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Beatrice didn’t look like she had back in the day. Oh, her long, dark hair was the same, and her figure was like it had been when she was younger, all ass and breasts and legs, but a tad skinnier too. There was a thinness to her cheeks that made him want to take her straight to Giulia to feed her. Giulia Coronella had taken care of him since he was a kid, back when his parents had been too focused on their own mess of a relationship that they ignored him or took it out on him.
What Beatrice needed the most was rest. She’d fucking killed her husband less than a day ago.
She’d been justified to. Montrell had read the reports. Antonio Di Salvo had found the doctor the Albanians had used. Montrell didn’t have a good imagination, but the reports were detailed. They only included the worst of what had happened, when a doctor couldn’t be avoided. The treatment needed had been for broken bones or blood infusions or goddamn resuscitation, for fuck’s sake, and reading about it had given him a glimpse into what her life had been like for the past five years.
He was a little pissed that he couldn’t do all the things he’d read about to that bastard of a husband of hers—slowly, and in excruciating detail.
It was better she’d killed him herself, but that didn’t prevent Montrell from wanting to punch something. The single gunfight hadn’t been nearly enough violence to vent his anger.
The car stopped, and he dragged his bulk out of the back seat. He wanted to offer her a hand, but she’d already tucked her hands against the skirt of her dress as she moved to slide out on her own, so he did the best thing he could do and gave her some space.
Vespa jumped out from where she’d sat next to the driver. She didn’t much care for Beatrice. When he’d decided on the rescue, she’d said tragedy didn’t wipe away a bitchy personality, but she’d come and supported him anyway. Vespa might disagree, but she’d always support him.
She slapped his shoulder with her good hand and strode off.
Beatrice was slower to approach the estate. It was like she couldn’t quite believe she was there. He was tempted to give her a tour, so that she could start considering the estate her home, but he again decided she needed rest more. He led her to the room next to his own. Giulia had cleaned it up before he left.
He didn’t close the bedroom door behind him. He’d talked with his boys before he’d left. The other Coronellas knew to give them space.
Beatrice moved past him and deeper into the room, standing in her dress, which surprisingly wasn’t wrinkled, but maybe that was a benefit of the shiny material. Her heels were scuffed but still looked amazing on her, making her long legs seem even longer.
Montrell hovered near the doorway and considered what to say.
As the silence drew out, her shoulders tensed. Beatrice turned to face him, her chin lifting, but her eyes were cold, not smoky quartz like they used to be but gunmetal gray. Her hair covered the bruises around her throat, but when she tilted her head like that, he could see them. And he wished he could go back in time and undo the sins of the butt-hurt idiot who’d let her get away.
“You expect to consummate this marriage.” Her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, as if holding herself would stop the tremble he detected. “I guess that’s fitting. I still have cum on my thighs from my last husband raping me.”
“For fuck’s sake, Bea!” Montrell’s vision turned hazy as fury washed over him. He clutched at the doorframe, needing to steady himself. His throat had to work twice before he could swallow the spew of words that were too little, too late. “Get some sleep,” he bit out instead and pulled the door shut between them.
His forehead rested on it outside in the hallway, and his hand remained clenched around the handle. He listened, but Beatrice Lucchese had never been one to cry.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t hurting. She was hurt so badly, he was terrified the pain would never go away.
His hand eventually loosened, only to gather again into a fist near his thigh. He’d been planning to sleep himself, but now rage consumed him. His tread was heavy as he headed down the stairs. Spilling blood would help, and there was always someone working against La Cosa Nostra who needed to be killed.
Chapter 3
Beatrice stared at her only dress, which she’d hung over a chair in the room the night before. Her fingers brushed over one of the scars on her wrists. She didn’t like to look at her wrists. Her husband never had either. Shortly after she had healed, he’d brought home pearl cuffs that would wrap around the scars to cover them.
The cuffs lay over the skirt of her dress, the white of the pearls lustrous and gorgeous in the light of the lamp she’d never turned off. She’d been wearing them even though her dress was long-sleeved. She always wore them, even to bed.
But there they sat, one of the only things she’d brought with her. Two sets that blocked most of the length of her forearm and only shifted down a little when she raised her hands. She used to use her hands to talk, but once she felt the way the cuffs shifted, the weight made her stop. She’d mostly stopped talking altogether by then anyway. It was pointless when no one wanted to hear what you had to say.
The puckered scar was smooth under her finger, no longer a scab, but a slightly raised and discolored patch of skin. It marked her as someone who self-harmed, even though it hadn’t been her fingers gripping the blade. She’d dreamed about doing it for most of a year, and she’d thought she’d come to terms with the choice.
But panic had taken over her mind as she’d bled onto the bathroom tiles.
Her finger continued to stroke over the scar. She’d gone to bed naked, figuring Montrell would return. It was best to get the worst over with. The sheets had shifted over her skin the whole night, making it impossible not to think about her nakedness. She used to be proud of her body. Now she wanted only to cover it and lie still and get past the fear of how her new life would be.
Her time in Montrell’s arms so long ago seemed like another person’s life. She’d been wild and free and had felt loved. On her actual wedding night, she hadn’t been able to wrap her head around being with the wrong groom. Back then, her husband had been in his pleasant phase, acting almost lovesick over her. He’d touched her in ways similar to the ways Montrell had, but her body had failed to respond because her mind hadn’t caught up. By the time he’d shoved himself inside her, it hadn’t hurt much, but it hadn’t been good either. He’d said she’d get used to making love with time and had left her alone in the room. Her husband had preferred to sleep alone.
Whenever they stayed in a hotel room, he had expected her to curl up on the floor after he was done. Like a dog. She’d learned to wake early to clean up as quietly as she could. Her husband preferred everything spotless, and it was her place to keep it that way for him.
The days of learning the business at her father’s side were gone. The sharpness of her thoughts and ideas had dulled over time.
Her gaze traced the room she’d been given in the Coronella estate. It was already spotless. No cleaning was necessary. So she lay naked in the bed as the morning drifted away, her mind sluggish as it filled with the image of her husband’s dead eyes blaming her. Her small stroke over her wrist kept her grounded in the present moment.
A knock on the door made her tuck her arms under the blanket. When she failed to respond, it opened anyway, but it wasn’t Montrell’s bulky form taking up the doorway.
