Chapter 26
Montrell already regretted letting both of the women he cared about come with him. He watched Beatrice blink as the car pulled to a stop in front of one of the city’s condominium high-rises. The Irish side of his family preferred something with height over an estate with gates. Men with buttoned-down suits and hard eyes posed as security, and they were everywhere.
Montrell second-guessed his lack of men. Just like he was second-guessing everything. Knowing his mother was close filled him with staggering doubts, like always.
If they needed all the Coronella boys to mount a rescue, they were screwed already.
“A penthouse condo?” Beatrice asked, looking up.
Montrell gave her hand a squeeze. “Be prepared. The security is tight. That was one reason my father never tried to retrieve my mother when she ran here.” He slid out of the car first.
Vespa balked near the elevator as they were asked for their weapons. “There’re more of you than there are of us. Where’s the trust?” she pushed back.
“We’re here for business,” Montrell said, but he didn’t smile as he handed over his gun.
Beatrice handed over hers without a fuss as well.
Vespa took a little longer to disarm. She admitted to four weapons, but when they patted her down, the Irish found two more guns and two knives. They were a little rougher when they patted her down once again, finding nothing this time and motioning toward the elevator that led directly to the penthouse condo.
Montrell’s lips twitched. “Six guns, Vespa?”
“I like to be prepared,” she said with a scowl at the mirrored walls of the elevator.
Beatrice’s shoulders pulled tight as they rose to the top floor. Montrell moved a step closer to her, his arm warm where it connected with hers. He’d meant for his close presence to soothe her, but she remained stiff.
Montrell knew better than to expect his mother to be waiting with open arms, but being greeted with guns in their faces still set his own nerves on edge. He stepped in front of his group, catching how Vespa’s hands clenched in the mirror at the gesture.
“I thought you were expecting us,” he said to the old man who stood just behind the welcoming party, keeping his tone mild.
When the men stood down, Montrell walked out of the elevator first, wishing he could send it down to the ground floor with his companions still onboard. They would never agree to that, though.
“Just a precaution,” his grandfather said. Liam O’Connell stood taller than the others. He was an inch or two bigger than even Montrell, except his hair was silver. His grandfather hadn’t gone to fat despite his age, though he had the thickness Montrell was known for. His brown eyes weren’t warm at all, and they were narrowed in calculation. “You understand if I don’t trust you around your mother.”
“Pretty sure you’ve got that backwards, old man,” Vespa muttered.
O’Connell’s eyes flicked to her. “Exactly my point. A grandson of my blood would be patient in his need for revenge.”
“I’ve told you before, I don’t blame her.” Montrell’s hand twitched at his side, pressing into his leg. “Is she like she was last time?”
“Worse.” The old man sighed. “I expect you’ll want to see her.”
Montrell hesitated. “Only if it won’t upset her.”
Liam O’Connell’s mouth flattened. “Everything upsets her.”
“I’m surprised you had her call. If this is business—”
“You’ll see to your duty first,” the older man snapped. “You’ve ignored your family too long already.”
“He ignored?” Vespa murmured, just loud enough for the old man to hear.
O’Connell’s eyes narrowed on her.
Montrell crossed his arms, bringing the attention back to him. “I thought keeping my distance was best for her.”
His grandfather hesitated, then nodded. “Fair enough. Your last visit didn’t go well.” His gaze shifted to Vespa again. “Partly because of this woman. I’m surprised you brought her back.”
“Vespa goes where I go,” Montrell said.
“So I’ve heard.” O’Connell’s eyes tried to pin Beatrice. “I also heard you took a wife.”
Montrell’s arms loosened, his hand shifting to her shoulder. “That rumor is true. This is Beatrice Coronella.”
O’Connell frowned. “You had no interest in marrying Irish blood?”
Montrell’s fingers rubbed against her shoulder. “It’s always been Beatrice for me. Besides, we haven’t spoken in years.”
“True.” Liam O’Connell waved to some of the closest men. “I have plenty of grandsons through your mother’s brothers. That was one reason I was willing to try an alliance years ago. A failed one.” His eyes narrowed. “Honestly, if the Di Salvos hadn’t made it a condition, I wouldn’t have called you here.”
Beatrice frowned. “If the last time failed so horribly, what is this business that’s so important you’d mingle with La Cosa Nostra again?”
His grandfather’s eyes were cold as they studied her. “I’d heard you were headstrong.”
