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“We killed a good chunk of them with yesterday’s ambush. They weren’t expecting that.” Vespa’s smile was full of teeth as she slapped Montrell’s shoulder. At least it was the uninjured one. “Your instincts paid off again. I swear you’re psychic sometimes.”
He shook his head but let the rest of his tension ease. The chair creaked as he leaned back in it. “Did the rest go to ground?”
“Yeah, scattered like cockroaches.” Vespa shrugged. “They’re hiding pretty well again, which pisses me off.” Her eyes slid to Beatrice. “Got any ideas about where?”
Beatrice hesitated, her own scowl fading into a frown. “Sorry, no. The Albanians never trusted me with their business.” Her fingers dug into the material of her dress as her lips pressed together. Her eyes seemed to grow shaded with memories, but whatever they were, she wasn’t sharing.
Vespa grunted. “Well, we’ll find them. You might help with something else.” Her gaze shifted to Montrell. “The Lucchese are raising a fuss about the drop yesterday. They don’t seem to like all the attention the shootout caused.”
“I don’t give a fuck what they like,” Montrell said. His eyes focused on Beatrice. “Can we kill them yet?”
Beatrice let out a small smile that eased some of his anger. For a moment. Then her arm lifted in a feminine flick of her hair over her shoulder as she said, “Let me handle my father,” but he’d stop listening.
Her pale wrist had turned with the gesture, and for the first time, Montrell saw the healed scar down the inside of her arm. His ears rushed with noise that blotted out her next words. He squeezed his eyes shut as another voice filled his mind.
“This is what you want, isn’t it? This is what you both want!” his mother shrieked in his memory.
Closing his eyes only made the memory worse.
He opened them. Beatrice’s arm had dropped, but it didn’t matter. He now knew what was there.
She’d said she hadn’t thought she wanted to live. The words had carved him to the bone, but he’d never imagined that they meant she’d tried to unalive herself.
Not his Bea, who had had such vivacity back when they were courting. He wanted her smiles back, her laughter, that gleam in her eye as she whispered sneaky ideas in his ear. He wanted the way she’d fallen apart in his arms and been only his.
His gaze turned to the table, trying to bore a hole through it, one that he could crawl into and bawl, just as she had cried the night before.
His own insecurities from his upbringing had led to him tucking tail and running without all the facts. He’d been the one to leave her to that monster, not her father.
“Out,” Montrell said. His blank tone fell into the room, cutting off whatever was being said.
No one moved. He was going to lose his goddamn mind, and they were all there, staring at him.
“Out!” he shouted, his fists cracking down on the top of the table.
The men scattered. Even Beatrice didn’t hesitate, his show of anger feeding into the flight instinct he’d noticed and been so careful to try not to engage.
Vespa was always the one to stay. “Montrell—”
“Leave!” he roared, shoving to his feet to flip the goddamn table.
Vespa jerked out of the way in time. “For fuck’s sake! What—”
The chair he’d been in followed, crashing into the bulletproof window but not shattering it like he’d wanted. No, that would be too satisfying.
He didn’t deserve any satisfaction.
Vespa’s eyes had widened. She hadn’t seen him the last time he lost control. She’d been recovering from the attack his father’s men had inflicted on her.
Montrell failed to save everyone in his life.
“Please, Vespa,” he gasped, not looking at her. “Out.”
He was grateful when he heard the door click shut behind her.
Finally alone, he slowly and methodically began tearing the room apart. Each slam, each splintering slab of wood, did nothing to silence the voices inside.
“You didn’t kill your father for me,” his mother said, her voice so empty. “You had years to do that. No, the timing was all for yourself.” Somehow, her image overlapped with Beatrice’s.
