Chapter 16
Montrell was in a good mood the next day. Too good of one. He was annoyingly chipper all through the meeting with the capos and their top men.
It made Beatrice want to drag his slacks down and close her mouth around him. She felt a throb when she imagined doing just that with all the men still there, and she frowned at the familiar sensation. She didn’t think she would feel throbs without direct stimulation.
Her thoughts had made her miss the last decision being discussed. Honestly, she’d paid very little attention to the business talk at all. She folded her arms over her chest, the sudden brush against her nipples reminding her of Montrell’s interest in them the night before. That cooled her off.
The lush slopes of her breasts looked creamy and flawless.
The rest of them held all the healed scars of where her husband had liked to slice at them each time he accused her of flirting.
Like she’d ever wanted to flirt with any of the Albanians, even if the egotistical pricks had always claimed she had. Whenever her mind wandered, her husband had thrown accusations at her about who had caught her attention.
Her prior husband, she reminded herself, focusing on Montrell and realizing all over again that she hadn’t been paying attention.
“It’ll be fine, Vespa,” Montrell was saying, waving off his best friend.
Vespa flopped back against the wall. Her lips thinned as she pressed them together, watching the men filter out of the room.
For Vespa to disagree before they were alone, she must have felt strongly about her opinion. Beatrice had noticed she normally waited until after a meeting if she needed to give Montrell a hard time.
She bit her own lip, tasting a hint of her chalky lipstick. She didn’t like the flavor and reminded herself to ditch it later as she tried to come up with a way to admit she had missed the decision without admitting it.
Montrell would be angry. Her hands twisted as she began to imagine the worst, and then her breathing eased. She couldn’t picture Montrell angry with her.
Of course, she hadn’t given him a reason to be. If—
“You need to stop this, Montrell,” Vespa said. Beatrice hadn’t thought she’d be relieved to hear Vespa talk, but her own thoughts slowed at the other woman’s voice.
The door had already clicked shut behind the men. Montrell leaned back in the cushioned chair, his arms raised over his head in a stretch. “You worry too much.”
“You don’t worry enough!” Vespa jabbed a finger in Beatrice’s direction. “We don’t even know what she has over her father! What if it all goes south?”
Beatrice swallowed. “This is about my father?”
Vespa glared. “Weren’t you paying attention?”
Her hands clenched together beneath the table. “I—”
“Enough, Vespa. It’s my decision. Don’t take your frustration out on Bea.” Montrell swung the chair a little. “Besides, the possibility of things going bad is exactly why I want to be there.”
Vespa threw up her hands. “Fine! But if you get hurt again, I’m pouring a whole bottle of whiskey down your throat.” She stomped to the door, making a point of slamming it behind her.
Beatrice tried to flip through what she had heard. “Was the argument really about my father?”
Montrell’s chair froze in its swing. He leaned forward, his hand bracing against the table near her. “Were you really not paying attention?”
Her mouth went dry as she stared down at his flattened hand.
He scooted his chair closer to the table, dipping his head. “Is it okay if I believe it was thoughts of last night filling your mind?” His normally cheerful smile had a playful tilt to it.
Beatrice was able to breathe again. “You’re not mad?”
He blinked. “Mad?” His smile dropped as his eyes heated. “If you really were daydreaming about an orgasm, I might just come right now.”
Heat filled her cheeks as she licked her lips.
His eyes followed the gesture, but he jerked back as if he had been zapped. “Sorry. No sex talk outside of when you come to my room. This isn’t pressure, I was just—”
She darted forward, the motion too quick to line up properly. Her lips got more beard than lips, and she pulled back.
Montrell looked stunned.
Beatrice moved forward again, sliding her lips over his properly this time. She didn’t linger, not over the kiss, but she liked the way his beard tickled her fingers when she cupped his cheek after. “Sorry to disappoint,” she murmured.
“I’m not disappointed.” He held completely still as she caressed him, his eyes so wide and warm. “But I should warn you, keep touching me like that and I’ll go to my room and do some daydreaming myself.” His smile became a little strained when her hand immediately dropped. He cleared his throat, then surprised her by laughing. “Vespa would be relieved if I went to my room.”
Beatrice’s fingers itched, and she almost brought them to his face again. “So you’re going to another drop?” Vespa was only upset when Montrell was reckless. “One on my father’s route?”
Montrell nodded. Instead of rising, he shifted closer to the table. “Yeah. Don’t worry, he’s not supposed to be there. I won’t kill him and ruin your revenge.” He suddenly wasn’t smiling at all. “But eventually, Bea? He needs to bleed.”
She shook her head. “He’s my father.”
“He lost the privilege of that title when he refused to protect you.” Montrell ran a hand over his cap of hair. “But I understand. It’s amazing to me that you can see any good in him.”
He thought too well of her. She wanted her father to suffer, not be saved.
“I won’t do anything, don’t worry,” he said, trying to reassure her. “Even if he shows up.”
Montrell was going to the front lines again. To oversee her own changes to his business.
