Chapter 2
Beatrice should have ditched the fancy clothes. They’d fit in near the ritzy hotel and the glittering lights, though the gun she’d clutched hadn’t. As dawn drew nearer, though she was glad to have survived for so many hours, the crowds had drifted to nothing. A weeknight in Sin City was for gamblers and tourists, and even they had now found their beds.
The casino’s underground shops had closed. It was a strange thing to look up at a blue and white painted sky and know she was inside. During high-traffic times, she had seen the gondolas floating by on the manmade canals. Hiding in the brightness had worked, but now that she was the only one around, blending in became a little harder.
And there was nowhere to tuck the handgun in her dress. The dark brown waves of her long hair helped to hide it from view under her crossed arms.
She huddled against a vending machine down a side aisle of shops. In Vegas, you could get almost anything in a vending machine. This one held shoes—flat, cloth shoes that looked much more comfortable than what she wore. They were available in bright swirls of color. Too bad she had no way to buy them.
She considered breaking the glass as she rested her head against the hum of the machine, but glass could be loud. She’d once had her face shoved into a mirror. There was a scar on the edge of her forehead from that time. Her body was decorated with multiple scars.
She felt like she had in those dark moments long ago, huddled on the bathroom floor with a razor in her hand. The choice should have been easy, but there was something inside her that didn’t want to give up.
The heavy clank of a door made her lift her head. Of course there was a back way into the underground area—one for employees or fucking Albanians who had a connection in the city worth the cost of that connection.
It didn’t surprise her to see her husband’s cousin among the men now trickling into the underground shopping center. He’d been younger and had once seemed a little shy. She’d made the mistake of smiling at him when they were first introduced, and he’d cornered her in the downstairs hallway of her husband’s estate. When she’d tried to warn her husband about what his cousin had said, about how her husband was dickless and he’d show her a real man, she’d learned another truth. Family stuck together despite what they said. At least, the one she’d married into did.
The smile he flashed at her, one trimmed in sculpted, black facial hair, promised that he wouldn’t kill her quickly.
Beatrice shifted the gun from under her arms, gripping it in two hands before pulling the trigger.
The cousin used one of the other Albanians as a shield.
She scrambled for the other side of the vending machine as they returned fire. The glass broke. If she survived, she doubted any of the cloth shoes would still be usable. Her hands covered her head as she curled up as small as she could and gunfire ripped into the metal of the machine.
It would probably be easier if she was shot, but the thought made her only angrier. Beatrice tightened her grip on the gun as she listened to Albanian curses among the shots. They were drawing closer.
“Beatrice!”
It had been a long time since she’d heard her name pronounced the way it was intended to be in Italian. It had been a long time since she’d heard her name at all. For years, she’d been answering to her title of wife.
Her head turned toward the cloud-covered walkway. A large, barrel-chested man with a beard that was in no way trimmed to perfection stepped into the aisle, already shooting. His brown hair was lighter than most Italians’ and held a hint of red. Even as he began killing Albanians, his brown eyes flashed with warmth.
Beatrice hadn’t seen Montrell Coronella since the afternoon they’d spent together before their pending wedding. The half-Irish made man her father had chosen to be her husband had fascinated her. At the time, succumbing to their shared desire a tad early had seemed mischievous but infinitely rewarding. Instead, he’d gotten all he had wanted and hadn’t raised a fuss when she was given to someone else.
But now he was shooting Albanians, a decision she could agree with. Beatrice raised her own gun, emptying the rest of the clip into her distracted attackers. Two went down, including the fucked-up cousin, before the others darted for cover.
Vespa joined Montrell, which was no surprise to Beatrice. Vespa had been attached to his hip years ago, and Beatrice hadn’t expected that to have changed.
Montrell nodded toward Beatrice as her gun lowered, already empty, and Vespa was quick to slide in behind her.
The woman grinned as she jutted her chin toward the duffel she let drop off her shoulder. She wore a sling that prevented her from pointing two guns at once, which had been one of her brags years before. Beatrice pulled out a gun with a full clip, and they fired together before the Albanians could recover and focus on the very visible target that was Montrell.
“Get her out of here!” Montrell shouted over the shots.
“Fuck no!” Vespa shouted back. “We all go together, or we don’t go at all.”
He glared at her but ducked behind the far wall for cover. Vespa had to drop her empty gun and grab the one she kept strapped to her ankle, and for a moment Beatrice was the only one returning fire. Then everyone was shooting again. Even with cover, the half dozen Albanians were taken out. Beatrice hadn’t landed another hit, but Vespa was that good, even one-handed.
“Shit, you’re a lot of trouble,” she muttered, bumping Beatrice’s shoulder with her injured one and grimacing after the gesture.
Beatrice had never been sure how to take the woman. She was loyal to Montrell, worshipful even, and had never liked Beatrice much.
“Are you okay, Bea?” Montrell asked as he crossed to them.
She blinked. She’d forgotten that he used to shorten her name. Their engagement had been brief, but it had also been a time of seeing exactly who she wanted to be. She had really wanted to be his Bea.
