Chapter 3
Beatrice stared at her only dress, which she’d hung over a chair in the room the night before. Her fingers brushed over one of the scars on her wrists. She didn’t like to look at her wrists. Her husband never had either. Shortly after she had healed, he’d brought home pearl cuffs that would wrap around the scars to cover them.
The cuffs lay over the skirt of her dress, the white of the pearls lustrous and gorgeous in the light of the lamp she’d never turned off. She’d been wearing them even though her dress was long-sleeved. She always wore them, even to bed.
But there they sat, one of the only things she’d brought with her. Two sets that blocked most of the length of her forearm and only shifted down a little when she raised her hands. She used to use her hands to talk, but once she felt the way the cuffs shifted, the weight made her stop. She’d mostly stopped talking altogether by then anyway. It was pointless when no one wanted to hear what you had to say.
The puckered scar was smooth under her finger, no longer a scab, but a slightly raised and discolored patch of skin. It marked her as someone who self-harmed, even though it hadn’t been her fingers gripping the blade. She’d dreamed about doing it for most of a year, and she’d thought she’d come to terms with the choice.
But panic had taken over her mind as she’d bled onto the bathroom tiles.
Her finger continued to stroke over the scar. She’d gone to bed naked, figuring Montrell would return. It was best to get the worst over with. The sheets had shifted over her skin the whole night, making it impossible not to think about her nakedness. She used to be proud of her body. Now she wanted only to cover it and lie still and get past the fear of how her new life would be.
Her time in Montrell’s arms so long ago seemed like another person’s life. She’d been wild and free and had felt loved. On her actual wedding night, she hadn’t been able to wrap her head around being with the wrong groom. Back then, her husband had been in his pleasant phase, acting almost lovesick over her. He’d touched her in ways similar to the ways Montrell had, but her body had failed to respond because her mind hadn’t caught up. By the time he’d shoved himself inside her, it hadn’t hurt much, but it hadn’t been good either. He’d said she’d get used to making love with time and had left her alone in the room. Her husband had preferred to sleep alone.
Whenever they stayed in a hotel room, he had expected her to curl up on the floor after he was done. Like a dog. She’d learned to wake early to clean up as quietly as she could. Her husband preferred everything spotless, and it was her place to keep it that way for him.
The days of learning the business at her father’s side were gone. The sharpness of her thoughts and ideas had dulled over time.
Her gaze traced the room she’d been given in the Coronella estate. It was already spotless. No cleaning was necessary. So she lay naked in the bed as the morning drifted away, her mind sluggish as it filled with the image of her husband’s dead eyes blaming her. Her small stroke over her wrist kept her grounded in the present moment.
A knock on the door made her tuck her arms under the blanket. When she failed to respond, it opened anyway, but it wasn’t Montrell’s bulky form taking up the doorway.
The older woman there had thick arms weighed down by shopping bags that she dragged over the threshold. Her hair was a riot of dark curls that she blew at as she used her hip to close the door behind her. “Good, you’re awake.” She let the bags drop.
Beatrice held the sheet against her as she sat up, staring down at the bags and avoiding the woman’s eyes. “What’s all this?”
“Montrell said his wife needed stuff. So it’s stuff.” The woman’s hands moved to her hips as she nudged one bag with her foot. Clothes spilled out of the opening.
Already Beatrice had no name. Only “wife,” just like before. When the older woman’s eyes drifted to her neck, she pulled the sheet up a little higher, hunching her shoulders.
The woman frowned, but she didn’t mention the dark bruises. “I’m Giulia.”
The name nudged at a vague memory. Montrell had flushed as he said that name often enough that she’d asked him who it was. She’d been embarrassed over her flash of jealousy when he’d gushed about the woman who had raised him.
“Beatrice,” she murmured, giving her name with the proper Italian inflection.
Giulia smiled. “Yes. Montrell has said.” She let her hands drop. “I didn’t know your size. Montrell holding his hands up was no help. When I threatened to drag Vespa along, she grudgingly gave her best guess, but we’ll see. Pack up anything that doesn’t fit, and I’ll return it.”
