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Montrell had been honest and frank with her. It had taken her a while to realize that there was no hidden meaning in his words. Beatrice really could do exactly what she wanted.
It was just too damn bad that she had no idea what that was.
The vast emptiness inside of her was more proof of what she’d become. She couldn’t imagine anything that would make her happy.
Happiness was only an illusion anyway, temporary moments that faded and twisted as she thought back on them.
She preferred not to think at all. To focus only on what she could control.
Business was easy to control.
The Coronellas were an odd family. Montrell didn’t have a consigliere. It was more like he had that position, though he was more reactive and action-oriented than relationship-based. Strangely, that made others seem to like him. Montrell was the only person she knew who said exactly what he meant, with no hidden agenda.
It was confusing as hell.
He should have returned to the estate by now. The task the family was taking care of tonight wasn’t particularly dangerous, not any more than normal. There was always danger—it wasn’t as if they were in the cupcake business—but the danger should have been minimal. The heaviest arm of the Coronellas was weapons. The ones they were intercepting that night were highly coveted—impossible to trace and easy to move.
All that had been necessary tonight was presence and muscle. Montrell hadn’t needed to be the muscle, but he’d jumped on the chance to offer his help. She didn’t understand his desire to be with his men on the front lines.
When the voices of the men drew her to the front door and she saw him leaning heavily against Vespa’s shoulder, she realized why she couldn’t understand him. It was because he was an idiot.
“Dammit, you’re heavy,” Vespa muttered, forcing them forward together. “Walk, you giant moron.”
“I’m walking,” Montrell mumbled back, but his feet fumbled along the floorboards instead of stepping forward.
The other Coronellas hovering behind them looked worried.
Beatrice’s gaze skimmed over her husband. There didn’t seem to be copious amounts of blood, though his dress shirt was ripped and torn.
“This is your fault, Ves.” Montrell was slurring, and Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “Y’know I don’t drink.”
Vespa laughed in his face. “With all your bulk, being a lightweight makes no fucking sense, but it’s the best revenge. Serves you right for almost getting me shot again.” Vespa’s eyes flicked over to where Beatrice stood, but besides a tightening of her jaw, she ignored her as she dragged him to the nearest bathroom. “You need to pay goddamn attention!” she shouted, the acoustics of the smaller room making the words echo.
The idea that Montrell could be drunk rooted Beatrice’s feet to the floor. When people drank, they lost their inhibitions. What may have seemed wrong before no longer became a boundary. There was no right or wrong to a drunk.
She should return to her room.
His boyish whine drew her closer to the door instead. “Leave it, Ves. That hurts!”
So he was hurt. She couldn’t quite process that image. Montrell was too large and full of life to be brought down. Over the last few weeks, she’d been a little envious of him.
She in no way wanted to be married, but if she could be Montrell, that would be something else. Nothing ever seemed to faze him. There was nothing he couldn’t do.
Except apparently get his abrasions cleaned properly. He hollered in pain again when Beatrice looked through the still-open doorway.
Vespa had a dark bottle in one hand and a wicked smile on her face. “Don’t be a baby.”
“’S your fault,” Montrell mumbled again as he pouted at the floor.
Beatrice blinked. She hadn’t known Montrell’s face could look quite like that.
Vespa nodded toward her. “You’re embarrassing yourself in front of your wife.”
Montrell straightened from where he’d slouched against the counter, letting the hand he’d been using to ward Vespa off drop. “Oh, Bea.” He blinked at her, as if trying to focus.
“Are you injured?” Beatrice asked, frowning at his shoulder.
Vespa waved at him with her free hand. “Dumbass here almost got shot. I managed to shove him out of the way, but the asphalt scraped him up good.” She thumped the bottle of antiseptic down on the counter. Her touch was less than gentle as she pulled on the ripped-up fabric of his shirt. It was too torn to say it covered his shoulders.
