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The older woman there had thick arms weighed down by shopping bags that she dragged over the threshold. Her hair was a riot of dark curls that she blew at as she used her hip to close the door behind her. “Good, you’re awake.” She let the bags drop.
Beatrice held the sheet against her as she sat up, staring down at the bags and avoiding the woman’s eyes. “What’s all this?”
“Montrell said his wife needed stuff. So it’s stuff.” The woman’s hands moved to her hips as she nudged one bag with her foot. Clothes spilled out of the opening.
Already Beatrice had no name. Only “wife,” just like before. When the older woman’s eyes drifted to her neck, she pulled the sheet up a little higher, hunching her shoulders.
The woman frowned, but she didn’t mention the dark bruises. “I’m Giulia.”
The name nudged at a vague memory. Montrell had flushed as he said that name often enough that she’d asked him who it was. She’d been embarrassed over her flash of jealousy when he’d gushed about the woman who had raised him.
“Beatrice,” she murmured, giving her name with the proper Italian inflection.
Giulia smiled. “Yes. Montrell has said.” She let her hands drop. “I didn’t know your size. Montrell holding his hands up was no help. When I threatened to drag Vespa along, she grudgingly gave her best guess, but we’ll see. Pack up anything that doesn’t fit, and I’ll return it.”
“Thank you,” Beatrice said.
“Of course,” Giulia said. “You’re a Coronella now.”
The reminder wasn’t necessary.
When she was only a daughter, being part of the family had seemed so much more important than being a wife.
The reminder that the woman was only there because it was expected of her led Beatrice to clam up.
Giulia continued to smile at her invitingly. Because she had to. “I didn’t have enough hands to bring you lunch, but that’s just as well. Don’t hide out in your room all day. Come down when you’re dressed and meet everyone. The Coronellas are a rowdy bunch, but they don’t bite.”
She didn’t hover too long afterward, though she offered to come back and give Beatrice a tour of the estate on the way to the dining room. When Beatrice declined, Giulia nodded and closed the door behind her as she left.
Beatrice dragged the sheet along with her as she huddled near the bags. She’d showered the night before, and her curly hair lay in heavy waves around her. To her surprise, the bags didn’t hold only clothes but also contained products and makeup similar to what she used. Not all of the clothes were her size; most were fashionable, though only a few had the long sleeves she now preferred. The underwear were expensive, sexy scraps of fabric, something that would have once delighted her but now only filled her with dread.
By the time she had herself put together, lunchtime had already passed.
Beatrice wasn’t the type to cower in her room. At least, she hadn’t used to be. That fear she hated clawed inside her chest as the click of the bedroom door filled her ears. The upper hallway outside was silent.
She should have taken Giulia up on her offer of a tour. Beatrice’s pride liked to rear its head at the oddest times. Like when it would hurt her the most.
There had been no shoes among Guilia’s bags, and Beatrice hadn’t been able to face the heels she’d traipsed around Vegas in. It felt odd to walk barefoot along the wooden floorboards. Like something she would do in her own home. She’d never had a home, only estates that men had owned and held her in. The floor was cold against her skin.
Since all the upstairs doors were closed, Beatrice headed down the stairs. She was hovering, still hidden in the turn of the staircase, when the voices reached her.
“A fucking Lucchese. As if they haven’t been targeting our shipments for years.”
“We targeted theirs as well.”
“Still. And she was in bed with the Albanians just yesterday. How the hell can we trust her?”
The words of the Coronella soldiers didn’t surprise Beatrice. She’d expected worse.
The men were leaning against the hallway wall, so she was the first one who saw Montrell just past them, a scowl replacing his affable grin. To her shock, he stomped to the corner, shoving the last soldier who had spoken into the wall with his hand, so large it dominated the other man’s chest as he held him there.
“That won’t do,” Montrell said. His head tilted, but Beatrice could only see the back of it from her position. “Beatrice Lucchese is my wife. I thought I told you all that.”
The soldier looked tense.
“You did, padrino,” the other one rushed to assure him. “You made it more than clear.”
The pinned soldier flushed. “But trust—”
