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“Oh!” Maeve gasped as she latched onto Beatrice’s arm, dragging her close. The drugged cup of tea spilled to the carpet, but his mother no longer seemed to notice. No, her nails were skimming over Beatrice’s scar. “We really are so much alike,” she murmured.
Beatrice swallowed the immediate denial.
Maeve tilted her own arm, comparing the scarred lines side by side. His mother’s scar was more of a pale line. “Yours is so much better.” She pouted as she shook Beatrice’s arm. “I wish I had pressed deeper like that. Every time my father sees mine, his face gets such a delicious twist.” She was smiling as her finger rubbed along Beatrice’s scar, making her shiver.
“Seeing mine reminded Montrell of his guilt over your attempt.” When Maeve’s eyes went dreamy, Beatrice swallowed her own guilt at the admission. She already knew she’d never admit to the woman that she hadn’t pressed down hard herself. Letting the woman link them in her mind was her only glimmer of hope.
“That boy was so desperate for my love,” Maeve said with a happy sigh. “Ignoring him for so long helped. I never thought I wanted a child.”
Tucking away the need to defend Montrell made Beatrice’s stomach twist and her mouth dry out. She had to open it twice before the words finally slipped free. “I never wanted a child either.” That it wasn’t a lie let the misdirection soften the woman’s face even more.
“I changed my mind. Maybe you will too.” She frowned as she released Beatrice’s arm. “Or maybe you would have. My father promised that man we’d kill you.”
Beatrice hung her head, staring down at her hands. “I’m not surprised. I don’t think my father ever loved me. Not really.” She couldn’t force out any tears, not when all she wanted to do was kill him if he dared to hurt Montrell, so she kept her head bent. “How could he have loved me and married me off like he did?”
Maeve’s hand settled over her own clasped ones. “Exactly! I had to find what little escape I could, but Coronella was awful. My father should feel guilty and beg for forgiveness for the rest of his life.” Her hand tightened, her nails making crescent shapes in Beatrice’s skin. “More than beg. I want him to lose everything,” she said coldly.
Beatrice tried a small sniffle.
“He wouldn’t even let me torture Montrell myself,” Maeve ranted. “I wanted one last chance to see if I could feel as I once did.” Her hand loosened as she sighed dreamily. “It’s a shame my boy grew into an adult. No one else but that child has ever made me feel almost content when I hurt them.”
Beatrice’s skin felt flayed as she lifted her head to stare at the monster Montrell’s mother was. She couldn’t kill the woman, she tried to remind herself.
Maeve’s eyes focused, then sparkled with an emotion Beatrice couldn’t be reading correctly. It looked like delight. “I’ve made you angry.” Her hand reached out, biting into Beatrice’s cheeks as she forced her chin higher. “You’re not like me at all. You’re one of them.” Her tone had grown icy.
Beatrice’s heart thudded as she saw fury in the woman’s eyes.
“Pathetic!” Maeve’s spittle bathed her face as she screamed the word. “So hypocritical. You expect men to hurt and punish. But a woman? No, she should be beaten into submission and told what to do. She should put herself last, always. She should be caring and motherly and weak!”
Maeve shoved Beatrice away.
By the time Beatrice straightened, a gun, one she hadn’t realized his mother had, was pressed against her forehead.
Maeve laughed. “I was the one that made my boy cry. Does it bother you? I had more power over him as his mother than you’ll ever have as his wife.” Maeve’s hand tightened around the gun as she pressed it harder against Beatrice. “Making him cry was easy when he was four and I snapped his arm. As he got older, it took more finesse. How I miss torturing my young boy.”
They’d both missed the door opening.
“Maeve?” Liam O’Connell looked pale as he stepped haltingly toward his daughter, letting the door slip shut behind him.
Maeve’s lips thinned as she stared at her father.
“Did you really torture your own child?” Liam asked, his voice shaking as he drew closer to them.
Maeve tried to make her face look sad again, but the madness shown through. “I’m sorry. My husband hurt me so much. I couldn’t escape it.” She was almost a convincing actress. The words sounded weak and fearful.
O’Connell shook his head. “We’re not talking about your husband. I asked what you did, Maeve.”
With a blink, her scowl was back. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Maeve shifted the gun she was holding and shot her father in the face. The noise reverberated in Beatrice’s head from so close. As his body fell, Maeve frowned at her, back to pouting. “You ruined my game. He didn’t look guilty at all.”
The doors to the sitting room burst open at the gunshot.
Maeve shoved the gun into Beatrice’s hand before cowering away. “Help! She has a gun!”
Beatrice’s hand had automatically closed around it, and she read her death in the soldiers’ faces. She threw herself to the floor, the Irish mobsters’ bullets tearing up the cushions where she had just been.
Chapter 27
Montrell felt someone slapping his face and recognized Vespa’s annoyed smack. He much preferred Beatrice’s light caresses.
