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She held up a hand. “You’re wrong. Montrell. You have a wife to hug on. That means no hugging on me. Most women wouldn’t understand, and it wouldn’t be fair to her.” She punched his upper arm. “But don’t worry, I’ll still give you a hard time and rag on you and make sure you don’t do anything too stupid.”
His big, booming laugh usually soothed her, but her attention was still too splintered to be soothed.
“I appreciate you having my back, Ves. Always.”
She bit her lip before sighing. “I’m the one who did something stupid this time.”
His eyes widened, and the chair barely holding his bulk shifted so he could face her. “That’d be unusual. Are we still talking about with Bea?”
She rolled her eyes. “Not everyone is thinking about your wife as often as you, you big softie.”
The way he’d been smitten with Beatrice years ago had been one reason Vespa had pursued a relationship for the first time herself, with Cesare.
Chills ran over her arms at the reminder.
“Is something up with her that has you worried?” she asked, ready to be distracted from the vitriol that threatened to overwhelm her thoughts.
To her surprise, Montrell blushed behind his beard.
“Hmm.” She drew out the sound, her face feeling less tense. “Looks like someone made progress. Anything PG enough to tell me about?”
The red tint spread past his beard. “Shut up, Ves.”
She laughed, relieved that it sounded natural. Another punch on his arm seemed called for. “Well, good for you.” She meant it too. Beatrice Lucchese might not have been who Vespa would have chosen for him, but she wasn’t as terrible as she’d seemed at first. And Montrell liked her. No, Vespa reminded herself, her gaze flitting to the Coronella capos who had begun filtering into the conference room. Montrell loved his wife.
That meant she had to protect them both. That was the only way Montrell would remain happy, and after the hell he’d been through as a child, he, more than anyone in the world, deserved to be happy.
So she blustered and argued when he announced he would join their men at the docks that day, but she recognized when he dug in stubbornly on his decisions and resigned herself to doubling their men. Still, she wasn’t at her best, and her nerves were jittering enough for her to argue one more time, making the mistake of pushing his wife a little in the process. Vespa slunk out afterward, leaving them alone and half hoping his wife would convince Montrell to stay behind. If he got scraped up like he had the other night because he was thinking with his dick, she would make him down an entire bottle of whiskey like she’d threatened and cackle at the results.
At least the need to protect him promised that she’d have a lot more to think about than her memories of having sex with Di Salvo.
But when she clambered into the car only to find Beatrice there as well, fear skittered inside her, and she froze. She was good with a gun, but, dammit, there was no reason either of them had to be in danger.
“No fucking way!” she seethed, glaring at Montrell.
He talked her down, telling her everything would be fine, but she still stewed about it all the way to the docks.
It was no shock to Vespa that something went wrong. At least an ambush would let her kill someone to blow off steam. Or multiple someones.
She separated from the two most important people, her adrenaline amping up as she drew attention to herself instead. It felt odd, not having Montrell at her side.
Focusing on taking the enemy out calmed her nerves. There were more fucking Albanians left than the intel had said. They were crawling out of the spaces between packing crates and even shooting from above. Vespa took out another. She couldn’t fuck around, and so she shot to kill.
There was no reason to keep any alive anyway. Beatrice had already tortured the ones she’d wanted, and they knew well enough why the remaining Albanians would attack. The Coronellas were set on wiping them out. It was only fair that they fought back. It’d have been boring if they hadn’t.
Vespa watched the last body fall from above her, enjoying the stillness that followed. When no additional shots came, she motioned for their soldiers to get started on cleanup.
The area appeared to be clear by the time Montrell and Beatrice arrived, but the hair was still up on Vespa’s neck. She spat on the nearest Albanian corpse, wondering what she was missing even as she promised Montrell she’d round up the crew. She hoped that would get him and his wife to leave, and she breathed a sigh of relief when Montrell steered Beatrice toward the car.
But another gunshot sounded from the direction of the vehicle moments later, and Vespa whirled, her heart in her throat. She had to get to Montrell. Now.
Her ears were ringing in a way that drowned out her stuttering heartbeat, but Montrell and Beatrice looked like they were arguing about something. Neither of them were down if they could argue. Vespa hadn’t failed.
They hadn’t needed her to take care of it after all.
Montrell dragged an Albanian from the car, his expression one she hadn’t seen before. He fell on the man in a frenzy for blood.
She’d seen Montrell kill people. She’d been with him while he tortured others. Whenever he did either, she’d always felt a bit sorry for him. His face would twist, like he felt guilty about it. She never regretted the necessary violence, but Montrell was softer. He was an optimist at heart. It was why their men loved him so much. It was one of the reasons she loved him. Having Montrell as a best friend balanced the darkness she had inside.
