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Nera frowned. “Maybe I shouldn’t come.”
Giovanni’s hand settled over hers. “No. Let them question it.” There was a hardness in his eyes.
Montrell blew out a breath. “Hell, it’s not just the misogyny. Di Salvo, you dealt with the same shit as me from being half Italian. And it was their fucking arranged marriages that caused it.” He grimaced as he looked over at Beatrice. “Not that I’m complaining.”
Beatrice shook her head. “Ours wasn’t arranged. Not anymore.” She studied his lighter brown hair with its hint of red. “It’s true that my father changed his mind because of your roots. He was never a fan of the Irish.”
Antonio broke his staring contest with Vespa, shifting his gaze back to Giovanni. “Speaking of the Irish.”
Giovanni’s eyes flickered as his hand tightened. “The O’Connell family approached us.”
Montrell’s chair scraped against the floor as he shoved to his feet and began to pace.
Beatrice’s gaze flew to him, surprised by his reaction.
“Opinion?” Giovanni pressed.
Antonio’s expression was sharper. “Your mother is still living with them, correct?”
“Yeah,” Montrell muttered. He tugged on his beard as he continued to stalk the room. “Yeah.”
Beatrice knew little about his mother’s background, just that the woman had run back to the Irish shortly before Montrell killed his father.
Vespa grimaced as she followed Montrell’s movements, but she said nothing.
Antonio lifted an eyebrow again. “That’s not the response I was expecting. An alliance with them isn’t ideal, Coronella?”
“I didn’t say that.” Montrell was scowling, though.
“Yes, you did,” Nera said, her tone soothing. “Why don’t we table that option for now, Giovanni, and give Montrell time to consider it?”
Her husband nodded, and the Di Salvos brought up another topic for discussion, but Montrell didn’t sit again before the meeting ended.
Montrell still wanted to punch something as the door to the conference room opened. It felt like a doorway to freedom.
His mother. He hadn’t thought about her or her family for a while. If they were going to reach out to anyone in La Cosa Nostra, it should have been to him. But of course it wasn’t.
He didn’t care that the Di Salvos were making more waves than the Coronellas. He preferred it. The years where the Coronellas had been insulated and self-sufficient had been ideal. Hell, between what he’d taken from the Albanians and the Lucchese, he had too many resources to keep up with now. Rescuing Beatrice had shaken things up, but he’d expected that.
Besides, he hadn’t been able to do anything else, not when he’d found out how she was suffering. He should have seen the comparison long before. Beatrice had been given to a monster by her father, just like his own mother had by hers.
And if Montrell hadn’t been so butt-hurt over being jilted practically at the altar, he would have seen it. His insecurities had blinded him for too long.
Even so, he missed how simple his family’s life had been only months prior. Before his alliance with the Di Salvos, sure, but Beatrice was changing things as well. For the better, he had to admit, even businesswise, and Montrell wanted her to have everything she desired. He knew she would want more. An empire, like the Di Salvos wanted, and it was too damn bad that he himself preferred the quiet of running a small business. Sure, they sold illegal shit, but still, he kept free from flesh and from drugs. As long as they stuck to that, he could handle bigger. He could handle anything.
Except facing his mother again. He’d left revenge against his own father for too long. Montrell deserved her anger. He’d always deserved it. He’d failed her, time and again.
The Di Salvos estate was set up opposite of his own. They conducted business upstairs for the most part. He trailed after Beatrice down the stairs.
Vespa followed them, arguing about something with Antonio. She and Giovanni’s half brother were like oil and water. He’d never seen anyone rile her more. Normally, he’d find it amusing.
Montrell almost didn’t see the little slip of a woman waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She was taking after that prick of a Russian assassin she’d latched onto. He still hadn’t forgiven Luka for getting Vespa shot.
Before Montrell realized her intentions, the woman launched herself at Vespa. His best friend stiffened up like he expected, the panic on her face drawing out his smile despite everything.
“What? What is this!” Vespa shouted.
Montrell’s laugh was suddenly easy. “It’s called a hug, Vespa.”