Montrell didn’t appreciate how the Irishman looked at his wife. Before he could call the old man to task, O’Connell turned toward the hallway with a wave.
“As I mentioned, business will come after. A visit with Maeve comes first. She’s been wanting to meet your wife, Coronella.”
The room he led them to had the curtains along one entire wall pulled tight against the outside sun. His mother paced the confines of the dim sitting room, muttering to herself. She had always been tall, even in bare feet, which peeked out from the bottom of her skirt, whose frayed edge trailed along the carpet behind her. Her soft, cotton clothes hung off her body. She was slimmer than she’d been before. Her long, brunette hair with a sheen of red covered part of her face, looking as if it had been uncombed for days.
“Maeve,” Liam O’Connell called to her. Even his soft, calm voice startled her.
Montrell’s mother whirled around, her fingers gripping a chain she wore around her neck. It was the same medal she’d always worn. Between her punches, she used to clutch it and pray to God to give her strength for the punishments that were necessary to inflict.
“Your son came,” O’Connell added.
Maeve made a sound in her throat. “I can see he has. Still looks nothing like his father.” Her lip curled. “How the man liked to beat me for that fact. It was all your fault.”
“I know,” Montrell agreed. It was hard to feel anything in the face of one of her accusations. He’d expected a wave of love to rise for her, the one he’d always felt toward the woman he’d been born to protect. Instead, there was only a numbness. An emptiness. “Do you not want me here? I can leave if that’s easiest,” he offered.
The woman moved as fast as a demon, her hand raised as she lunged for Montrell.
Vespa shoved between them, and the slap made his friend stagger against a side table, knocking over the lamp with a crash. Montrell thought he’d have to restrain his mother from attacking again, but she scrambled back before he could touch her.
“Stupid girl,” Maeve muttered, not looking surprised at all, or in any way apologetic. “You always were fixated on my boy.”
Vespa straightened. Her gaze fell to her knee, which must have been throbbing from where it had smacked the table.
“He never loved you,” his mother mumbled, but it was more like she was speaking to herself. “No, it was never love.”
Montrell hated that his friend had taken yet another blow that was meant for him. “You hurt Vespa. We’re done here.”
Maeve’s face twisted. “You talk to me about being hurt?”
Liam O’Connell grimaced. “Please wait,” he said, holding up a hand. His eyes shifted to his daughter. “Sit, Maeve.” When she reluctantly slumped onto the edge of a settee, he crossed to the drink area in the corner. “I’ll make you some of that tea you like. The one that calms your nerves.”
“Tea?” Maeve appeared confused. Then her eyes softened in delight. “Oh, yes. The tea.”
“Coronella, would you and your wife like a drink as well? I have whiskey instead, if you prefer.”
Montrell looked to Beatrice. She continued to study his mother, her expression remote, as if she needed the mask to hold whatever emotions she was feeling inside. When she felt his gaze, she gave a swift nod, then made his nerves dance as she moved to the seat directly opposite his mother and settled into it.
“Just tea,” Montrell said, moving to her side and settling on the couch beside her.
Vespa held a hand to her red cheek with a scowl. “I wouldn’t mind something stiffer.” She remained standing, her eyes hard as they focused on his mother.
Maeve appeared calmer even without the tea. She was smiling, her eyes unfocused.
The soft clinks of Liam O’Connell preparing tea interrupted the quiet of the room.
“Mother, this is Beatrice.” Montrell kept his gaze trained on Maeve as well. “Grandfather mentioned that you wanted to meet her.”
Maeve’s eyes focused on Beatrice. “Oh, yes. Another victim.”
Beatrice shook her head. “Your son is very kind to me.” Her hand reached over to settle on top of his. “He’s a good man.”
Maeve made a noise in her throat. “He’s a weakling. Always has been. When I—”
Liam interrupted her pending tirade by handing her a cup of tea.
Montrell was grateful. The reports he’d been getting hadn’t been enough. His mother had always been unstable, but seeing the creature she had been reduced to made a wave of guilt crawl over his skin. She’d been right. It had taken him too long to free her.
The cup of tea Montrell was given was double the size of his mother’s and Beatrice’s. He drained it to wet his already dry throat. “I’m sorry, Mother. I—”
“No,” Beatrice interrupted, moving her cup to the end table so she could grip his hand again. “It’s your mother who should apologize.”
“What?” Maeve’s lips pressed together.
“Hell yeah, she should,” Vespa muttered, throwing back her shot of whiskey.
Liam set the tray he’d used on the bar before crossing his arms. “I think we’re done here.”