“I’d like to come,” Beatrice admitted.
He studied her face. “Shit, you are worrying. I told you—”
“I’m not worried about my father. It’s a part of the business I’ve never seen firsthand.” And she could be there if anything did go wrong with her father. She’d be there to threaten him in person.
The memory of patching Montrell up after the last drop rose, and her stomach twisted.
Montrell hesitated, then nodded. “I told you. You can do anything you want.” But his brow furrowed, as if he didn’t like it. “We’ll bring more of our guys. Maybe then Vespa won’t kill me.”
Beatrice pushed to her feet. “Like Vespa would ever hurt you.”
His eyebrow lifted. “You don’t know Vespa very well. Death, that’d be too much, but she loves to punish me.”
She expected him to smile when he said it, but Montrell was looking much too serious. She moved to the door, placing her hand on the knob before she glanced back at him.
“You were wrong, you know,” she said, unable to smile under the weight of her nerves.
Montrell blinked, his head tilting. “Wrong about what?”
“It wasn’t thoughts of my orgasm distracting me.”
He flushed. “I know. I’m—”
“Montrell!” she snapped, not wanting to hear an apology again. An apology would underline how broken she was. When he winced, she took a breath and forced the truth out. “I was picturing putting my mouth on you while your men watched.”
His face burned redder as his eyes narrowed. “Fuck, Bea,” he groaned, letting his head thump down to the table. “You make me so fucking hard.”
She jerked the door open, feeling the same throb as before.
“Close it behind you,” he said, sounding almost breathless.
She did, her flight instinct kicking in. She would need her gun if she was going with them anyway.
When she pictured his hand wrapping around his erection right there in the conference room, she felt another delicious throb, and the tempo of her clicking heels increased as she ran away.
Vespa got into the car last, and her glare turned sharp when she found Beatrice seated inside. “There’s no fucking way this is a good idea!”
“We’re bringing more men,” Montrell defended his choice, looking out the window.
Beatrice was already looking out the window as well, as if the conversation didn’t apply to her.
Vespa blew out a breath. “You better seriously pay attention this time,” she muttered, hunching into herself as they headed out.
Montrell had told himself the same. Multiple times. He still felt like ants were crawling along his arms. Beatrice had come onto him in the conference room, painting a picture that almost made him cream his pants.
That she was now pretending he didn’t exist let him draw in a full breath. He tugged on his beard, but even that made him think of how Beatrice liked to cup his cheek over it. He pulled harder, letting the pain come.
“Are we expecting trouble?” Beatrice asked. Her crossed legs looked even longer in her silky dress pants than they did in a dress. The boots she’d switched into were closed-toe but still high-heeled, gold, and flashy. The reminder that she’d gone shopping with his money let him smile and relax.
“I wouldn’t have let you come if I was worried,” Montrell said.
Beatrice frowned. “I can handle myself.”
Vespa’s fingers stopped tapping her arm. “That’s true. You were shooting the Albanians in that mall when we arrived. Clipped a few of them yourself.” She studied Beatrice’s jacket. “And you’re carrying the piece I gave you.”
Beatrice’s hands clasped together in her lap as she continued to stare out into the sunshine. “It’s not like I trust my father, but he acts in his own best interests. That includes cooperating with us for now.”
“And when that changes?” Vespa asked.
It was Montrell Beatrice looked at. “We kill him,” she said.
Montrell hoped the day would come sooner rather than later. He hadn’t been lying about wanting the man’s blood, even if it was a little hypocritical. He’d had his own hesitation over the decision to kill a parent.
Some might have thought that midday was a strange time for the Mafia to do business. In Montrell’s experience, daylight hid more dealings than the moon ever could. Especially at the port, where everything ran on shipping schedules.
As they made the exchange, Montrell gave Vespa a look. She didn’t like it, but she shifted slightly to place herself behind Beatrice instead. Beatrice stayed beside him as the exchange was completed. Montrell let his capo remain in charge. He’d been feeling antsy, but he didn’t need to take the lead.
Santino Lucchese wasn’t present, not that Montrell had really expected him to be. He had plenty of soldiers to handle drops like these.
It was when they were heading back toward the car that Montrell started feeling squirrelly, like fingers were pinching at his neck. He pushed Beatrice with his arm, moving her down a separate path, through plenty of stacked containers with varying degrees of rust.
“Vespa?” he murmured.
She separated from them with half the crew to circle around.
Beatrice’s hand slid inside her jacket, but she didn’t pull her gun. She remained quiet.
Montrell hadn’t seen anything, but he trusted his instincts. Something wasn’t right. He hesitated, motioning for the capo in charge to continue down the normal path. If he’d been alone, he would have taken that position because it was the most dangerous one—a point which Vespa often told him was stupid, but each man who worked for him was family.
Their lives were important too.
Besides, Montrell was a very visible target with his bulk, one that drew out the rats.
It didn’t surprise him when gunshots rang out, but it still infuriated him. He couldn’t see a goddamn thing hunkered among the containers.
