Page 45 of Ruined By Protection (Feretti Syndicate #5)

Hazel

T he car slows as we approach the Montgomery country estate. I've been here dozens of times but today everything looks different. The sprawling property with its manicured hedges and pristine white columns feels like a beautiful prison rather than the luxury retreat Elliott always called it.

Thomas punches in the code and we glide through the wrought iron gates. The driveway curves gracefully through oak trees that have stood for generations. I press my hand against my chest, trying to calm the tumult inside.

I scan the property quickly. No security personnel visible. No extra cars in the circular drive except Elliott's Bentley. He's alone, just as we expected.

Elliott never needed security guards. He was just a businessman—at least that's what the world saw. His power came from money and connections, not muscle. He never imagined anyone would come after him. Why would he? Men like Elliott think they're untouchable.

Thomas retrieves my bag from the trunk as I step out of the car and the Texas heat wraps around me like a blanket. The sweat trickling down my spine has nothing to do with the temperature.

I know Matteo and the others are close by. I'm not alone. But standing here, about to face Elliott again, my body remembers the fear. My ribs ache with phantom pain where they were once cracked by his fist.

The front door opens and Elliott appears.

He looks exactly the same—tall, handsome in that conventional way that graces country club brochures. His smile is superb, expert. To anyone else he'd seem like the dream husband welcoming his wife home.

I know better.

"Breathe," I whisper to myself. "Just breathe."

Thomas sets my bag down at the entrance and drives away, taking my last connection to the outside world. I'm left standing on the bottom step facing the monster who nearly destroyed me.

Elliott's smile stretches. "Welcome home, darling. I've missed you terribly."

I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face as I say "I missed you too," forcing the lie from pinched lips.

I focus on putting one foot on the step above, reminding myself this is the final performance I'll ever give for Elliott Montgomery.

Elliott remains standing in the doorway, arms outstretched, waiting for me to come into his embrace. His smile doesn't reach his eyes—those treacherous, cunning eyes that have relished watching me shrink into myself for the last two years.

My heart is galloping so fast I can barely inhale. The bruises Elliott left have faded but my body remembers his every touch. My skin crawls at the thought of being in his arms again.

Then I remember: I'm not alone. Not anymore.

Matteo is here. Noah and Daniel too. They won't let anything happen to me.

I continue upward, setting my face into a mask of submission—the perfect, dutiful wife returning to her husband. Elliott's smile morphs into smugness, clearly believing he's won.

I'm close enough now that I can smell his cologne—a sandalwood scent with an unbecoming touch of fruit he always wears. He reaches for me and as he does, one hand raises, ready to strike.

"Touch her and you will end up in pieces, asshole."

Matteo's voice penetrates the dusk, savage and lethal.

Elliott freezes, his mask falling to shards of confusion as he realizes he's not alone with me.

He spins toward the voice just as Matteo's fist connects with his frat boy jaw, then another to his gym-flat stomach. The impact drives the air from Elliott's lungs with a satisfying whoosh. He doubles over, gasping.

"What the—" Elliott wheezes, face contorted in shock and pain.

Noah materializes from behind, grabbing Elliott's arms and yanking them behind his back. My husband—the man who terrorized me for months—struggles against Noah's powerful grip, his face turning red with effort.

"Get your fucking hands off me! Do you know who I am?" Elliott spits, voice strained to screeching.

I stand frozen, watching the scene unfold. This dominating force who crushed my spirit, who broke my body, who made me believe I was nothing—looks ridiculous now. Small. Pathetic.

Noah tightens his grip, making Elliott wince. "We know exactly who you are, Montgomery."

Elliott's eyes dart wildly between Matteo and me. "Hazel, what is this? Who are these men? Call the police!"

I almost laugh at the absurdity. For months I lived in fear of this man. I hid bruises, made excuses, and walked on eggshells trying not to trigger his rage. I believed him when he said no one would help me, that no one would believe me.

Yet here he is—squirming like a fish in Noah's grasp, face twisted in fear rather than the controlled rage I'd come to know.

"It's incredible," I say, a slight touch of venom I’m not proud of. "You're only brave when you're hurting women who can't fight back."

Elliott's expression shifts to fury. "You stupid bitch?—"

Matteo steps forward and smacks Elliott so hard his head reverberates. Then presses the barrel of his gun to Elliott's temple, silencing him instantly.

"Watch your mouth when you’re in the presence of a lady," Matteo warns, his voice deceptively calm. Elliott spits and a glob of blood lands on the white limestone entranceway.