“Far from it.” Beatrice’s voice was firm. “That is, if creating business ties with any of La Cosa Nostra is important to you.” She stared at his mother. “Apologize.”
Montrell’s mouth was dry again.
O’Connell waved toward his daughter. “You’ve seen how she is. Do you truly want to hinge business on this woman?”
Maeve’s eyes flickered with a sudden rage Montrell recognized. The expression made the tea he’d gulped swirl in his stomach. “I don’t need an apology, Bea.”
“But you deserve one,” Beatrice said.
Liam O’Connell was wearing his own scowl. “My daughter isn’t well.”
Beatrice leaned forward on the cushion, and Montrell wanted to pull her away from his mother. Beatrice’s gaze was as hard as Maeve’s, though. “Oh, she is more than aware. Maeve knows exactly what she’s done. I imagine she was very deliberate in the way she beat a helpless child, tore him down, and broke his bones. Isn’t that right?”
Maeve’s posture straightened as she settled back against the settee she’d chosen. One of her legs crossed over the other, the material of her skirt swirling around her foot. “I don’t regret a thing. And I won’t apologize for it.”
Her words didn’t surprise Montrell. He’d known long ago she felt no remorse, but the way her unfocused gaze firmed into something sharper made him feel dizzy.
“There you are,” Beatrice murmured, holding that sharp gaze. “Who was that performance even for?”
“Oh, I enjoy the guilt from both of them.” Maeve’s laughter scraped at his insides. “I should have known you wouldn’t fall for it, all the things I’ve heard about you.”
“I’ve heard some things about the O’Connells as well,” Beatrice said, drawing the Irish boss’s eyes to her. “About how your father knew what was happening to his daughter but left her with her husband for over twenty years.”
“Horrible, isn’t it?” Maeve ran a hand over her hair to smooth it. “But at least mine didn’t send me back.”
Liam stepped closer. “Now, Maeve. I would never have—”
“Quiet!” Montrell’s mother snapped, raising a hand. “I’m talking to this lovely woman. Don’t balk because she called you out for your failure.”
Beatrice continued to study her. “That raises a question for me. I ran home within my first year. It seems you never did. Not until twenty years later. Is there a reason you didn’t leave sooner?”
“And lose my wonderful toy?” Maeve’s gaze locked onto Montrell. “He always loved me, you know. He would be at my feet, beautifully broken, still whispering his love, still wanting to save me.”
Montrell stared into her cruel eyes, and it felt as if he was seeing them for the first time. It made his mind swirl.
“You sick—” Vespa’s words choked as she staggered forward before dropping to the carpet.
Montrell felt even dizzier as his gaze slowly turned to his friend. “Vespa?” The room blurred around him.
“The drug works faster in alcohol, but my boy was never one to drink.” Maeve smiled at him as he looked back at her dazedly. “No, Montrell was always such a good boy. It’s my own fault that I got bored with him.”
He tried to swallow, his hand numb under Beatrice’s touch. Montrell leaned into her, not feeling that either. He tried to tell her to run. Her hand came up to his cheek, the touch so very precious.
Beatrice was the last thing he saw as the world went dark.
Beatrice had thought she was angry when Montrell first told her about his mother. Watching her now, she wanted nothing more than to kill the woman.
She wasn’t foolish enough to try in that moment. The Irish mobsters who had entered the room all held guns.
“Take our gifts down to the Italians,” Liam O’Connell said with a wave toward Montrell.
Beatrice wanted to throw her body over his. She’d likely be shot for the wasted effort.
“Italians?” she asked instead, wishing her racing mind would focus.
“Your bastard of a father.” Maeve smiled. Her gaze held something deadly as she stared at her own father. “He doesn’t seem to appreciate his daughter.”
“Now, Maeve,” O’Connell said, his placating tone one that set Beatrice’s teeth on edge. Given the added flicker in Montrell’s mother’s eyes, she guessed it did the same to her. “I do appreciate you.”
“Then leave us,” Maeve said. “I’d like to talk to my daughter-in-law.”
Liam hesitated. “This alliance is new. We need to provide them all that was promised.”
Beatrice focused on her breathing. She could no longer see Montrell despite his bulk slowing the men down from removing him from the room. Vespa had been much easier for them to carry out. The door snicked closed behind them, leaving only Liam and Maeve behind.
Beatrice understood well enough what promise they had made to her father. Montrell and Vespa didn’t know his secrets. Only Beatrice had that knowledge.
