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As he lifted his water glass, he accepted that Giulia had been right. His mother had done quite a carve-out of his self-confidence despite the smile he showed the world.
“Bea—” he started just as Giulia came out from the kitchen.
Giulia had closed the place early, as she’d promised. The small restaurant never had a ton of customers—mainly because the hours weren’t consistent and the neighborhood knew who ran it. His family brought some protection to the businesses there, but that didn’t mean they wanted to sit with the Mafia boss, who used to be a frequent visitor.
He liked the checkered tablecloths, the jaunty arch over the entrance, the scarred, wooden chairs that easily held his frame, and, of course, Giulia’s care. He wished he’d brought Beatrice there more in the weeks they’d been together.
Her flawless face looked so damn remote despite the red lipstick she’d painted on. He’d rather see her relaxed and smiling.
Giulia gathered the plates from the first course with a frown in his direction.
He pulled at his collar, knowing he was screwing up without the reminder.
“Perhaps soup. To warm things up,” Giulia said.
Beatrice shook her head. “The main course, please, Giulia. And a bottle of white wine with two glasses.”
Giulia raised an eyebrow at her, flicked a glance at him, and headed to the back.
Montrell wasn’t worried. Giulia knew well enough that he didn’t drink.
Except when the door swung open again, she had two glasses. She smacked down the wine key in front of him before stalking away. “I’ll feed you both when I’m good and ready,” she called back as the kitchen closed behind her.
Beatrice’s gaze was on him, and it made his hands less skilled at working the stupid corkscrew. “I’m no good at this.”
“There’s no rush,” she said, her eyes thoughtful as she watched him finally pop the cork out.
He filled only one glass, pushing it toward her.
“And you,” Beatrice said, tilting her chin toward the other glass.
Montrell shook his head. “You know how I get.”
She lifted the bottle herself, pouring him a hefty glass. “I’m counting on it. Seems to me you need a little loosening of inhibitions, since you still haven’t asked me what you brought me here to ask.” The bottle thumped harder than he expected as she set it down. She lifted her own glass. “Drink, Monty. Then we’ll address the elephant in the room.”
He hated when she called him that. The white wine tasted worse than he remembered as he chugged half the glass.
Beatrice lifted an eyebrow as she sipped hers.
He set the wine down, reaching for her limp hand on the table. His fingers skimmed over the pearl bracelets. He’d never studied them before, and he realized she was wearing two on each wrist, each with ten bangles welded together. They were more like some sort of expensive medieval armor than jewelry.
“It’s my fault you’re wearing these again, isn’t it?” Montrell asked around the lump in his throat.
Beatrice’s other hand tightened around the wineglass, her pinky curling around the stem. “I’m sorry that—”
“Don’t fucking apologize to me.” Montrell wished his voice wasn’t quite so gruff when she pulled her arm from his grasp.
Beatrice set her glass down. Her fingers were shaking as she took off all four bracelets, lining them up along the edge of the table. She turned her arms over, and the healed lines along the insides of her arms made Montrell want to break something again.
She studied the scars, not looking at him. “The sight of my wrists upset you. It is upsetting. Especially if you’re not prepared to see them.” Her jaw tightened, and her head dipped. “I thought I’d been clear the night before, but I realize now that I was too subtle.”
Montrell reached out, sliding a finger along the length of one line. He could feel the scar, but he was more focused on the tremor than ran through her as her eyes met his. “These scars are proof of what you’ve been through. You don’t need to hide them from me. I’m sorry my outburst made you feel that way.”
“They’re hideous. And weak.”
“You are not fucking weak!” Montrell’s hand curled around her forearm when she would have jerked away. “Seeing these scars made me even more ashamed for not chasing after you five years ago.”
Beatrice’s hand gripped his arm in return. While his fingers could have practically curled around her arm twice, hers barely skimmed the sides of his. “We haven’t talked much about what happened back then,” she said.
