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As they exited the casino, Vespa brought up the rear. She no longer had a gun out, but the duffel remained open as her eyes scanned the underground shopping center. No more Albanians jumped out at them from the shadows.
The rental car was waiting in a back alley. Montrell drove, appearing somehow larger behind the wheel of the nondescript sedan.
Beatrice leaned her head against the seatback. She wasn’t drowsy. She wasn’t anything. True sky existed above the lights of the city, blue in the rising sun. She’d lived to see sunrise at least.
She never expected to be driven to one of the quickie wedding chapels. Her body grew numb as she realized what Montrell intended.
He rounded the car, opening the door for her. When she continued to sit inside, he ducked down, more than filling the doorway.
Montrell Coronella was much larger than her husband had been. The man she had married had been muscular and fit and hard in a lean sort of way. He’d been stronger than she was and aggressive—more than aggressive. When he’d stood before her on their wedding day, she’d compared him Montrell and had found her replacement groom, though more traditionally handsome, somewhat lacking.
Montrell was strong, but in a whole different way. His body was that of a burly grizzly bear, one who could probably punch through a tree trunk. He’d never worn a suit jacket like the other Mafia men she’d known, but she thought that was best. He’d look like a gorilla in one. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up and strained against the thickness in his arms. He was easily two of her, maybe even three.
If Montrell hit her, she wouldn’t be able to bounce back.
“No.” Beatrice sank deeper into the back seat of the car. It didn’t help. All she could see was Montrell. He took up that much space.
“You want a safe path out of Vegas? This is the cost.” Montrell’s gaze passed over her. He frowned, stepping back as if to give her more space.
Vespa blew out a breath in the front passenger seat, scowling in the rearview mirror as she clutched the heavy duffel. “What? He not good enough for you?”
Her tone made Beatrice’s throat tighten even more.
“He was good enough for you to say yes to before,” Vespa muttered.
Beatrice flushed, picking up on the implication. She had said yes. The idea of marrying him had excited her. He was the one who hadn’t shown up, leaving someone else to stand in his place. Of course, her father had had a hand in that.
“Leave it, Vespa,” Montrell warned. He walked away from the car, leaning beside the chapel door instead.
Vespa made a rude noise in her throat. “Seriously, princess. What choice do you have?” She shoved open the passenger door, dragging the duffel out with her.
Not having a choice had led to her first marriage. Beatrice wondered if this was really much different. She was careful to hold her dress down as she slid across the seat and exited the car.
At least it wasn’t Elvis marrying them. As the standard vows were read, Beatrice’s mind wandered. Her husband might not even be considered legally dead yet. Was marrying so soon even considered valid? Vegas was supposed to have lenient rules when it came to marriage, she supposed.
“I do,” Montrell said in his big, booming voice. He stared at her as he spoke the words, adding, “I’ll keep you safe, Bea. I promise.”
When it was her turn, Beatrice said the necessary words.
She was still wearing her previous wedding band. Montrell frowned at it as he replaced it with the one he had purchased at the chapel. He didn’t hesitate to chuck the diamond-encrusted band she’d worn before into the pews.
His kiss after it was all said and done was brief, which didn’t give her time to overthink it.
Beatrice signed her name beside his on the marriage license.
A dull feeling had taken over by the time she sat in the car again, as if she was stuck in a dream and soon she’d have to wake up.
Montrell stared down at the wedding band on his finger as the driver pulled through the gates of the Coronella estate. The ring was a little tight. He’d have to really twist it if he wanted it off. That suited him. Feeling it there would remind him he’d done the deed.
Beatrice had been quiet on the private jet home. He’d expected her to sleep. She looked like hell, which wasn’t surprising after the night she’d had. There were bags under her eyes, smudges of mascara streaking out from them, lipstick and most of her other makeup was gone, and her hair was tangled and ratted. He’d only seen her mussed once before, the afternoon he had been the one to muss her. He’d never expected a Cosa Nostra princess to not only let him touch her before their marriage but to instigate it. She’d been on fire the day she’d given him her virginity.
He’d seen it as a good sign. No way would she back out of the contract, regardless of what Vespa had heard.
That Beatrice had married the Albanian the next day made fools of them both. Her father had enjoyed telling him he wasn’t good enough for his daughter, and Montrell had taken the man’s word for it that she felt the same way, that she had asked for the contract to be broken.
Maybe she had. Montrell hadn’t asked her yet. He’d barely spoken to her at all.
His pinky slid against the wedding band. He may not have spoken to her very much, but he’d married her. What should have happened long ago was fixed now.