She tried to stall. “My father isn’t worried about the proof I have?”
“Oh, he was,” Maeve said. She tsked. “I was a little disappointed. It was so easy to find. A lockbox, daughter-in-law?”
Beatrice still felt too numb to react. “My father is willing to kill his blood,” she tried. “Do you really think he’ll honor an alliance?”
Maeve smiled at her. “She makes a good point, Father.”
“We’ve discussed this already,” Liam said, his voice back to soothing.
Montrell’s mother nodded, her eyes on Beatrice. “See? My father discusses things with me.”
“How much discussion did he have before he married you off?” Beatrice asked. She kept her eyes on the daughter, even when Liam O’Connell’s hands became fists in her periphery.
“That’s another good point,” Maeve said softly.
O’Connell stepped closer. “There’s no need to talk to this woman. We promised her father her head.”
“My father knew exactly what the man he married me to was like,” Beatrice continued.
Maeve was already nodding. “See? Monty is just like his father.”
“Not Montrell,” Beatrice snapped, causing his mother’s eyebrows to draw together. She swallowed. “I was married to one of the Albanians first. I crawled back to my father broken, and he called the Albanian to come and get me.”
“That’s horrible.” Maeve frowned as she looked at her own father. “Mine wouldn’t have done that.”
“Of course not,” Liam said, but his eyes didn’t meet his daughter’s. “You’re my blood, Maeve.”
“Then do as I said and leave!” Maeve suddenly screamed, spittle at the edge of her mouth.
Beatrice started considering that she had been wrong. While the weakness had been a feigned manipulation, Montrell’s mother was indeed out of her mind, and the Irish mob boss seemed to be aware of that. The door clicked shut behind his swift retreat.
“That’s better,” Maeve said in a singsong, pulling her feet up under her as she sat back more comfortably. She nodded toward the cup and saucer Beatrice had set aside. “You should drink. Things will go easier on you that way.”
Beatrice’s fingers flexed, but she reached for the drink she had no intention of sipping.
“Tell me more about how you were hurt.” The avid expression in the woman’s eyes made Beatrice dry-swallow. She doubted Montrell’s mother wanted to commiserate. No, the woman got off on inflicting pain, and talking about the past had always been painful for Beatrice, even when she was opening up to Montrell.
It was difficult to allow her expression to fall, to make it reflect the fear and humiliation she had bottled away so carefully. “There were beatings, sometimes with a belt or whip. My husband raped me almost every night.”
Maeve leaned forward, her hands grasping the cushion below her. “Did he choke you while he did it?” She sighed, her eyes going distant. “I miss being choked.”
Beatrice’s body stiffened.
“Monty’s father thought he was hurting me when he raped me. In the beginning, I squeezed out some tears, but he figured out pretty early on it was all an act.” Her smile spread as she refocused. “It made him try to hurt me more, but he was often the one who left frustrated. My only regret was when my body bloated with his baby.”
Beatrice didn’t bother pretending to sip her tea. She stared into the woman’s narrowed eyes.
“I tried a fall down the stairs to get rid of it.” Maeve’s smile fell as her slash of a mouth almost disappeared behind pressed together lips. “That’s when Coronella began locking me up and ordered that stupid woman to keep an eye on me. I was glad they cut the baby out instead of making me deliver it.”
Listening to the woman talk in that deadened voice made Beatrice realize how much of a miracle it was that Montrell had been born at all. Thinking about him made her heart pound. How long would her father keep him alive?
“I think they believed holding it would change my mind, but when the damn thing wouldn’t stop crying, I tried to shake it. Everyone knows that kills them, but that stupid woman interfered, snatching the thing from me.” Maeve shrugged, settling back again as she frowned. “What was that woman’s name?”
“Giulia?” Beatrice asked.
Maeve snapped her fingers. “That was it!” She stared at her hand, repeating the sound as if distracted. Then she rubbed the tips of her fingers together. “I should have asked Monty to bring her as well. I would have liked to kill her.”
Beatrice’s cup rattled as she set it down on the saucer. Maeve’s eyes shot to her, the expression in them cold. Then her gaze slid down toward the cup, and her mouth dropped open.
“Oh!” Maeve gasped as she latched onto Beatrice’s arm, dragging her close. The drugged cup of tea spilled to the carpet, but his mother no longer seemed to notice. No, her nails were skimming over Beatrice’s scar. “We really are so much alike,” she murmured.
