Chapter 9
Beatrice sat next to Montrell during the drive to her father’s estate, waiting for him to bring up the kiss. He never did. Maybe because Vespa was in the car with them, though she doubted Vespa would lift a finger to help her. The woman had been up Montrell’s ass for as long as she could remember.
She’d watched them in the hallway the day before. Watched the way Vespa had leaned into his chest, the small, playful tug on his beard. Their faces had been serious for a while, and there was still that bubble that wouldn’t let anyone in.
Back during the engagement, that had bothered Beatrice. Vespa had always been cold toward her. Had even glared at her after she’d left the room where she’d given her virginity to Montrell. There was no doubt Vespa had known what happened, and she hadn’t been happy about it. That had made Beatrice smug at the time.
Thinking the two friends might love each other didn’t give Beatrice any flash of heat now. She wasn’t jealous. In a way, it made her new husband’s lack of jealousy a little easier to understand. Montrell already had his person.
So why the hell had he married her instead?
She smoothed the red skirt of her dress as the car turned into the driveway of her father’s estate. The Lucchese name was one plausible answer. And if it was, she’d get the Coronellas everything they deserved for doing the opposite of what her father’s family had done. The Lucchese family had sent her back to her life among monsters.
She’d been very particular about her outfit for the day. No long sleeves despite the chill in the air. Only her pearl bangles covered her arms. Her shoulders and back were all but bare, the skinny straps of the halter around her neck running along the scars there, accenting instead of hiding. It was the plunging back that was the most important. Her prior husband had beaten her bloody with his belt the one time she’d run away. The marks from the buckle had transformed into white scars. They crisscrossed with others from all the beatings over the years.
Her eyes shifted to Montrell again. He’d gotten quiet ever since he’d seen her back. There was no smile today.
He hadn’t asked her about what she’d come to say to her father. There had been no talk of strategy.
Beatrice had asked him to make an appointment, and he had. He and Vespa were here beside her, walking into the den of vipers.
Beatrice didn’t take Montrell’s hand as she climbed out of the car. Lifting her hand might have let the pearl cuffs shift, but she also preferred to do it herself; to prove that she didn’t need anyone, despite what the world did to prove otherwise.
They were led inside and through the Lucchese soldiers, most of whom Beatrice recognized. Others she didn’t. All of their gazes felt hot on her shoulders. When she was young, she’d felt protected by their presence in her life. She’d felt like a part of them. But not one had lifted a finger when her abusive husband had come to collect her the one time she’d gotten enough courage to run away.
And now, she was even more nervous with Montrell and Vespa at her side. Montrell had brought very few men for a meeting that was likely going to be less than pleasant.
The two men who perched outside of her father’s favorite sitting room were familiar. They had been by her side for most of her teenage years, especially when she’d left the house. She’d practiced her flirting skills on them. It had felt safe, empowering. The younger of the two had even been the first man she’d ever kissed. It had been hot as hell to push him against the wall and make that move while the other watched. The risk of being found had only added to her excitement.
Her father had spoiled her in many ways, but he’d stuck tightly to his expectations of her purity, which had always seemed silly to her since she had known from a young age exactly how many women he fucked. Her mother had died during childbirth, and he’d never remarried. Supposedly he’d loved her mother, and that love had carried over to him letting Beatrice get away with almost anything.
Santino Lucchese had been very business-focused, and his only daughter had been raised by nannies. His forms of love were gifts, indulgences, and an unwillingness to tell her no. Or so she’d thought.
All of her memories of what had been had become forfeit when he called her husband to come and collect her instead of keeping her safe.
Business was her father’s first love. And the Albanians had been a business link he decided was more important than whether his daughter survived.
She ignored the heavy gazes of the guards they passed. In the sitting room, her father stood at the bar, pouring from a decanter of his favorite whiskey. He didn’t look much different, though the dark hair at his temples had more gray in it, and his hairline had receded slightly from what she remembered. Still, his suit was impeccable, his body muscled more out of a need for respect than a need to be strong. Three more guards ranged along the walls inside the room, there to keep him safe. Santino rarely got his own hands dirty.
He hadn’t even attempted to patch up her bloody back when she’d run to him.
Her father didn’t look at her now. “I told you I wasn’t interested in an alliance, Coronella,” he said, not offering any of them a drink. “Let’s keep this meeting short.”
Montrell folded his arms but didn’t start the conversation. His eyes shifted to her.
Beatrice took a breath before stepping forward. “I asked for the meeting, Daddy.”
And still he wouldn’t look at her. “You took something that didn’t belong to you. But it didn’t belong to me anymore either. Keep it, don’t… I don’t care.” He sipped at his drink as he moved to the couch. “But if you’re here to use it for leverage, you might as well turn around.”
Beatrice’s back straightened as she crossed to the bar. She poured herself her father’s favorite, letting the burn of the first sip loosen her throat. “And here I was thinking we could catch up pleasantly, Daddy. Silly of me, I guess.” She threw back the last of the shot, hating the taste like she had every time she drank it. “You’ve got your men here. I’ll give you a chance to send them away before I say what I’ve come to say.”
His tightening shoulders were the only indication he’d heard her. “What is your game, Coronella?”
Montrell shook his head. “I don’t play games. My only role here is as escort.” He leaned back against the wall as if he had all the time in the world.
