AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Most of the Mafia estates in their city had soundproofed basements. The Coronella estate was no different. Under his father’s leadership, it’d seen blood often. Montrell had never liked the idea of sleeping above the ghosts of those they tortured. Instead, he’d had the second house built. It had no windows, and to others it may have appeared like a very large storage building. Torturing someone for information was a necessary task. Montrell had never flinched from it, but Vespa was much better at extracting the information they needed. Her face lacked any pity while she was at work.
He glanced at Vespa as the three men were dragged inside. Like usual, no words were necessary. She swiveled toward the main estate to collect Beatrice.
Montrell stared at the men, who glared back at him despite their fear. He had a need to kill them as well, but he wouldn’t steal Beatrice’s chance to work past her wounds. To heal.
She entered the area barefoot. Her feet were pale against the stained concrete. She’d changed out of her more fashionable outfit and wore a solid black turtleneck with black slacks. The pearl bracelets looked bright against the material.
Her face appeared even more remote with her flawless makeup.
“Everyone out,” Montrell said. He didn’t have to glance at Vespa. She already realized the order wasn’t meant for her.
Even after the Coronella soldiers were gone, Beatrice continued to stare at the Albanians without moving forward.
The one closest to the door spat at her in their language. Beatrice’s face only became more drawn as he cursed her.
Vespa stomped forward, slapping a piece of tape over his mouth. “Fucker,” she muttered, doing the same to the other three. She nodded at the metal rolling table, which held plenty of sharp implements, and then nodded at Bea. “Have at it.”
Beatrice’s gaze moved to Montrell.
He read her need for him to leave, but a part of him wanted to deny the request. He turned to leave anyway. “Vespa remains.” He paused at the door, glancing back to make sure she understood. Her victims were immobilized, but he wasn’t taking any chances with her safety. She was free to do anything else.
Beatrice didn’t nod. He hadn’t expected her to. She turned toward the metal table, her hand wrapping tightly around the closest blade.
Montrell moved out of sight. He leaned against the wall, his ears straining as he waited.
The broken sound she made was barely audible, but he doubted he’d ever forget it.
Tape didn’t block out the man’s panic as the soft thudding of a knife, imbedding into his chest again and again, filled the air. Fast enough to be a frenzy.
Beatrice didn’t make another sound as she took the first man’s life.
Chapter 7
Beatrice’s chest was rising and falling too fast. She stared down at the mess of a body in front of her. The last few minutes were a blur, but her bicep ached. She’d made that mess.
The black clothes she’d worn hid the blood well, but her feet were more than flecked in it. She smeared one of her toes in the redness.
Her eyes found those of the second man strapped to a metal table. Metal washed the easiest. It was the concrete floor below them that required constant bleaching to remove most of the stains.
Beatrice moved to the next cousin she’d chosen for her list. All of them deserved her blade. This one more than most.
His eyes were dark and wide even as they tried to glare. Glaring through fear was a difficult talent that you had to learn. Beatrice had learned it well.
She wiped the blade of the knife she’d used against his shirt. “It looks like I couldn’t hold back. I hope you’ll forgive me, since you know something about that.”
His grunt strained against the tape. She considered letting him speak, but only fleetingly. He’d had the chance to speak for long enough.
Beatrice leaned closer to his face, letting the tip of the blade slice against his cheek. “You remember, don’t you? What you did to me?”
He’d found her alone, cleaning one of the sitting rooms. She hadn’t yet learned to cower in front of the cousins. Her husband had made it clear that, though he might hurt her, she was his. She hadn’t thought any of the cousins were man enough to put that to the test, despite their constant mutterings.
He had proven her wrong. The pain of what he’d done had left her more tattered than usual.
She shouldn’t have tried to tell her husband. When he found her cunt more than dry, he’d taught her a lesson as well. The way his thrusting had pushed her ass into the bed while he had punished her had made her cry for the first time. If she’d thought tears would move him to relent, she’d been wrong. They only made him more furious.
The cousin had known what he was doing. Her husband had never been interested in anal. And by the time her husband was done with her, she hadn’t cared enough to argue further.
It wasn’t too long after that that her husband had found her in the hotel bathroom with a razor blade.
