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It had been a long time since she’d heard her name pronounced the way it was intended to be in Italian. It had been a long time since she’d heard her name at all. For years, she’d been answering to her title of wife.
Her head turned toward the cloud-covered walkway. A large, barrel-chested man with a beard that was in no way trimmed to perfection stepped into the aisle, already shooting. His brown hair was lighter than most Italians’ and held a hint of red. Even as he began killing Albanians, his brown eyes flashed with warmth.
Beatrice hadn’t seen Montrell Coronella since the afternoon they’d spent together before their pending wedding. The half-Irish made man her father had chosen to be her husband had fascinated her. At the time, succumbing to their shared desire a tad early had seemed mischievous but infinitely rewarding. Instead, he’d gotten all he had wanted and hadn’t raised a fuss when she was given to someone else.
But now he was shooting Albanians, a decision she could agree with. Beatrice raised her own gun, emptying the rest of the clip into her distracted attackers. Two went down, including the fucked-up cousin, before the others darted for cover.
Vespa joined Montrell, which was no surprise to Beatrice. Vespa had been attached to his hip years ago, and Beatrice hadn’t expected that to have changed.
Montrell nodded toward Beatrice as her gun lowered, already empty, and Vespa was quick to slide in behind her.
The woman grinned as she jutted her chin toward the duffel she let drop off her shoulder. She wore a sling that prevented her from pointing two guns at once, which had been one of her brags years before. Beatrice pulled out a gun with a full clip, and they fired together before the Albanians could recover and focus on the very visible target that was Montrell.
“Get her out of here!” Montrell shouted over the shots.
“Fuck no!” Vespa shouted back. “We all go together, or we don’t go at all.”
He glared at her but ducked behind the far wall for cover. Vespa had to drop her empty gun and grab the one she kept strapped to her ankle, and for a moment Beatrice was the only one returning fire. Then everyone was shooting again. Even with cover, the half dozen Albanians were taken out. Beatrice hadn’t landed another hit, but Vespa was that good, even one-handed.
“Shit, you’re a lot of trouble,” she muttered, bumping Beatrice’s shoulder with her injured one and grimacing after the gesture.
Beatrice had never been sure how to take the woman. She was loyal to Montrell, worshipful even, and had never liked Beatrice much.
“Are you okay, Bea?” Montrell asked as he crossed to them.
She blinked. She’d forgotten that he used to shorten her name. Their engagement had been brief, but it had also been a time of seeing exactly who she wanted to be. She had really wanted to be his Bea.
Beatrice pointed the gun she still gripped at his chest.
Vespa lifted her gun a beat later. That was fine. She’d expected that.
“What are you doing here, Montrell?” Beatrice asked.
“Saving your ass,” Vespa muttered, her eyes narrowed.
“It’s all right, Vespa.” Montrell waved for her to put the gun away, but his enforcer didn’t move.
“What are you doing here?” Beatrice repeated. The words felt raw in her throat. There’d been a time, years ago, when it would have meant everything to see him. Now she only wondered what angle he was playing.
“Seems you’re in a spot of trouble,” Montrell said. He smiled at her. He’d always been able to grin with authentic joy. “Let us help.”
“Did my father send you?” Beatrice shook her head at her own question. “No, he wouldn’t have.” Not only could he not have anticipated her husband’s death, he wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help her. She’d asked before. Besides, he’d never respected Montrell Coronella.
The fact that Montrell’s smile faltered suggested that he agreed with her assessment. “He broke a contract, Bea. I don’t take that lightly.”
“So this is revenge?” The laugh that escaped from her was more of a snort. Her arms spread wide, and the gun dangled loosely. “Go on then. Have Vespa shoot me. But you’ll find it won’t hurt him as much as you think.”
Montrell crouched before her. He didn’t take the gun. “We’re not here to shoot you.”
Beatrice stared into eyes so different from the ones she’d grown accustomed to.
Montrell sighed as he pushed to his feet, holding his hand down. “Let’s save the whys for later. You want to get out of here, don’t you?”
Vespa finally holstered her gun and gathered the duffel.
Beatrice wanted to live. That hadn’t changed. Instead of taking his hand, she placed her gun in his palm then shoved herself up from the floor. Her body tensed as she did. If it had been her husband’s hand she declined, she would have been backhanded for her lack of respect. She never learned.
But Montrell simply tucked the gun away, turning his back to her. “We’ve got a car this way.”