Beatrice swallowed the immediate denial.
Maeve tilted her own arm, comparing the scarred lines side by side. His mother’s scar was more of a pale line. “Yours is so much better.” She pouted as she shook Beatrice’s arm. “I wish I had pressed deeper like that. Every time my father sees mine, his face gets such a delicious twist.” She was smiling as her finger rubbed along Beatrice’s scar, making her shiver.
“Seeing mine reminded Montrell of his guilt over your attempt.” When Maeve’s eyes went dreamy, Beatrice swallowed her own guilt at the admission. She already knew she’d never admit to the woman that she hadn’t pressed down hard herself. Letting the woman link them in her mind was her only glimmer of hope.
“That boy was so desperate for my love,” Maeve said with a happy sigh. “Ignoring him for so long helped. I never thought I wanted a child.”
Tucking away the need to defend Montrell made Beatrice’s stomach twist and her mouth dry out. She had to open it twice before the words finally slipped free. “I never wanted a child either.” That it wasn’t a lie let the misdirection soften the woman’s face even more.
“I changed my mind. Maybe you will too.” She frowned as she released Beatrice’s arm. “Or maybe you would have. My father promised that man we’d kill you.”
Beatrice hung her head, staring down at her hands. “I’m not surprised. I don’t think my father ever loved me. Not really.” She couldn’t force out any tears, not when all she wanted to do was kill him if he dared to hurt Montrell, so she kept her head bent. “How could he have loved me and married me off like he did?”
Maeve’s hand settled over her own clasped ones. “Exactly! I had to find what little escape I could, but Coronella was awful. My father should feel guilty and beg for forgiveness for the rest of his life.” Her hand tightened, her nails making crescent shapes in Beatrice’s skin. “More than beg. I want him to lose everything,” she said coldly.
Beatrice tried a small sniffle.
“He wouldn’t even let me torture Montrell myself,” Maeve ranted. “I wanted one last chance to see if I could feel as I once did.” Her hand loosened as she sighed dreamily. “It’s a shame my boy grew into an adult. No one else but that child has ever made me feel almost content when I hurt them.”
Beatrice’s skin felt flayed as she lifted her head to stare at the monster Montrell’s mother was. She couldn’t kill the woman, she tried to remind herself.
Maeve’s eyes focused, then sparkled with an emotion Beatrice couldn’t be reading correctly. It looked like delight. “I’ve made you angry.” Her hand reached out, biting into Beatrice’s cheeks as she forced her chin higher. “You’re not like me at all. You’re one of them.” Her tone had grown icy.
Beatrice’s heart thudded as she saw fury in the woman’s eyes.
“Pathetic!” Maeve’s spittle bathed her face as she screamed the word. “So hypocritical. You expect men to hurt and punish. But a woman? No, she should be beaten into submission and told what to do. She should put herself last, always. She should be caring and motherly and weak!”
Maeve shoved Beatrice away.
By the time Beatrice straightened, a gun, one she hadn’t realized his mother had, was pressed against her forehead.
Maeve laughed. “I was the one that made my boy cry. Does it bother you? I had more power over him as his mother than you’ll ever have as his wife.” Maeve’s hand tightened around the gun as she pressed it harder against Beatrice. “Making him cry was easy when he was four and I snapped his arm. As he got older, it took more finesse. How I miss torturing my young boy.”
They’d both missed the door opening.
“Maeve?” Liam O’Connell looked pale as he stepped haltingly toward his daughter, letting the door slip shut behind him.
Maeve’s lips thinned as she stared at her father.
“Did you really torture your own child?” Liam asked, his voice shaking as he drew closer to them.
Maeve tried to make her face look sad again, but the madness shown through. “I’m sorry. My husband hurt me so much. I couldn’t escape it.” She was almost a convincing actress. The words sounded weak and fearful.
O’Connell shook his head. “We’re not talking about your husband. I asked what you did, Maeve.”
With a blink, her scowl was back. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Maeve shifted the gun she was holding and shot her father in the face. The noise reverberated in Beatrice’s head from so close. As his body fell, Maeve frowned at her, back to pouting. “You ruined my game. He didn’t look guilty at all.”
The doors to the sitting room burst open at the gunshot.
Maeve shoved the gun into Beatrice’s hand before cowering away. “Help! She has a gun!”
Beatrice’s hand had automatically closed around it, and she read her death in the soldiers’ faces. She threw herself to the floor, the Irish mobsters’ bullets tearing up the cushions where she had just been.