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“I don’t want to fix her.” He hoped to show Beatrice that she wasn’t broken. Montrell set the knife on the still-bloody table.
“Liar,” Vespa said, but there was no venom in her voice. “But that’s just like you. Big softie.” She shook her head, not smiling like she usually did when she accused him of that. “And shit, you’re a mess. That new wife of yours make your face look like that?”
Montrell’s hand lifted to his throbbing eye. Beatrice had gotten in a few good jabs, but it’d heal soon enough. “She needed it.” His gaze shifted back to her. “Do you?”
“I’m good,” Vespa said. She waved a hand around the space. “This was for her.”
Montrell hated the look in Vespa’s eyes. Like she was lost. His friend was never lost. “But I heard the way you took care of the third. We’ve never talked about it. You never wanted to.” Montrell took a breath, then rushed to ask the question he’d tried to ask once before. “Did my father’s men—”
“We’re not going to talk about it.” Vespa’s chin was tilted defiantly, her eyes hardened. “Ever. They’re dead. I killed them.”
Montrell wiped his bloody fingers along his slacks. For once, Vespa’s manic energy didn’t comfort him. “You just said that didn’t matter. That killing them hadn’t helped.”
Vespa shook her head. “That’s not what I said. It mattered.” She nodded toward the table. “This made a difference. It just doesn’t rewind things any.” She moved toward the chemicals in the corner but didn’t bend down to grab the handle. “I would have suggested she do this, but your wife was already there asking for it. Made me not hate her quite so much.”
“Do you really hate her, Vespa?” That was one thing he’d never understood about his friend. She never seemed to make friends with other women.
“It’s not like I like her.” She scowled down at the chemicals. “I regret what happened with the other girl.”
Montrell knew who she meant. He’d barely paid attention to the woman at the Di Salvo estate the last time they’d been there. He’d been surprised that Vespa had stopped to talk to her. Vespa had agreed with him that the hitman the girl belonged to wasn’t a Coronella problem. Hell, the hitman had been responsible for Vespa’s arm. Him and the Bratva, but that group wouldn’t recover, not with their pakhan now dead. “You didn’t put her in a coma, Vespa. And she’s awake now.”
Vespa shook her head again. “I should have never given her my gun. I fucking encouraged her toward death.” Her hand gripped the plastic handle, jerking the container of chemicals off the ground. “It’s best if I don’t interfere with your wife.”
“That’ll be difficult. You’re coming with us, right? To her father?”
Vespa nodded. “Where you go, I go.”
Some of the tension left Montrell at the reminder. “Always.” He crossed to her and took the cleaner. “Let’s finish things here.”
Vespa let him take it, but she shook her head. “This here will never be finished,” she muttered, then bent over for a second container.
Chapter 8
There was something comforting in the way her new clothes and makeup made her look. Beatrice had always used beauty that way. Looking gorgeous had given her added confidence, sure, but it had also separated her from the people around her, like a mask that made them keep their distance.
As she studied herself in the mirror, using a sponge to blend the makeup a tad more on her chin, she felt her confidence was still lacking. But the mask… the mask was firmly in place.
The way her new heels clicked on the floor of the Coronella estate sent an echo shuddering through the ice inside her. With each step, they helped her hips sway, helped to tell others that she was too good to be touched. Her body was a little skinnier than it had been, but being attractive had never been out of reach.
Caring about it had turned from a joy to a responsibility. Her husband hadn’t been pleased when she’d stopped putting in effort for a short time. She’d gone back to her old ways, the ones he liked, after her jaw had healed.
Prior husband, she reminded herself as she paused at the bottom of the steps. Montrell was at the end of the hall, talking to one of his men.
She shouldn’t have gone into his room. He’d told her nothing would happen until she did, and now she had. Panic twisted inside her at the door she’d opened between them. He’d bring up her visit when they next spoke and expect more. Self-sabotage was the worst kind of idiocy. She’d constantly done it in her first marriage, letting the festering humiliation explode in ways that only hurt her more.
Closest to her was one of the Coronella soldiers. She didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t a surprise. He looked a little young, too, eager as he stared down the hall toward the boss they all worshipped. His gaze hadn’t lingered on her at all.
Which was a good thing, really.
But Montrell was heading their way, and it was like she could almost see the soldier’s tail wag. His lips didn’t smile, not quite, and his dark hair was a little mussed, but the rest of him looked like all the soldiers. A dark suit that was more put together than their boss.
Beatrice crossed the hall to him, putting her hand over his tie and pushing the young soldier into the wall.
And, oh yeah, the soldier was looking at her now. His wide-eyed stare gave her a zing of something inside her stomach. Power, maybe, because she sure as hell wasn’t turned on. Her lips descended on his anyway as she buried her other hand in his hair, mussing it up even more. The soldier wasn’t returning her kiss, but she liked that he was frozen. It matched how she was feeling.
Her mind raced as she pressed her lips against his harder. It made them even more numb, like the night before.
She’d told Montrell she wanted other men, but she hadn’t been serious. So what the hell was she doing? Was it punishment? Because Montrell hadn’t wanted her the night before? Or was she just sick of the lies and lighting the dynamite that would explode them for good?
