more than “nice.”
A small smile hovered on Beatrice’s face for the briefest second. “That’s true.” She stared out the far window. The morning sun was bright as it shined through, lighting her face. Her eyes dilated as she stared into it. Then she returned her gaze to him. “Is there something you want to know?”
Montrell wasn’t sure how to interpret her tone. It was flat this time, as if just asking made her feel dead inside. “I’m never going to push, Bea. You can tell me anything you need to, but that has to be your choice.” He leaned forward in his chair, wishing he could get closer but hating the idea of it making her flinch. “I just want you to know you don’t have to be in this alone.”
He had expected the twist to her lips. He was a fool. Hadn’t he just broken her trust the night before?
Beatrice sighed as she looked back toward the window. “I tried once, you know. To not be alone.” Her arms tightened over her chest, and she thrummed with tension. “I tried to ask for help.”
Montrell nodded, though she didn’t see it. He didn’t think she was seeing anything. “You went to your father.”
“I had been beaten so badly, my husband never suspected I’d try to run. Didn’t think I was capable of it.” She shook her head. “I almost wasn’t. I still don’t know how I managed it.” Her shoulders drooped, as if she was giving up yet again. “Such wasted effort. My father called my husband to come get me. I don’t remember the immediate days immediately after. I had broken bones and a blood infusion.” Her head shifted, her gaze so damn sad as it met his. “I learned the lesson.”
Montrell didn’t argue with her. Those words would be just that, words, and there were others pushing for release. “We can still kill him. Your father.”
To his surprise, her arms loosened. The smile she gifted him didn’t reach her eyes as she moved closer. He held very still when she reached out, her hand barely touching his face as she cupped it in the same way she had the night before.
“You really are sweet,” she murmured.
Montrell was still trying to find his breath as she left the room.