Beatrice pointed the gun she still gripped at his chest.
Vespa lifted her gun a beat later. That was fine. She’d expected that.
“What are you doing here, Montrell?” Beatrice asked.
“Saving your ass,” Vespa muttered, her eyes narrowed.
“It’s all right, Vespa.” Montrell waved for her to put the gun away, but his enforcer didn’t move.
“What are you doing here?” Beatrice repeated. The words felt raw in her throat. There’d been a time, years ago, when it would have meant everything to see him. Now she only wondered what angle he was playing.
“Seems you’re in a spot of trouble,” Montrell said. He smiled at her. He’d always been able to grin with authentic joy. “Let us help.”
“Did my father send you?” Beatrice shook her head at her own question. “No, he wouldn’t have.” Not only could he not have anticipated her husband’s death, he wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help her. She’d asked before. Besides, he’d never respected Montrell Coronella.
The fact that Montrell’s smile faltered suggested that he agreed with her assessment. “He broke a contract, Bea. I don’t take that lightly.”
“So this is revenge?” The laugh that escaped from her was more of a snort. Her arms spread wide, and the gun dangled loosely. “Go on then. Have Vespa shoot me. But you’ll find it won’t hurt him as much as you think.”
Montrell crouched before her. He didn’t take the gun. “We’re not here to shoot you.”
Beatrice stared into eyes so different from the ones she’d grown accustomed to.
Montrell sighed as he pushed to his feet, holding his hand down. “Let’s save the whys for later. You want to get out of here, don’t you?”
Vespa finally holstered her gun and gathered the duffel.
Beatrice wanted to live. That hadn’t changed. Instead of taking his hand, she placed her gun in his palm then shoved herself up from the floor. Her body tensed as she did. If it had been her husband’s hand she declined, she would have been backhanded for her lack of respect. She never learned.
But Montrell simply tucked the gun away, turning his back to her. “We’ve got a car this way.”
As they exited the casino, Vespa brought up the rear. She no longer had a gun out, but the duffel remained open as her eyes scanned the underground shopping center. No more Albanians jumped out at them from the shadows.
The rental car was waiting in a back alley. Montrell drove, appearing somehow larger behind the wheel of the nondescript sedan.
Beatrice leaned her head against the seatback. She wasn’t drowsy. She wasn’t anything. True sky existed above the lights of the city, blue in the rising sun. She’d lived to see sunrise at least.
She never expected to be driven to one of the quickie wedding chapels. Her body grew numb as she realized what Montrell intended.
He rounded the car, opening the door for her. When she continued to sit inside, he ducked down, more than filling the doorway.
Montrell Coronella was much larger than her husband had been. The man she had married had been muscular and fit and hard in a lean sort of way. He’d been stronger than she was and aggressive—more than aggressive. When he’d stood before her on their wedding day, she’d compared him Montrell and had found her replacement groom, though more traditionally handsome, somewhat lacking.
Montrell was strong, but in a whole different way. His body was that of a burly grizzly bear, one who could probably punch through a tree trunk. He’d never worn a suit jacket like the other Mafia men she’d known, but she thought that was best. He’d look like a gorilla in one. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up and strained against the thickness in his arms. He was easily two of her, maybe even three.
If Montrell hit her, she wouldn’t be able to bounce back.
“No.” Beatrice sank deeper into the back seat of the car. It didn’t help. All she could see was Montrell. He took up that much space.
“You want a safe path out of Vegas? This is the cost.” Montrell’s gaze passed over her. He frowned, stepping back as if to give her more space.
Vespa blew out a breath in the front passenger seat, scowling in the rearview mirror as she clutched the heavy duffel. “What? He not good enough for you?”
Her tone made Beatrice’s throat tighten even more.
“He was good enough for you to say yes to before,” Vespa muttered.
Beatrice flushed, picking up on the implication. She had said yes. The idea of marrying him had excited her. He was the one who hadn’t shown up, leaving someone else to stand in his place. Of course, her father had had a hand in that.
“Leave it, Vespa,” Montrell warned. He walked away from the car, leaning beside the chapel door instead.
Vespa made a rude noise in her throat. “Seriously, princess. What choice do you have?” She shoved open the passenger door, dragging the duffel out with her.
Not having a choice had led to her first marriage. Beatrice wondered if this was really much different. She was careful to hold her dress down as she slid across the seat and exited the car.
At least it wasn’t Elvis marrying them. As the standard vows were read, Beatrice’s mind wandered. Her husband might not even be considered legally dead yet. Was marrying so soon even considered valid? Vegas was supposed to have lenient rules when it came to marriage, she supposed.
“I do,” Montrell said in his big, booming voice. He stared at her as he spoke the words, adding, “I’ll keep you safe, Bea. I promise.”
When it was her turn, Beatrice said the necessary words.
She was still wearing her previous wedding band. Montrell frowned at it as he replaced it with the one he had purchased at the chapel. He didn’t hesitate to chuck the diamond-encrusted band she’d worn before into the pews.
