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“Round up the crew,” Montrell told his men, waving Beatrice toward the car.
“On it,” Vespa said. “We were just waiting for you.”
Beatrice’s attention continued to shift around the area, on the lookout for another attack as she moved to open the car door. At least she wasn’t one to argue about safety. Montrell followed close behind, close enough to hear the Albanian curses that spewed from inside the car as Beatrice froze.
He lunged for her, using his bulk to get between her and the car as a gunshot sounded, somehow louder than any of the others he’d heard before.
Fire blazed along his shoulder as the car window shattered, and he could do nothing but panic.
Beatrice was calmer than he was. Her gunshot resulted in the Albanian’s pained cry.
“Goddammit, Montrell. I only got his arm because you jostled me.”
His hands were on her, checking for blood. “Were you shot?”
Beatrice’s palm was so warm when it pressed over his beard. “You were the one shot, you idiot.”
But it had been close. Too close. “Get back,” he snapped, ducking into the car and grabbing the Albanian right over his gunshot wound as he dragged him out, letting him fall to the asphalt.
“Fucking cunt!” the man screamed, looking at Beatrice. “You—”
Montrell punched him. The man’s tooth cut his knuckles, but he didn’t give a shit as he punched again and again.
He was going to make the man a fucking smear on the concrete.
By the time Vespa pulled him off, he’d about accomplished it. It was a pity the now-unrecognizable man was still breathing.
“Fuck, Montrell,” Vespa muttered, her arm tightening around his chest to keep him still.
His eyes moved to find Beatrice. She wasn’t staring at him in horror. No, she was staring down, unblinking, at the man who had almost shot her. He hated that he couldn’t read any emotion on her face.
Montrell nodded to the gun clutched in her hand. “Take his last breath.”
Her hand tightened, and her head shifted so she could stare at him instead. “I shouldn’t.” She licked her lips. “He’s related to my husband. A cousin.”
“No.” Montrell wished he’d learned to talk softly, but he never had, and his voice was a growling shout. “I’m your husband.”
Her eyes closed. “I know.” He could barely hear her whisper. When her eyes opened, they looked like cloudy water. “I meant the police—”
“Won’t fucking find him. He no longer exists. Kill him if you want.”
Beatrice didn’t question him again. Her gun held steady as she pointed it at what remained of the man’s face. And then she pulled the trigger.
Montrell moved to her side to take her gun. Only then did he realize how bloody his own hands were. He touched her as little as he had to.
She gazed back at him. When she leaned up, her lips brushed over his in the softest of caresses.
He jerked away. “Don’t.” He shook his head as he backed up. When her face grew even more remote, he felt even worse, but he didn’t deserve her kisses. He hadn’t protected her.
“Montrell!” Vespa called, lowering herself toward the body. Sirens could be heard in the distance.
“Get in the car,” he told Beatrice, relieved when she obeyed and no disaster followed this time. He had quite the mess to clean up.
Chapter 17
In the bathroom, Beatrice slipped on the robe she had bought for herself, wrapping it tightly around her damp skin. More water dewed the top slope of her breast, but that part of her was sexy. It was the scar tissue to the sides and below that she was trying to ignore. The slices of the knife had healed to leave crisscrossing lines of white and pink. There were two from where he had stabbed deeper, and the tissue there was slightly raised; one on the far left side and the other underneath that same breast.
She wasn’t ashamed of the scars, not exactly; not like she was ashamed of the lines on her wrists that the robe’s sleeves covered. Those reminded her of how far she could fall. The damage to her breasts was all for feigned slights she’d supposedly made by flirting with others. Each time her husband believed the lies, he would carve her breasts as punishment. It was a way to make her less beautiful, but in a way few people could see because a beautiful appearance had been very important to him.