“Thank you,” Beatrice said.
“Of course,” Giulia said. “You’re a Coronella now.”
The reminder wasn’t necessary.
When she was only a daughter, being part of the family had seemed so much more important than being a wife.
The reminder that the woman was only there because it was expected of her led Beatrice to clam up.
Giulia continued to smile at her invitingly. Because she had to. “I didn’t have enough hands to bring you lunch, but that’s just as well. Don’t hide out in your room all day. Come down when you’re dressed and meet everyone. The Coronellas are a rowdy bunch, but they don’t bite.”
She didn’t hover too long afterward, though she offered to come back and give Beatrice a tour of the estate on the way to the dining room. When Beatrice declined, Giulia nodded and closed the door behind her as she left.
Beatrice dragged the sheet along with her as she huddled near the bags. She’d showered the night before, and her curly hair lay in heavy waves around her. To her surprise, the bags didn’t hold only clothes but also contained products and makeup similar to what she used. Not all of the clothes were her size; most were fashionable, though only a few had the long sleeves she now preferred. The underwear were expensive, sexy scraps of fabric, something that would have once delighted her but now only filled her with dread.
By the time she had herself put together, lunchtime had already passed.
Beatrice wasn’t the type to cower in her room. At least, she hadn’t used to be. That fear she hated clawed inside her chest as the click of the bedroom door filled her ears. The upper hallway outside was silent.
She should have taken Giulia up on her offer of a tour. Beatrice’s pride liked to rear its head at the oddest times. Like when it would hurt her the most.
There had been no shoes among Guilia’s bags, and Beatrice hadn’t been able to face the heels she’d traipsed around Vegas in. It felt odd to walk barefoot along the wooden floorboards. Like something she would do in her own home. She’d never had a home, only estates that men had owned and held her in. The floor was cold against her skin.
Since all the upstairs doors were closed, Beatrice headed down the stairs. She was hovering, still hidden in the turn of the staircase, when the voices reached her.
“A fucking Lucchese. As if they haven’t been targeting our shipments for years.”
“We targeted theirs as well.”
“Still. And she was in bed with the Albanians just yesterday. How the hell can we trust her?”
The words of the Coronella soldiers didn’t surprise Beatrice. She’d expected worse.
The men were leaning against the hallway wall, so she was the first one who saw Montrell just past them, a scowl replacing his affable grin. To her shock, he stomped to the corner, shoving the last soldier who had spoken into the wall with his hand, so large it dominated the other man’s chest as he held him there.
“That won’t do,” Montrell said. His head tilted, but Beatrice could only see the back of it from her position. “Beatrice Lucchese is my wife. I thought I told you all that.”
The soldier looked tense.
“You did, padrino,” the other one rushed to assure him. “You made it more than clear.”
The pinned soldier flushed. “But trust—”
“Do you trust me?” Montrell interrupted him.
Both men were quick with their assurances.
Montrell withdrew his hand. “Then that should be enough. No doubts. Treat my wife like you would me.”
The Coronella soldier ducked his head as he straightened the collar of his jacket. “Yes, Montrell. I’m sorry.”
Montrell wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders. “Don’t look like that. I know you meant well, and I don’t stay mad.” His grin was back as they turned together. “Truth is, I’m still getting used to this too.”
The soldiers began teasing him as they strolled away together.
Beatrice expected him to glance up at her. He must have seen her hovering there, which was why he’d said what he did. He would want credit for defending her.
But Montrell never glanced her way. It was as if he hadn’t noticed her pressed there against the banister.
Maybe he hadn’t.
She couldn’t help but compare Montrell’s speech to how her last husband had treated her. She’d always been the outsider in the family. It hadn’t been his men he had lectured about respect; it had been her. He’d become frustrated by her inability to curb her personality in the beginning, constantly pointing out all the things she’d done wrong, all the ways she had embarrassed him in front of his family. He’d had expectations for how a wife should act, and she had failed every one of them.
She hoped she’d fail Montrell’s expectations more quickly. Things would only settle when he understood he should have no expectations at all.