His kiss after it was all said and done was brief, which didn’t give her time to overthink it.
Beatrice signed her name beside his on the marriage license.
A dull feeling had taken over by the time she sat in the car again, as if she was stuck in a dream and soon she’d have to wake up.
Montrell stared down at the wedding band on his finger as the driver pulled through the gates of the Coronella estate. The ring was a little tight. He’d have to really twist it if he wanted it off. That suited him. Feeling it there would remind him he’d done the deed.
Beatrice had been quiet on the private jet home. He’d expected her to sleep. She looked like hell, which wasn’t surprising after the night she’d had. There were bags under her eyes, smudges of mascara streaking out from them, lipstick and most of her other makeup was gone, and her hair was tangled and ratted. He’d only seen her mussed once before, the afternoon he had been the one to muss her. He’d never expected a Cosa Nostra princess to not only let him touch her before their marriage but to instigate it. She’d been on fire the day she’d given him her virginity.
He’d seen it as a good sign. No way would she back out of the contract, regardless of what Vespa had heard.
That Beatrice had married the Albanian the next day made fools of them both. Her father had enjoyed telling him he wasn’t good enough for his daughter, and Montrell had taken the man’s word for it that she felt the same way, that she had asked for the contract to be broken.
Maybe she had. Montrell hadn’t asked her yet. He’d barely spoken to her at all.
His pinky slid against the wedding band. He may not have spoken to her very much, but he’d married her. What should have happened long ago was fixed now.
Beatrice didn’t look like she had back in the day. Oh, her long, dark hair was the same, and her figure was like it had been when she was younger, all ass and breasts and legs, but a tad skinnier too. There was a thinness to her cheeks that made him want to take her straight to Giulia to feed her. Giulia Coronella had taken care of him since he was a kid, back when his parents had been too focused on their own mess of a relationship that they ignored him or took it out on him.
What Beatrice needed the most was rest. She’d fucking killed her husband less than a day ago.
She’d been justified to. Montrell had read the reports. Antonio Di Salvo had found the doctor the Albanians had used. Montrell didn’t have a good imagination, but the reports were detailed. They only included the worst of what had happened, when a doctor couldn’t be avoided. The treatment needed had been for broken bones or blood infusions or goddamn resuscitation, for fuck’s sake, and reading about it had given him a glimpse into what her life had been like for the past five years.
He was a little pissed that he couldn’t do all the things he’d read about to that bastard of a husband of hers—slowly, and in excruciating detail.
It was better she’d killed him herself, but that didn’t prevent Montrell from wanting to punch something. The single gunfight hadn’t been nearly enough violence to vent his anger.
The car stopped, and he dragged his bulk out of the back seat. He wanted to offer her a hand, but she’d already tucked her hands against the skirt of her dress as she moved to slide out on her own, so he did the best thing he could do and gave her some space.
Vespa jumped out from where she’d sat next to the driver. She didn’t much care for Beatrice. When he’d decided on the rescue, she’d said tragedy didn’t wipe away a bitchy personality, but she’d come and supported him anyway. Vespa might disagree, but she’d always support him.
She slapped his shoulder with her good hand and strode off.
Beatrice was slower to approach the estate. It was like she couldn’t quite believe she was there. He was tempted to give her a tour, so that she could start considering the estate her home, but he again decided she needed rest more. He led her to the room next to his own. Giulia had cleaned it up before he left.
He didn’t close the bedroom door behind him. He’d talked with his boys before he’d left. The other Coronellas knew to give them space.
Beatrice moved past him and deeper into the room, standing in her dress, which surprisingly wasn’t wrinkled, but maybe that was a benefit of the shiny material. Her heels were scuffed but still looked amazing on her, making her long legs seem even longer.
Montrell hovered near the doorway and considered what to say.
As the silence drew out, her shoulders tensed. Beatrice turned to face him, her chin lifting, but her eyes were cold, not smoky quartz like they used to be but gunmetal gray. Her hair covered the bruises around her throat, but when she tilted her head like that, he could see them. And he wished he could go back in time and undo the sins of the butt-hurt idiot who’d let her get away.
“You expect to consummate this marriage.” Her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, as if holding herself would stop the tremble he detected. “I guess that’s fitting. I still have cum on my thighs from my last husband raping me.”
“For fuck’s sake, Bea!” Montrell’s vision turned hazy as fury washed over him. He clutched at the doorframe, needing to steady himself. His throat had to work twice before he could swallow the spew of words that were too little, too late. “Get some sleep,” he bit out instead and pulled the door shut between them.
His forehead rested on it outside in the hallway, and his hand remained clenched around the handle. He listened, but Beatrice Lucchese had never been one to cry.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t hurting. She was hurt so badly, he was terrified the pain would never go away.
His hand eventually loosened, only to gather again into a fist near his thigh. He’d been planning to sleep himself, but now rage consumed him. His tread was heavy as he headed down the stairs. Spilling blood would help, and there was always someone working against La Cosa Nostra who needed to be killed.