Why did I never see it clearly until now? Elliott doesn't have real power—he only preys on those he perceives as weaker. When faced with men who don't fear him, who can match or exceed his strength, he crumples faster than an empty chip packet.

I move up the steps to Elliott, no longer afraid of his rage since he’s securely pinned by massive Noah. My hands have stopped shaking. My voice is level.

"I need one thing clear before we start," I say.

Elliott's eyes dart between me and Matteo, his impulse to put me in my place impeded by the two dominating enforcers. "Start? Start what?" His voice cracks. "What are these bastards planning to do to me?"

I almost pity him. Almost. Then I remember.

"I never missed you, Elliott." The truth feels like sweet revenge after years of lies. I really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am. "I just hate you. So much more than you could possibly imagine."

His face contorts with helpless rage. "You ungrateful?—"

Matteo shoves the gun harder into Elliott's temple, cutting him off.

"And now it's time," I continue, stepping level with my husband, "for you to do something in exchange for me."

Elliott's eyes narrow. The businessman in him perks up at the word ‘exchange’—always looking for leverage, for a deal, for a free ride.

"What do you want?" he snarls.

I meet his gaze without flinching. The man who once made me tremble with a single look now seems ridiculously pathetic. His power over me has evaporated like morning dew in Texas heat.

"I want you to tell me where Melissa is," I say, getting up close in his face. "Her mother deserves to know."

Elliott's skin drains of color. For the first time genuine fear flashes in his eyes—not fear of physical pain, but fear of consequences. Fear of the truth.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he stammers, lacking any conviction.

“Your lies wouldn’t convince even the most bought-off judge,” I quietly inform him.

Matteo

I keep my gun pressed against Montgomery's skull, fighting the urge to pull the trigger right here. Every instinct screams to end this bastard now—for Hazel, for Melissa, for every woman he's hurt. My finger twitches on the trigger.

But I can't. Not yet. The plan demands patience.

"Move," I growl, shoving him forward with enough force to make him stumble. "We're going to your office."

Elliott's eyes flit between us, calculating his options. "My office? What for?"

I jerk the barrel harder into him. "Did I fucking stutter?"

Noah maintains his hold on Elliott's arms as we march him through his own house.

Two hours ago we slipped in through the service entrance, memorizing the layout while Elliott lounged in his living room, oblivious.

Noah remained inside, watching from the shadows while I circled the perimeter, waiting for Hazel's arrival.

"Down the hall," I direct, though I already know exactly where we're going. "Last door on the right."

Elliott's breathing grows more labored with each step. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the air conditioning.

"Whatever you think you know about Melissa—" he starts.

"Shut up," Noah snaps, yanking back on his grip until Elliott winces.

Hazel follows behind, her face a mask of determination. The woman who arrived at the Feretti mansion broken and afraid is now gone. In her place stands someone renewed, someone who reclaimed her life and her soul.

I catch her eye and give her a slight nod. She returns it, confident and sure.

We reach the office door—solid mahogany with ornate carving. Typical display of wealth without taste.

"Open it," I order.

Elliott hesitates then reaches for the handle with shaking fingers. The door swings back to reveal a spacious room with huge sash windows overlooking manicured grounds. A massive desk dominates the center, flanked by leather chairs and bookcases filled with volumes I doubt he's ever even opened.

I shove Montgomery down into one of his leather club chairs, keeping my gun trained on him. His breathing is shallow, eyes still darting between me and Hazel.

"Let me make this clear," I say, a threatening hiss. "I don't actually need your cooperation. There are more interesting ways to make you talk."

I lean in, close enough to smell the sour fear on his breath. "Ways that involve a lot more pain and a lot less dignity than you're currently enjoying."

"Matteo." Hazel's voice cuts through the menace. Her eyes catch mine, a silent message passing between us. I note Elliott’s features contort into a knot of vehemence.

This was part of our plan—her stepping in, acting empathetic, giving him choices. Making him believe there's a way out if he cooperates.

"Elliott will talk without you making him suffer," she declares. She moves closer to him, close enough that he’s compelled to look up at her. The savagery painted across his features is unhinged. "You'll tell us where Melissa is, won't you, Elliott? For her mother's sake."

Montgomery's eyes slit as he ignores her and turns to me. The previous fear of me that he was unable to disguise is gone, only the loathing sneer remains. His lips twitch, then stretch into a smile.

And then he starts laughing.

Not nervous laughter. Not the hysteria of a man trying to buy time. Real laughter, deep and ironic, as if we just told the funniest joke he's ever heard. But as if he’s convinced the joke is on us.