Chapter 6
Montrell stared after Beatrice. She’d looked good enough to eat. He couldn’t admit that to her, or she would have run away faster.
Her body filled his dreams. He was a horny fucker despite his promise not to be. It’d nearly killed him to watch her lurk in the shadows most of the week, but he’d promised she could do what made her feel safe. The Beatrice he remembered would have sent a coy smile at his boys when she passed, expecting them to check out her assets and damned proud of them. She’d almost looked like that today, but he’d seen the strain of it in her eyes.
She was forcing herself, and he wanted to tell her not to.
He remembered how she used to talk with her hands, but today he’d watched her tighten them around herself instead. The pearl bangles on her arms were the only things out of place. She’d never worn them before, and he recognized them from Vegas. She’d brought a piece of her last marriage with her and seemed to cling to it. The reminder had to hurt, and he was worried that was the reason she wore them.
“Hey, Montrell!” Vespa called, waving her hand in his face.
He flushed as he realized it wasn’t the first time she’d said his name. “I hear you.”
“Shit, you seemed gone.” She snorted. “Pussy-whipped for sure, and you haven’t even gotten any pussy.”
“Vespa,” he warned, more exasperated than annoyed.
“Whatever, truth is truth.” She held up the list. “This hit comes first, right? Any qualms with me ending things now?”
“None.” Montrell cracked his knuckles as anticipation built. Most of the Albanians had slithered their way back from Vegas. He’d kept the Coronellas’ attacks up enough to keep them on edge and annoyed, but he had hesitated to finish things after his marriage talk with Beatrice. His delay had finally paid off.
She wanted blood. Needed it. That was a need he could satisfy.
Vespa’s hand slid over the handle of one of the pistols she carried. She carried them openly around the estate, but when they left the grounds, she would hide the dual holster straps under a suit jacket. She frowned as she rotated the opposite shoulder, and he worried that the injury was still bothering her despite her taking off the sling. Vespa wasn’t the reckless type, though. Not unless it came to him.
“No more getting shot,” he told her.
“Agreed. That sucked.” She grimaced as she shook the arm, limbering up. “It’s fine. Don’t be a worrywart.”
“I’d be shot a lot more if you weren’t around,” Montrell admitted, shifting closer to her to bump her good shoulder.
Her arms dropped, and she bumped him back. “That’s for sure. I wouldn’t have been shot by that Bratva if your big bulk would have found even a little cover.”
“I’m coming with you this time, too,” he said, letting her next shove rocked him back on his heels a little.
Vespa rolled her eyes. “Dammit. Then I guess there’ll be no sneaking around. That’s fine. A blaze of glory it is.”
“That’s how you prefer things, anyway,” he said with a laugh, following her out of the room.
“True enough. The trick will be keeping a few of them alive.” Vespa moved to the chosen capos to finalize the hit.
It had taken some time, but they’d finally weeded out the older Coronellas that had been more set in their ways. His father’s ways, to be exact. Montrell’s father had been a racist, misogynistic prick who hated his son and all women, not just his wife. Some of the capos he’d left behind had felt the same way after Montrell murdered him.
Montrell had thought they would come after him. They’d seen his enforcer as the weaker target. That had been a mistake. Vespa had taken out the men who would have targeted her in the first year. It was the ones who hadn’t been open about their disgust in Montrell appointing a woman as his right hand who had lingered.
It had always been Vespa’s goal to be good enough to remain at his side, ever since they were the outcast kids together, but he hadn’t made her his right hand out of sentiment. It was because she was more lethal and brutal than any other made man he’d encountered. That she had a heart for justice as well was something they kept mainly between the two of them.
He watched his boys following her orders and felt content all over again. It had taken most of the past six years, but he’d been honest when he’d told Beatrice that she could trust his family. He’d been ruthless in building that trust. The first twenty-five years of his life, with family trying to kill him, had been more than enough.
Now, as they headed out to obliterate the Albanians, he knew it was because each and every man wanted to be there with him. Their assault on the estate was thorough and brutal. They only found one of the men from Beatrice’s list there, though, which was a disappointment.
Vespa held a gun to the head of Beatrice’s former mother-in-law. The woman was darkly beautiful, but her eyes held no warmth. They hardened as she cursed in Albanian.
Montrell couldn’t understand a damn word of it. “I doubt the other two are here, Vespa. Leave her be, and we’ll finish the plan.” They’d factored in the need to hit the warehouses as well. That was the only way to wipe out every trace of the family.
The Albanian woman spat at him. Her wad of saliva fell short, curdling his stomach as it plopped on the floor between them.
“That cunt did this!” she screamed in English. “I told my son no good would come from marrying her. He should have murdered her long ago instead of poisoning himself between her legs.”
Vespa stared at the woman in disgust. “Shit, why wasn’t this bitch on the torture list?”
The woman screamed as she lunged at Vespa, pulling a knife.
Vespa didn’t hesitate to shoot her. The Albanian matriarch fell to the ground, dead.
The man they had tied up started cursing.
Montrell wished he could kill him in that moment, but he knew Beatrice needed the kill more.
They set fire to the estate before heading to the first of two warehouses to finish things.
Montrell had thought he’d feel more satisfied that it was over. Instead, he just felt tired and unfulfilled as he followed the path to the outbuilding on the Coronella estate grounds.
Most of the Mafia estates in their city had soundproofed basements. The Coronella estate was no different. Under his father’s leadership, it’d seen blood often. Montrell had never liked the idea of sleeping above the ghosts of those they tortured. Instead, he’d had the second house built. It had no windows, and to others it may have appeared like a very large storage building. Torturing someone for information was a necessary task. Montrell had never flinched from it, but Vespa was much better at extracting the information they needed. Her face lacked any pity while she was at work.
He glanced at Vespa as the three men were dragged inside. Like usual, no words were necessary. She swiveled toward the main estate to collect Beatrice.
Montrell stared at the men, who glared back at him despite their fear. He had a need to kill them as well, but he wouldn’t steal Beatrice’s chance to work past her wounds. To heal.
She entered the area barefoot. Her feet were pale against the stained concrete. She’d changed out of her more fashionable outfit and wore a solid black turtleneck with black slacks. The pearl bracelets looked bright against the material.
Her face appeared even more remote with her flawless makeup.
“Everyone out,” Montrell said. He didn’t have to glance at Vespa. She already realized the order wasn’t meant for her.
Even after the Coronella soldiers were gone, Beatrice continued to stare at the Albanians without moving forward.
The one closest to the door spat at her in their language. Beatrice’s face only became more drawn as he cursed her.
Vespa stomped forward, slapping a piece of tape over his mouth. “Fucker,” she muttered, doing the same to the other three. She nodded at the metal rolling table, which held plenty of sharp implements, and then nodded at Bea. “Have at it.”
Beatrice’s gaze moved to Montrell.
He read her need for him to leave, but a part of him wanted to deny the request. He turned to leave anyway. “Vespa remains.” He paused at the door, glancing back to make sure she understood. Her victims were immobilized, but he wasn’t taking any chances with her safety. She was free to do anything else.
Beatrice didn’t nod. He hadn’t expected her to. She turned toward the metal table, her hand wrapping tightly around the closest blade.
Montrell moved out of sight. He leaned against the wall, his ears straining as he waited.
The broken sound she made was barely audible, but he doubted he’d ever forget it.
Tape didn’t block out the man’s panic as the soft thudding of a knife, imbedding into his chest again and again, filled the air. Fast enough to be a frenzy.
Beatrice didn’t make another sound as she took the first man’s life.