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“Damn straight.” Montrell was able to smile again as he reached out to muss her hair. It never worked quite right now that she twisted her hair into those tight buns.
It made her scowl and swat at him anyway, looking more like herself. He wondered how much of that was a front, and he hated that he even had the thought. Vespa was just Vespa. She had once been a pain-in-the-neck kid who followed him around but saved his ass. Now she was almost an extension of himself, still continuously saving his ass.
“I guess her outfits were going to make the boys look at her anyway,” Vespa said, crossing her arms as she stared down the hall.
Montrell’s gut churned. “Hey, none of that.”
He’d only seen Vespa dressed to kill once. Her heel had been broken off, and the revealing dress had been bloody by the end of that night. Not with her blood, she’d assured him at the time, even though she’d passed out after. It hadn’t only been her blood, she’d meant.
His jaw tightened. “Women are gorgeous as hell, no matter what they wear. Showing it off doesn’t mean they’re asking for it.”
Vespa gave a single nod. “Maybe not.”
“No ‘maybe.’ One of my boys so much as catcalls, I’ll make things clear.” Montrell’s hand was back to curling into a fist. “Respect should be part of the Coronella ways. All types of respect.”
A small smile tilted her lips. She reached up, tugging on his beard lightly. “Never change.” She turned, heading after the young soldier.
Montrell jogged after her. “So, wait, can you help me figure out exactly what to say to the boys?”
A true chuckle rumbled in her chest as she nudged his shoulder. “Just be you.”
He laughed as well, some of his worry fading to the back of his mind. Overthinking things had never worked for him. He just felt dumber for it. He bumped her back slightly harder, because he was big and bulky and couldn’t help it, but like usual, Vespa held firm.
Chapter 9
Beatrice sat next to Montrell during the drive to her father’s estate, waiting for him to bring up the kiss. He never did. Maybe because Vespa was in the car with them, though she doubted Vespa would lift a finger to help her. The woman had been up Montrell’s ass for as long as she could remember.
She’d watched them in the hallway the day before. Watched the way Vespa had leaned into his chest, the small, playful tug on his beard. Their faces had been serious for a while, and there was still that bubble that wouldn’t let anyone in.
Back during the engagement, that had bothered Beatrice. Vespa had always been cold toward her. Had even glared at her after she’d left the room where she’d given her virginity to Montrell. There was no doubt Vespa had known what happened, and she hadn’t been happy about it. That had made Beatrice smug at the time.
Thinking the two friends might love each other didn’t give Beatrice any flash of heat now. She wasn’t jealous. In a way, it made her new husband’s lack of jealousy a little easier to understand. Montrell already had his person.
So why the hell had he married her instead?
She smoothed the red skirt of her dress as the car turned into the driveway of her father’s estate. The Lucchese name was one plausible answer. And if it was, she’d get the Coronellas everything they deserved for doing the opposite of what her father’s family had done. The Lucchese family had sent her back to her life among monsters.
She’d been very particular about her outfit for the day. No long sleeves despite the chill in the air. Only her pearl bangles covered her arms. Her shoulders and back were all but bare, the skinny straps of the halter around her neck running along the scars there, accenting instead of hiding. It was the plunging back that was the most important. Her prior husband had beaten her bloody with his belt the one time she’d run away. The marks from the buckle had transformed into white scars. They crisscrossed with others from all the beatings over the years.
Her eyes shifted to Montrell again. He’d gotten quiet ever since he’d seen her back. There was no smile today.
He hadn’t asked her about what she’d come to say to her father. There had been no talk of strategy.
Beatrice had asked him to make an appointment, and he had. He and Vespa were here beside her, walking into the den of vipers.
Beatrice didn’t take Montrell’s hand as she climbed out of the car. Lifting her hand might have let the pearl cuffs shift, but she also preferred to do it herself; to prove that she didn’t need anyone, despite what the world did to prove otherwise.
They were led inside and through the Lucchese soldiers, most of whom Beatrice recognized. Others she didn’t. All of their gazes felt hot on her shoulders. When she was young, she’d felt protected by their presence in her life. She’d felt like a part of them. But not one had lifted a finger when her abusive husband had come to collect her the one time she’d gotten enough courage to run away.
And now, she was even more nervous with Montrell and Vespa at her side. Montrell had brought very few men for a meeting that was likely going to be less than pleasant.
The two men who perched outside of her father’s favorite sitting room were familiar. They had been by her side for most of her teenage years, especially when she’d left the house. She’d practiced her flirting skills on them. It had felt safe, empowering. The younger of the two had even been the first man she’d ever kissed. It had been hot as hell to push him against the wall and make that move while the other watched. The risk of being found had only added to her excitement.
Her father had spoiled her in many ways, but he’d stuck tightly to his expectations of her purity, which had always seemed silly to her since she had known from a young age exactly how many women he fucked. Her mother had died during childbirth, and he’d never remarried. Supposedly he’d loved her mother, and that love had carried over to him letting Beatrice get away with almost anything.
Santino Lucchese had been very business-focused, and his only daughter had been raised by nannies. His forms of love were gifts, indulgences, and an unwillingness to tell her no. Or so she’d thought.
All of her memories of what had been had become forfeit when he called her husband to come and collect her instead of keeping her safe.
