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Montrell shifted his shoulders. The sting was still there, but it was nothing to complain about. “Sorry about yesterday.”
Vespa’s humor bottomed out. Her lips twisted before she huffed out a breath, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against the wall. “You better be,” was all she said as the men began to file in.
Beatrice entered the room a few minutes into the meeting. Montrell paused, but then finished his instructions. It wasn’t a complete surprise that the Bratva had been behind the hit the night before. The Russians had been going off half-cocked ever since their pakhan had fallen. They were scrambling for any type of foothold in a crumbling empire.
With the Albanians also falling, Montrell wondered if Di Salvo’s plan to unite La Cosa Nostra was worth attempting. They were all rabid wolves that needed something to sink their teeth into. It was only a matter of time before they turned on each other.
He’d say as much when he met with the Di Salvos the next day.
When Beatrice started to follow the soldiers out, Montrell called after her. “Can you stay?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
Vespa glanced over her shoulder, but there was no smile on her face when she pulled the door closed behind her.
Montrell took a breath. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Beatrice’s lips tightened. She continued to stare at the door. There was no shift in her eyes. It was almost as if she hadn’t heard him.
Not that words were enough. Montrell ran a hand over his hair. “I should have never kissed you. I broke your trust. If I can—”
“You were drunk,” Beatrice said flatly.
“That’s no excuse. There are no excuses.”
She shook her head. “I’ve learned never to trust a drunk.”
Not knowing exactly what that meant, but not liking the feelings the words raised inside him, made his hands tighten into fists under the table.
“Vespa indicated you don’t get that way often.” Beatrice’s eyes flicked toward him as if in question.
“No. Alcohol doesn’t agree with me.” Montrell grimaced at the truth of that.
“You seemed… different,” she said. Her lips pursed, and her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m not going to say I forgive you, but let’s forget about it. Besides, I…” She swallowed hard, staring at the wall. “I didn’t hate the kiss.” This last part was spoken so softly, Montrell almost believed he’d imagined it.
Only his imagination wouldn’t have said that. His throat tightened while whispers of air brushed over his bare forearms.
As the silence drew out between them, Beatrice’s body grew more and more tense, as if she was bracing herself for him to pounce on her.
“Oh,” was all he managed to say before trying to clear his throat.
“Let’s stop talking about this,” Beatrice blurted, her heels snapping as she headed to the door.
“Oh,” he repeated, feeling like an idiot. “Wait. There was something else.”
Beatrice paused with her hand on the doorknob. When she turned to look at him, her face was in its perfect mask. Her skin appeared flawlessly smooth. She’d done something different with her eyes. It made them look bigger somehow.
“What is it?” she snapped as he continued to stare.
Montrell cleared his throat. “Tomorrow I’m meeting with the Di Salvos at their estate. I wanted to know if you’d like to come along.”
Her eyes lost focus the way they did whenever her mind was trying to wrap around something.
“Giovanni Di Salvo has a wife. Even Vespa likes her, though she’d never admit it. I thought maybe—” At her sudden glare, he broke off his sentence.
“What?” Beatrice moved forward, her hands slapping down on the table. “Because we’re both women, you thought we’d get along? Become best friends?”
“She’s nice,” Montrell said weakly.
