Chapter 10
Montrell got an earful from Vespa about almost getting them all killed at the Lucchese estate. He didn’t disagree. If he hadn’t been so angry at himself for not preventing the guard from touching Beatrice in the first place, he might have been able to rein in his temper better. He doubted it, though. He’d been revved up ever since he’d seen her bare back.
The number of pale scars crisscrossing her flesh had made the red fabric of her dress burn his eyes. The reports he’d gotten had painted a picture of broken bones and blood infusions. The evidence she’d displayed for all to see showed instead the toxicity of what her daily life had been.
He could still hear her voice, almost toneless, as she’d said point blank that she’d been raped.
When she’d once given herself to him, she had been carefree and confident, completely owning her sexuality.
The cold woman who’d slowly stripped her father into a sniveling mess had been a different kind of compelling.
Montrell hadn’t known she had once run to her father. At least, that was the impression he had gotten from the discussion he’d witnessed. There was a lot he didn’t understand, like what the hell the daughter had over the father, but she’d said he’d seen what had happened to her firsthand.
Montrell’s mother had run back to her family, too, but they had protected her when she did. Montrell couldn’t understand how anyone could do the opposite.
At his estate, Beatrice hadn’t worn anything quite as revealing as what she’d chosen for her father. Oh, all of her outfits were sexy as hell, but they tended to cover her back and arms while accentuating the valley between her breasts and her gorgeously long legs. Her legs made her seem taller than she was, especially in the stab-something heels she preferred.
No, her clinging dress when she’d visited her father had been meant to reveal her scars.
He suspected some of her injuries had been dripping blood the last time she’d been among the Lucchese.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d started a war by breaking the one soldier’s wrist.
The Lucchese family never retaliated. Instead, the Coronellas had been making money hand over fist in the weeks since they’d used their newfound resources.
Beatrice had often been present during the business discussions back when they were engaged. She had said little during the meetings, but he’d seen her bite her lips. When she’d tackled him in the sitting room she’d chosen for their shocking interlude, her lipstick-covered lips had whispered business suggestions, things to ask her father for.
It had only made her hotter, but Montrell’s focus had been on not coming in his pants at the time.
Even back then, she’d understood the business side of things. Probably because she’d adored her father and had been at his side. How often, Montrell didn’t know; he’d only been around a bit toward the end.
He couldn’t understand how Santino Lucchese could have sent his own daughter back into hell if she really had run to him while broken and bleeding. When Montrell had called the man after receiving reports of what life had been like for Beatrice, the Lucchese family had made their position more than clear. They’d refused to join him on his trip to Vegas, but Montrell had thought that was because they hadn’t wanted to align with the Coronellas.
Thinking about it again made Montrell want to punch something. His fists clenched under the table as one of his capos finished outlining the next steps to shore up a new opportunity they’d taken now that the Albanians were gone. It sounded like it might get bloody.
Just what he needed. “I’ll join your crew,” Montrell told the capo, whose eyes widened before he nodded his acceptance.
Vespa’s glare dug into his back, but Montrell knew she wouldn’t speak up. At least not while their capos and soldiers were around.
She’d give him hell in private, though. It didn’t matter. He needed to kill something.
Beatrice’s lips pressed together. His gaze flicked to her, wondering if she would voice dissent. She’d started coming to every meeting, but just as she’d done in her father’s meetings, she never said a word.
He wanted to call her out on it, but he was worried about putting her on the spot as well. He just wanted to hear her voice.
In the weeks that had passed since their visit to her father, she’d become like a wandering ghost. She didn’t stick to her room very often, but she also didn’t seem to know quite what to do with herself.
He hadn’t seen her pounce on any of his men either. Not that he’d wanted to see that. He’d found words to explain the situation to his men. Probably not the right ones, but hell, were there any right ones to explain that he’d pimped them out to his wife? They understood they were to treat her with respect, to never, ever hurt her, and to not be the ones to instigate anything. That was enough.
Only she barely seemed to look at them. Not even to flirt. As he watched her file out of the room with the others, he wondered how he could help her. He was still struggling with what to do while Vespa lectured him on how, as boss of the family, he shouldn’t be on the front lines.
The distracting worry continued to consume him as he joined the crew that night. It made him less than focused when their drop was hit and the bullets began to fly, causing Vespa to put herself in front of him to protect him once again.
He was the worst friend ever.
Beatrice didn’t pace the hallway. That would be uncomfortable as hell in heels. Besides, it wasn’t like she was worried. She wasn’t fool enough to worry about a husband who couldn’t act like the boss he’d become. What did it matter if she was widowed again? Then she’d finally be free to live a life away from La Cosa Nostra.
She couldn’t imagine that type of life, though. In the past few weeks, the business side of the Coronella family had become the only thing that could get her out of her own head.
When Montrell had first talked to her about what their marriage was to be like, she hadn’t believed him. Telling someone to do whatever they wanted would only work until what she chose to do began to annoy him. Maybe not even that long.
But the few things she’d asked for had been given to her without argument. She’d gotten revenge, both on her first husband’s family and on her father. She’d even kissed someone besides Montrell. He’d not only not been angry, he’d told the man to go back and kiss her again.