Beatrice’s hand clasped his arm. “You can go to them.”
He shook his head. “Vespa will take care of it.” That was true enough. It was just too damn bad that he wanted to punch something.
Beatrice pulled her gun free. “I want blood. Especially if my father is behind this.” She stalked down the path Vespa had taken.
Montrell scrambled after her. “Don’t be reckless,” he warned her, but he fell into step beside his wife. He’d never hold Beatrice back. He’d only protect her. The choice made his nerves settle as they drew closer to the racket.
He and his men were focused on the path forward and behind. A creak of metal had his gaze lifting instead.
It wasn’t one of La Cosa Nostra like he’d been suspecting. The dark-haired Albanian looked furious as he pointed his gun down from atop the storage container.
Beatrice shot him first.
Montrell stepped in front of her, crowding her toward the container behind them as the first man fell. His gaze flicked as he pulled his own Glock. That it was the Albanians made his fists want flesh even more, but that wasn’t practical in a gunfight.
His shot added more resounding ricochet to the aisle they were in, a din his men added their own fire to. They didn’t give the cowards a chance to take advantage of the high ground. There weren’t that many of them, and the Albanians soon realized they were outnumbered and that their element of surprise had faded.
“I don’t like this position,” Montrell admitted, and Beatrice nodded as she shifted forward with him. She leaned against his back for purchase as she fired again, this time lower to the ground. “Idiots,” she muttered as another Albanian died. She pulled her clip. “I’m out.”
“Back pocket,” Montrell told her, keeping his own gun up.
Her hand got busy. “You put it there on purpose.”
Montrell was surprised into laughing. “I didn’t plan this.”
He heard the slap of the new clip being forced in. “Just hopeful then.”
“Well, maybe that.” They moved together for the rest of the path.
The shooting near the car had already stopped. Vespa looked more irritated than thankful that they had arrived. “Fucking Albanians,” she muttered, spitting on the nearest corpse. “This crew must have been recovering in Vegas for it to take them this long.”
There were too many places where more could be hiding. Besides, while business was fine during the day, the sounds of gunshots would draw unwanted attention.
“Round up the crew,” Montrell told his men, waving Beatrice toward the car.
“On it,” Vespa said. “We were just waiting for you.”
Beatrice’s attention continued to shift around the area, on the lookout for another attack as she moved to open the car door. At least she wasn’t one to argue about safety. Montrell followed close behind, close enough to hear the Albanian curses that spewed from inside the car as Beatrice froze.
He lunged for her, using his bulk to get between her and the car as a gunshot sounded, somehow louder than any of the others he’d heard before.
Fire blazed along his shoulder as the car window shattered, and he could do nothing but panic.
Beatrice was calmer than he was. Her gunshot resulted in the Albanian’s pained cry.
“Goddammit, Montrell. I only got his arm because you jostled me.”
His hands were on her, checking for blood. “Were you shot?”
Beatrice’s palm was so warm when it pressed over his beard. “You were the one shot, you idiot.”
But it had been close. Too close. “Get back,” he snapped, ducking into the car and grabbing the Albanian right over his gunshot wound as he dragged him out, letting him fall to the asphalt.
“Fucking cunt!” the man screamed, looking at Beatrice. “You—”
Montrell punched him. The man’s tooth cut his knuckles, but he didn’t give a shit as he punched again and again.
He was going to make the man a fucking smear on the concrete.
By the time Vespa pulled him off, he’d about accomplished it. It was a pity the now-unrecognizable man was still breathing.
“Fuck, Montrell,” Vespa muttered, her arm tightening around his chest to keep him still.
His eyes moved to find Beatrice. She wasn’t staring at him in horror. No, she was staring down, unblinking, at the man who had almost shot her. He hated that he couldn’t read any emotion on her face.
Montrell nodded to the gun clutched in her hand. “Take his last breath.”
Her hand tightened, and her head shifted so she could stare at him instead. “I shouldn’t.” She licked her lips. “He’s related to my husband. A cousin.”
“No.” Montrell wished he’d learned to talk softly, but he never had, and his voice was a growling shout. “I’m your husband.”
Her eyes closed. “I know.” He could barely hear her whisper. When her eyes opened, they looked like cloudy water. “I meant the police—”
“Won’t fucking find him. He no longer exists. Kill him if you want.”
Beatrice didn’t question him again. Her gun held steady as she pointed it at what remained of the man’s face. And then she pulled the trigger.
Montrell moved to her side to take her gun. Only then did he realize how bloody his own hands were. He touched her as little as he had to.
She gazed back at him. When she leaned up, her lips brushed over his in the softest of caresses.
He jerked away. “Don’t.” He shook his head as he backed up. When her face grew even more remote, he felt even worse, but he didn’t deserve her kisses. He hadn’t protected her.
“Montrell!” Vespa called, lowering herself toward the body. Sirens could be heard in the distance.
“Get in the car,” he told Beatrice, relieved when she obeyed and no disaster followed this time. He had quite the mess to clean up.