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“Fucking hell,” he muttered before snorting.
After he put down his phone, sleep claimed him quickly.
Chapter 7
Vespa had seen Antonio’s text the night before and had started writing a damn novel in reply. Like he was interested in her existential crisis over her best friend being married. She’d deleted it, but the offer of another round of sex had been an even worse idea, so she’d deleted that as well. Hell, he’d probably been sniffing around for information on the hit. It had nothing at all to do with them seeing each other orgasm.
Imagining his face slack in satisfaction caused her shoulder to plow into the conference room’s doorjamb. She rubbed at it, expecting Montrell to rag her about her distraction. She wouldn’t mind it. In fact, she was already looking forward to laughing together.
But Montrell was staring at the meeting room’s tabletop, his brow furrowed in thought. He wasn’t typically an overthinker. He didn’t second-guess himself and leaned into quicker decision-making, choosing whatever came intuitively to his mind.
Vespa’s lips pressed together, knowing who had caused the change in her friend’s demeanor. She wandered over to his side, meaning to nudge his shoulder and tease him out of it.
Only she wasn’t doing that anymore. Nudging his shoulder. Touching him too much when he physically belonged to someone else. Her body froze before she could make contact, and she waited for him to look up. When he didn’t, she added a muttered, “Hey,” that he didn’t seem to hear.
Her arms crossed, and she moved to her place behind him. Let him stew, she thought, but then she remembered the way he’d beaten on that Albanian. Montrell didn’t normally lose his cool. Vespa was the one who wanted to tear people’s limbs off. Even when his mother broke him as a child, he’d barely whimpered and had always made excuses.
Montrell was used to tamping negative emotions down, though he never seemed to realize it. They were like yin and yang that way. Montrell held back, and Vespa held back nothing.
She opened her mouth, but then Montrell’s face lifted. Beatrice had walked in, a soft smile on her lips, and it was as if a switch flipped inside her friend.
Vespa’s lips twisted even though that was a good thing. The scrap with the Albanians had served to bring them closer, it seemed, which was amazing.
She was happy for her best friend.
When he called on her to take over the meeting, she blinked but then plowed ahead. She’d been the one to follow up last night anyway, so she blathered on about what she had learned, focusing on the back of Montrell’s head to steady herself.
“The Lucchese are raising a fuss about yesterday’s drop,” Vespa admitted, her eyes shifting to Beatrice. She looked put together as usual, though the dress she wore showed more skin. She looked great in it, even though Vespa wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it. “They don’t seem to like all the attention the shootout caused.”
Beatrice gave her hair a feminine little flick that made Vespa remember how amazing it had felt when Antonio played with her hair.
“Let me handle my father,” Beatrice said.
Again Vespa wondered what Montrell’s wife had over Lucchese. Beatrice reminded her a bit of Antonio. There were schemes inside her, though he was the bigger schemer. She scowled as she realized she was thinking of Di Salvo too much.
The distraction was enough that she barely heard Montrell’s sudden order. “Out.”
She blinked at the back of his head, wondering what had come over him. He liked big, full meetings with all the Coronella boys there.
None of their men seemed to know what to make of it either. They all stood in place, mouths gaping.
His fists slammed down on the table, making even her jump, and his roar of the word the second time had everyone else scrambling to obey.
“Out!”
Beatrice ran, her flight instinct kicking in like Vespa had seen before. She didn’t blame the woman. Montrell was a big man with a big voice, but he’d never hurt anyone he cared about. He was a cuddly teddy bear most of the time, one who didn’t fit the Mafia lifestyle. That’s what she was for.
Vespa circled to his side, trying to see his face. “Montrell—”
He jerked to his feet, flipping the goddamn table, and something inside her sank. She’d gotten a look at his face. It reminded her of the night before, when he had made a smear of the Albanian, but this anger was even more potent. She’d only seen him show that anger once before, back on the night when he’d killed his father, but he’d held on to control then. He hadn’t smashed a chair against the wall like he was doing now. What the fuck had she missed?
“Leave!” he shouted at her, and he really did sound scary—or he would have, to anyone who didn’t know him.
Vespa knew him, and besides, nothing scared her. She sucked in her breath to shout her denial right back. Whatever he was dealing with, she was there for it.
His eyes filled with tears, finally making her nervous and sealing her words inside.
“Please, Vespa,” he gasped, not looking at her.