She didn’t want that. She didn’t want anyone to touch her. Montrell hadn’t once pushed to enter her bedroom. He’d even almost ruined the forced alliance she’d set up with the Lucchese when one of her father’s men had barely touched her—a man she’d been more than happy to let touch her once before, back when she was na?ve and didn’t recognize the vulnerability that came with it.
Montrell had been honest and frank with her. It had taken her a while to realize that there was no hidden meaning in his words. Beatrice really could do exactly what she wanted.
It was just too damn bad that she had no idea what that was.
The vast emptiness inside of her was more proof of what she’d become. She couldn’t imagine anything that would make her happy.
Happiness was only an illusion anyway, temporary moments that faded and twisted as she thought back on them.
She preferred not to think at all. To focus only on what she could control.
Business was easy to control.
The Coronellas were an odd family. Montrell didn’t have a consigliere. It was more like he had that position, though he was more reactive and action-oriented than relationship-based. Strangely, that made others seem to like him. Montrell was the only person she knew who said exactly what he meant, with no hidden agenda.
It was confusing as hell.
He should have returned to the estate by now. The task the family was taking care of tonight wasn’t particularly dangerous, not any more than normal. There was always danger—it wasn’t as if they were in the cupcake business—but the danger should have been minimal. The heaviest arm of the Coronellas was weapons. The ones they were intercepting that night were highly coveted—impossible to trace and easy to move.
All that had been necessary tonight was presence and muscle. Montrell hadn’t needed to be the muscle, but he’d jumped on the chance to offer his help. She didn’t understand his desire to be with his men on the front lines.
When the voices of the men drew her to the front door and she saw him leaning heavily against Vespa’s shoulder, she realized why she couldn’t understand him. It was because he was an idiot.
“Dammit, you’re heavy,” Vespa muttered, forcing them forward together. “Walk, you giant moron.”
“I’m walking,” Montrell mumbled back, but his feet fumbled along the floorboards instead of stepping forward.
The other Coronellas hovering behind them looked worried.
Beatrice’s gaze skimmed over her husband. There didn’t seem to be copious amounts of blood, though his dress shirt was ripped and torn.
“This is your fault, Ves.” Montrell was slurring, and Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “Y’know I don’t drink.”
Vespa laughed in his face. “With all your bulk, being a lightweight makes no fucking sense, but it’s the best revenge. Serves you right for almost getting me shot again.” Vespa’s eyes flicked over to where Beatrice stood, but besides a tightening of her jaw, she ignored her as she dragged him to the nearest bathroom. “You need to pay goddamn attention!” she shouted, the acoustics of the smaller room making the words echo.
The idea that Montrell could be drunk rooted Beatrice’s feet to the floor. When people drank, they lost their inhibitions. What may have seemed wrong before no longer became a boundary. There was no right or wrong to a drunk.
She should return to her room.
His boyish whine drew her closer to the door instead. “Leave it, Ves. That hurts!”
So he was hurt. She couldn’t quite process that image. Montrell was too large and full of life to be brought down. Over the last few weeks, she’d been a little envious of him.
She in no way wanted to be married, but if she could be Montrell, that would be something else. Nothing ever seemed to faze him. There was nothing he couldn’t do.
Except apparently get his abrasions cleaned properly. He hollered in pain again when Beatrice looked through the still-open doorway.
Vespa had a dark bottle in one hand and a wicked smile on her face. “Don’t be a baby.”
“’S your fault,” Montrell mumbled again as he pouted at the floor.
Beatrice blinked. She hadn’t known Montrell’s face could look quite like that.
Vespa nodded toward her. “You’re embarrassing yourself in front of your wife.”
Montrell straightened from where he’d slouched against the counter, letting the hand he’d been using to ward Vespa off drop. “Oh, Bea.” He blinked at her, as if trying to focus.
“Are you injured?” Beatrice asked, frowning at his shoulder.
Vespa waved at him with her free hand. “Dumbass here almost got shot. I managed to shove him out of the way, but the asphalt scraped him up good.” She thumped the bottle of antiseptic down on the counter. Her touch was less than gentle as she pulled on the ripped-up fabric of his shirt. It was too torn to say it covered his shoulders.
Montrell winced as the fabric clung to the bloody scrape, refusing to let go.
“Shit, you have gravel caked in here. Getting poked with tweezers is what you deserve.” Vespa thumped him on the head, hard. “Pay more attention next time!” She sighed, and some of the tension faded from her face. “I guess it could have been worse. Now turn around so I can gouge that gravel out.”
Montrell’s eyes widened before turning to Beatrice, a pleading within them that punched her in the gut. “Don’t let her, Bea. Ves’s the worsht.”
“Is he slurring?” Beatrice asked, unable to look away from those eyes.
Vespa smirked. “I gave him some alcohol to numb the pain. He felt guilty, so he didn’t fight me on it as hard as he usually does.” She thumped him again before shifting to pull out a drawer, fiddling inside in search of something.
Montrell’s face paled as he listened to her continue to root around. He stumbled a bit as he leaned forward. “Please, Bea. Save me.” His s’s continued to sound like h’s were attached.
