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Vespa didn’t deny the accusation. Her current pain was barely a blip compared to the hope fading from Montrell’s eyes. That he’d had hope at all made her heart break for her best friend. His mother hadn’t destroyed his eternal optimism, no matter how hard she’d tried.
“He never loved you,” Maeve mumbled. “No, it was never love.”
Vespa’s hands curled at her sides. His mother was yet another person who thought she had romantic love for Montrell.
They were family. Something they’d both desperately needed.
“You hurt Vespa,” Montrell said, his words hard. “We’re done here.”
Vespa swallowed, trying to work up the ability to tell him it was okay. A little slap wasn’t enough to bring her down.
His grandfather reminded him he was there for business, and Montrell hesitated. He looked to his wife, not to her, and they both ended up perching on the couch.
Vespa held a hand to her cheek as she scowled at his mother, who now sat docilely across from them. She shifted closer, within reach to lunge again. No way was his mother done.
When Liam O’Connell offered drinks, Vespa asked for a whiskey. Perhaps the drink would help her swallow the bitter taste in her throat as his mother ignored her again.
Montrell was doing his long-lost son routine, introducing his wife to his mother as if the bitch gave a shit. She was already back to blaming him for everything she’d brought onto herself. Vespa took her offered glass of whiskey and considered smashing the glass into Maeve’s conniving mouth.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I—”
Before Vespa could interrupt Montrell, Beatrice did.
“No.” Her voice came out louder than Montrell’s, and harder. She set the tea Montrell’s grandfather had given her aside and linked her hand with Montrell’s. “It’s your mother who should apologize.”
“Hell yeah, she should,” Vespa muttered, throwing back the alcohol in one gulp. It tasted bitter.
Liam crossed his arms. “I think we’re done here.”
Vespa was relieved, ready for escape.
“Far from it,” Beatrice’s voice cut in, dashing Vespa’s hopes. “That is, if creating business ties with any of La Cosa Nostra is important to you.” Her eyes held Maeve’s gaze. “Apologize.”
Vespa appreciated the way Montrell’s wife at least wanted to try to hold his mother accountable. It was a pointless effort, but it showed that Beatrice without a doubt loved Montrell.
There was the added benefit of Maeve’s vacant expression fading into her true one. The fury dripping from her was palpable, and Vespa shifted forward in case it blew.
Her body swayed, and she frowned, wondering if nerves were getting to her.
O’Connell waved toward his daughter. “You’ve seen how she is. Do you truly want to hinge business on this woman?”
That was a fair point, Vespa thought, but the idea rose sluggishly in her mind.
Montrell’s face wavered in her vision as she blinked. “I don’t need an apology, Bea.” His words sounded far away.
“But you deserve one,” Beatrice said.
The anger on Maeve’s face slipped behind her mask. She had perfected the ‘pity me’ look. She would try to work her wiles on Beatrice now, but Vespa didn’t worry. Beatrice looked like she had his mother’s number.
Their words were hard to focus on. Vespa tried to cross her arms, forgetting about the whiskey glass she clutched. She couldn’t feel it in her hand, and dread creeped inside as she lost her grip and watched it fall to the plush carpet as if in slow motion. It didn’t break, and no thump sounded over the rioting beat of her heart.
“He always loved me, you know,” Maeve said. It was as if a cotton blanket kept her own fury locked away as Montrell’s mother admitted what Vespa had always known. “He would be at my feet, beautifully broken, and still whispering his love, still wanting to save me.”
Montrell’s face looked so blank. It never looked that way, even when his mother was at her worst.
Vespa forced her feet to move. “You sick—” The words locked in her throat as her body staggered, and she dropped to the floor just like the whiskey glass had.
The plush-looking carpet wasn’t enough of a cushion against her still-throbbing cheek.
