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He could still hear her voice, almost toneless, as she’d said point blank that she’d been raped.
When she’d once given herself to him, she had been carefree and confident, completely owning her sexuality.
The cold woman who’d slowly stripped her father into a sniveling mess had been a different kind of compelling.
Montrell hadn’t known she had once run to her father. At least, that was the impression he had gotten from the discussion he’d witnessed. There was a lot he didn’t understand, like what the hell the daughter had over the father, but she’d said he’d seen what had happened to her firsthand.
Montrell’s mother had run back to her family, too, but they had protected her when she did. Montrell couldn’t understand how anyone could do the opposite.
At his estate, Beatrice hadn’t worn anything quite as revealing as what she’d chosen for her father. Oh, all of her outfits were sexy as hell, but they tended to cover her back and arms while accentuating the valley between her breasts and her gorgeously long legs. Her legs made her seem taller than she was, especially in the stab-something heels she preferred.
No, her clinging dress when she’d visited her father had been meant to reveal her scars.
He suspected some of her injuries had been dripping blood the last time she’d been among the Lucchese.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d started a war by breaking the one soldier’s wrist.
The Lucchese family never retaliated. Instead, the Coronellas had been making money hand over fist in the weeks since they’d used their newfound resources.
Beatrice had often been present during the business discussions back when they were engaged. She had said little during the meetings, but he’d seen her bite her lips. When she’d tackled him in the sitting room she’d chosen for their shocking interlude, her lipstick-covered lips had whispered business suggestions, things to ask her father for.
It had only made her hotter, but Montrell’s focus had been on not coming in his pants at the time.
Even back then, she’d understood the business side of things. Probably because she’d adored her father and had been at his side. How often, Montrell didn’t know; he’d only been around a bit toward the end.
He couldn’t understand how Santino Lucchese could have sent his own daughter back into hell if she really had run to him while broken and bleeding. When Montrell had called the man after receiving reports of what life had been like for Beatrice, the Lucchese family had made their position more than clear. They’d refused to join him on his trip to Vegas, but Montrell had thought that was because they hadn’t wanted to align with the Coronellas.
Thinking about it again made Montrell want to punch something. His fists clenched under the table as one of his capos finished outlining the next steps to shore up a new opportunity they’d taken now that the Albanians were gone. It sounded like it might get bloody.
Just what he needed. “I’ll join your crew,” Montrell told the capo, whose eyes widened before he nodded his acceptance.
Vespa’s glare dug into his back, but Montrell knew she wouldn’t speak up. At least not while their capos and soldiers were around.
She’d give him hell in private, though. It didn’t matter. He needed to kill something.
Beatrice’s lips pressed together. His gaze flicked to her, wondering if she would voice dissent. She’d started coming to every meeting, but just as she’d done in her father’s meetings, she never said a word.
He wanted to call her out on it, but he was worried about putting her on the spot as well. He just wanted to hear her voice.
In the weeks that had passed since their visit to her father, she’d become like a wandering ghost. She didn’t stick to her room very often, but she also didn’t seem to know quite what to do with herself.
He hadn’t seen her pounce on any of his men either. Not that he’d wanted to see that. He’d found words to explain the situation to his men. Probably not the right ones, but hell, were there any right ones to explain that he’d pimped them out to his wife? They understood they were to treat her with respect, to never, ever hurt her, and to not be the ones to instigate anything. That was enough.
Only she barely seemed to look at them. Not even to flirt. As he watched her file out of the room with the others, he wondered how he could help her. He was still struggling with what to do while Vespa lectured him on how, as boss of the family, he shouldn’t be on the front lines.
The distracting worry continued to consume him as he joined the crew that night. It made him less than focused when their drop was hit and the bullets began to fly, causing Vespa to put herself in front of him to protect him once again.
He was the worst friend ever.
Beatrice didn’t pace the hallway. That would be uncomfortable as hell in heels. Besides, it wasn’t like she was worried. She wasn’t fool enough to worry about a husband who couldn’t act like the boss he’d become. What did it matter if she was widowed again? Then she’d finally be free to live a life away from La Cosa Nostra.
She couldn’t imagine that type of life, though. In the past few weeks, the business side of the Coronella family had become the only thing that could get her out of her own head.
When Montrell had first talked to her about what their marriage was to be like, she hadn’t believed him. Telling someone to do whatever they wanted would only work until what she chose to do began to annoy him. Maybe not even that long.
But the few things she’d asked for had been given to her without argument. She’d gotten revenge, both on her first husband’s family and on her father. She’d even kissed someone besides Montrell. He’d not only not been angry, he’d told the man to go back and kiss her again.
She didn’t want that. She didn’t want anyone to touch her. Montrell hadn’t once pushed to enter her bedroom. He’d even almost ruined the forced alliance she’d set up with the Lucchese when one of her father’s men had barely touched her—a man she’d been more than happy to let touch her once before, back when she was naïve and didn’t recognize the vulnerability that came with it.
