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The woman moved as fast as a demon, her hand raised as she lunged for Montrell.
Vespa shoved between them, and the slap made his friend stagger against a side table, knocking over the lamp with a crash. Montrell thought he’d have to restrain his mother from attacking again, but she scrambled back before he could touch her.
“Stupid girl,” Maeve muttered, not looking surprised at all, or in any way apologetic. “You always were fixated on my boy.”
Vespa straightened. Her gaze fell to her knee, which must have been throbbing from where it had smacked the table.
“He never loved you,” his mother mumbled, but it was more like she was speaking to herself. “No, it was never love.”
Montrell hated that his friend had taken yet another blow that was meant for him. “You hurt Vespa. We’re done here.”
Maeve’s face twisted. “You talk to me about being hurt?”
Liam O’Connell grimaced. “Please wait,” he said, holding up a hand. His eyes shifted to his daughter. “Sit, Maeve.” When she reluctantly slumped onto the edge of a settee, he crossed to the drink area in the corner. “I’ll make you some of that tea you like. The one that calms your nerves.”
“Tea?” Maeve appeared confused. Then her eyes softened in delight. “Oh, yes. The tea.”
“Coronella, would you and your wife like a drink as well? I have whiskey instead, if you prefer.”
Montrell looked to Beatrice. She continued to study his mother, her expression remote, as if she needed the mask to hold whatever emotions she was feeling inside. When she felt his gaze, she gave a swift nod, then made his nerves dance as she moved to the seat directly opposite his mother and settled into it.
“Just tea,” Montrell said, moving to her side and settling on the couch beside her.
Vespa held a hand to her red cheek with a scowl. “I wouldn’t mind something stiffer.” She remained standing, her eyes hard as they focused on his mother.
Maeve appeared calmer even without the tea. She was smiling, her eyes unfocused.
The soft clinks of Liam O’Connell preparing tea interrupted the quiet of the room.
“Mother, this is Beatrice.” Montrell kept his gaze trained on Maeve as well. “Grandfather mentioned that you wanted to meet her.”
Maeve’s eyes focused on Beatrice. “Oh, yes. Another victim.”
Beatrice shook her head. “Your son is very kind to me.” Her hand reached over to settle on top of his. “He’s a good man.”
Maeve made a noise in her throat. “He’s a weakling. Always has been. When I—”
Liam interrupted her pending tirade by handing her a cup of tea.
Montrell was grateful. The reports he’d been getting hadn’t been enough. His mother had always been unstable, but seeing the creature she had been reduced to made a wave of guilt crawl over his skin. She’d been right. It had taken him too long to free her.
The cup of tea Montrell was given was double the size of his mother’s and Beatrice’s. He drained it to wet his already dry throat. “I’m sorry, Mother. I—”
“No,” Beatrice interrupted, moving her cup to the end table so she could grip his hand again. “It’s your mother who should apologize.”
“What?” Maeve’s lips pressed together.
“Hell yeah, she should,” Vespa muttered, throwing back her shot of whiskey.
Liam set the tray he’d used on the bar before crossing his arms. “I think we’re done here.”
“Far from it.” Beatrice’s voice was firm. “That is, if creating business ties with any of La Cosa Nostra is important to you.” She stared at his mother. “Apologize.”
Montrell’s mouth was dry again.
O’Connell waved toward his daughter. “You’ve seen how she is. Do you truly want to hinge business on this woman?”
Maeve’s eyes flickered with a sudden rage Montrell recognized. The expression made the tea he’d gulped swirl in his stomach. “I don’t need an apology, Bea.”