Beatrice crossed to stand behind her father. The nearest Lucchese soldier tensed, but she had no intention of killing him. He didn’t deserve the peace of death. Instead she leaned down and whispered a particular date into his ear.
The glass falling from his hand to spill on the carpet was her reward. She straightened again, forcing her lips to lift at the edges even as her teeth clenched tight.
“Leave us,” her father choked out to the Lucchese soldiers.
“Sir?” one asked, but a wave of her father’s hand had them heading toward the door.
As they filed out, Beatrice took her time rounding the couch. She gave her father a proper view of her back before turning and settling onto the opposite settee.
The click of the door was loud in the silence.
“How did you find out?” Santino asked, pushing the words past his own clenched teeth.
“I was a punching bag, Daddy,” she said, capturing his eyes, “not an idiot. I mean, I am your daughter.” Her tight smile returned.
“The Albanians—”
“Are all but dead now.” She nodded toward Montrell. “The Coronellas saw to that. I bet you felt almost safe when you heard.”
Her father’s face tensed. “You’re bluffing. There’s no proof that—”
Beatrice forced a laugh. “Do you really think I’d make this play without proof?”
Her father was quiet for long minutes. “What’s to prevent me from killing you and your new husband here and now?”
Vespa’s hand moved to rest on her holster.
Montrell didn’t twitch.
“I understand your panic,” Beatrice said, resting her back deeper into the settee, “but I expected a bit of professionalism.” She tsked as she tilted her head. “You haven’t even heard my demands.”
“As if I’ll consider blackmail.”
“You did once before. Trust me, my hands on the reins are more delicate.” She lifted her hand from the couch, considering it herself. “Though they have been broken. But I’ve heard things that are broken heal harder.”
Her father’s gaze was almost compelled to follow the way her wrist twisted. With Montrell and Vespa behind her, only he saw the flash of scar she purposely showed him.
“There’s little I’m scared of losing, Daddy. Can you say the same?”
He swallowed, his gaze dropping. “What do you want?” Santino Lucchese asked in a flat tone.
Beatrice’s forced smile fell. “A father who loved and protected me when he saw what my husband had done to me first hand.”
His hands closed into fists.
“But since that’s not possible, let’s start with what you promised the Coronellas in the marriage contract you once broke.” Her smile returned; she could see the sweat beading at his temples. “Though I know now that wasn’t the first time you broke your word.”
The negotiations were rather simple from there. She watched while her father sank deeper and deeper into the cushion behind him as she laid out how things were going to be. Over the past week, she’d picked up more than enough to understand the Coronellas’ strengths. She chose just enough that they would be bolstered but not burdened. Her father would feel the pinch, but it wouldn’t ruin him.
She wasn’t ruthless, though she could have been. Maybe she was as weak as her husband had tried to convince her she was.
As her father agreed, she considered a different end, but her mind filled with a childhood memory, his laughter as he lifted her into the air, and his death didn’t feel right. Not unless that image faded. Or the emotion that came along with it.
“Anything you’d like to add, Montrell?” Beatrice asked, twisting to where he’d stood quiet.
His eyes were always the warmest brown. “This is about you, Bea. Whatever you think is best.”
She frowned, wondering if she had missed anything. They should have discussed things first, outside of her father’s hearing. She pushed to her feet. Oh well. Blackmail was never-ending. She could ask for more later.
As if he had heard her thoughts, her father spoke. “How do I know you won’t ask for more?”
She gave him a view of her back, glancing over her shoulder. “I’m only taking back my pound of flesh, Daddy. I’m not a monster.” Her heels clicked as she walked over to where Montrell waited. He looked no different. Not surprised or amazed or impacted at all. Just quietly watchful.
Vespa’s eyes were harder, her lips pursed in thought.
Beatrice reached for the door but didn’t turn the knob. “Once you get over your pride, you’ll find that this is for the best. Had you made a different choice five years ago, we’d all have been better off for it.”
She opened the door. Anything he could say he wouldn’t want heard by his men.
Not if it in any way could lead them to what she knew about him.
The guards she remembered well still stood on either side of the door. Beatrice walked tall, her hips swaying with the giddiness of having pulled off her plan. A sense of relief that it was behind her flooded through her, better than the heat of whiskey through her veins.
So when fingers she wasn’t expecting skimmed her bare shoulder, she wasn’t prepared, and she jerked away on instinct. Her hand came up to steady herself against the opposite wall as she tried to breathe through her sudden panic. She cursed herself in her mind as she forced her trembling fingers to stiffen and straightened again.
The sound of flesh thumping into flesh made her whirl around in surprise. Montrell caught the guard’s fist as he punched him in the face again.
“Fuck! Montrell!” Vespa snapped, pulling her guns as other Lucchese soldiers raced toward them down the hall.
Montrell was fixated on his purpose. He broke the guard’s wrist before letting him collapse to the hallway floor. His chest heaved with a breath before his gaze swept those nearest, his expression one from Beatrice’s nightmares.
His words weren’t.
“No one touches my wife without her permission.”
Vespa was the only one who had pulled a gun. The Lucchese soldiers shifted at his words, their eyes searching past Montrell to where Santino stood inside the doorway.
Her father turned his back on them. “Let them leave,” he said, reentering the room and closing the door behind him.
Montrell’s normal, easy expression didn’t return. His eyes looked harder than she could ever remember seeing them. Turning away so she could no longer see him was simplest.
He didn’t touch her, but his heat was a presence at her back as they made their way toward the waiting car.