Beatrice surprised herself by laughing.
Vespa turned with a pair of tweezers, clicking them with a dark smile. “He’s right to be scared. I have the worst bedside manner.” She glared at him again. “But you deserve it.”
“Yeah.” Montrell hung his head. “’M sorry.”
“You better be,” Vespa said, but her face softened as she sighed. Her hand without the tweezers began tugging at the fabric caked to his scrapes. “This really is going to be a bitch to clean out.”
Beatrice winced with him as Vespa managed to rip a piece away. “If you soak it—” she started to suggest, but swallowed, glancing away.
Vespa paused her prodding. “Think you know better?” She pushed away from the counter, lifted Beatrice’s hand, and slapped the tweezers into it. “Be my guest.” She glanced over her shoulder at Montrell as she stomped toward the door. “You’re lucky she stepped in. I wanted to make you suffer.” Then her booted footsteps carried her out of the suddenly too-small bathroom.
Beatrice swallowed as she watched Montrell sway a little. Then she moved over to the countertop. “Let me see what else we have.” She crouched as she opened the cabinets beneath, gathering more supplies.
Montrell leaned his less injured side against the wall as he waited silently.
He never said a word as she tended to him. The caked-on blood eased its hold on his scraped wounds after she soaked a washcloth and dabbed at the abrasion. His dress shirt grew damp and clinging as it absorbed the water. He helped her to strip what was left of it off so she could get a better view of his injury.
Montrell’s dress shirts had already accentuated how they barely contained his bulk. Him shirtless was distracting. His arms were thickly roped tree limbs. His chest was that of a hairy bear. It was more barrel than any type of six-pack. She remembered how softly it had cushioned her head after they’d been together the one time. Seeing him half naked brought forth images of burrowing against him all over again.
Montrell was strong enough to keep her safe, but strength wasn’t always used for that. And when it turned on her, she would quickly be overpowered.
Making him turn around so she could focus on his back let her breathe easier. She was the one who made a distressed sound in her throat as she picked out the first small rock with the tweezers. “There really is a lot embedded,” she murmured. She tried to be as gentle as she could while she continued to prod him, warning him each time she brought the tweezers close. She was also quick about it. No need to draw out the torture. Her hand skimmed over his scrapes when she could no longer see anything else embedded, feeling for anything her eyes had missed.
When a soft shudder ran under her hand, she froze.
Montrell’s head had dipped toward his chest. His eyes squeezed shut instead of meeting hers in the mirror.
Beatrice swallowed. She finished the pass with her hand, not finding any more gravel. Some of his blood had gotten on her skin. She put down the tweezers and moved to the sink to wash. The cold water removed the warmth that had sunk into her palm.
“All right, all that’s left is disinfecting the wound and covering up the worst of the scrapes.”
“Can I sit?” he mumbled.
Beatrice let out a surprised snort. “I should have had you do that a while ago. It would have been easier to reach you. Oh, but there’s no chair in here. I’ll—”
Montrell lowered to the floor. His forehead thumped into the door of the lower cabinet. His hands braced against it, blocking her view of his face.
Beatrice finished soaking a clean cloth with disinfectant. “Here we go,” she warned, pressing it against the worst of his shoulder scrapes. It probably stung like a bitch, but he didn’t tense under it. When she lifted the cloth away, she blew on the wound to help with the sting, just like one of her nannies used to do during her scraped-knees phase.
Montrell let out a low, deep groan, a sound that created a warm knot in Beatrice’s stomach.
“Almost done,” she murmured in sympathy. She shifted the cloth along the shallower scrapes until the disinfectant also soaked into the less serious wounds. She didn’t blow again, but while her hands used the bandages to cover the deepest of the scrapes, his own curled into fists where they rested against the cabinet.
She smoothed the last bandage with her fingers. “There,” she said, pulling back. “Though this tape is going to hurt like hell when you pull it off.” She tried to smile, but it wouldn’t come. Not when his head was twisted to the side and his warm eyes locked so intently on her face.
The brown of his eyes had always been soft and warm. Not a dark color, but more of an almond. She’d expected his eyes to be narrowed with pain, but they weren’t like that at all.
“Thank you, Bea.” The deep rumble of his voice no longer sounded slurred. There was a yearning in his eyes that should have scared her. Instead, her hand lifted to his face, cupping his cheek over his beard, which was more soft than bristly.
A sound escaped his throat. It sounded like nothing she’d ever heard. It chased her hand away, but his face was drifting closer, slowly, as if allowing her time to pull away. Then his lips covered hers. The hair of his beard tingled where it brushed against her skin. His kiss didn’t press harder or turn deeper. It remained the softest of caresses that made the tingles spread.
The warm knot in her stomach tightened, as if trying to draw her closer to him.
Which had her scrambling back, her hands catching her as her ass fell hard on the tiles.
His eyes closed against whatever he saw on her face.
Beatrice’s flight instinct had taken over, and her heels scrambled against the tiled floor until she was moving, running, leaving her warm—and inebriated, her mind reminded her—husband in the bathroom behind her.