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Montrell swallowed. “I understood.”
“No, you took it on yourself.” Giulia’s hand reached up, patting his cheek.
Montrell wished another hand would cup it instead. He was so goddamn selfish.
“Blaming yourself never made things better for your mother.” Giulia’s face slipped into a frown. “It won’t help your wife either.”
“I should have fought for her.”
“Use your head. You’d just taken over the family from your father. Did you have the power to take on the Lucchese back then?”
He’d still been proving himself to his men. He’d been licking his wounds from the Lucchese’s sudden rejection when some of his father’s men had turned on him. Vespa had caught the brunt of it, and he regretted how blind he had been.
If he’d gone to war with the Lucchese over the failed marriage contract, it was likely he would have been fighting on two fronts.
“Still—”
Giulia jabbed him in the side. “Stop letting your mother talk. She tried to convince you to take your father on too soon. Almost got you killed as a teenager.”
“You had Vespa and me locked up in the basement,” he said, relieved and bitter at the same time. His first loyal men, or he’d thought they were loyal at the time, were killed that night. They took the blame so Montrell could live. Giulia was frightening in her skill behind the scenes sometimes.
Her eyes held no regret as she stared at him. “You deserved it. Your father killing his men brought others to your side. And you grew up enough to gain some skill along with the loyal soldiers I helped groom for you.”
“Waiting led to my mother losing hope.”
“I didn’t do it for your mother. I did it for you.” Her hands came up, gripping both sides of his face. Her hands made him feel small. “It was worth it to see you here. You’re my son, Montrell. You always have been.” He nodded, and Giulia released him. “Besides, your mother is still alive, acting all helpless with that Irish family she ran back to.”
Montrell ignored the way she spit out the word ‘Irish.’ “I understood why she didn’t want to come back.”
“Oh, she knew better than to come back.” Giulia’s face went hard again.
Montrell had never blamed his mother for what she’d done to him. Maeve O’Connell had been in an impossible situation, and she’d found release in a toxic way, but she couldn’t help it. He’d never wanted her dead for it, and so he was glad she’d tried to take her life in front of him.
That way, he’d been able to save her.
He wondered who had saved Beatrice. The idea that it had been the Albanian prick who had caused her suffering in the first place made him scowl.
“Are you getting all riled up again?” Giulia asked.
Montrell didn’t bother denying it. The silence stretched between them until he broke it. “I wish I’d been the one to kill her husband.”
“You always did have a savior complex.” Giulia groaned a bit as she shoved to her feet. It made Montrell focus on her face, and he saw the addition of wrinkles for the first time.
He was grateful Giulia didn’t see the worry on his face. She was too busy scanning the mess he’d made of the room instead. “I don’t like you throwing a fit like this, but I’m a bit relieved as well. Explosions like this happen when you hold too much of yourself inside.”
Montrell stood, too, tugging on his beard. “I thought I had it under control.”
“Maybe too much. You should be able to be yourself around your wife.”
He looked at Giulia in surprise. “Do you not like Bea?”
Giulia shook her head. “I’ve been watching her. I like what I’ve seen. She’s nothing like your mother, Montrell, despite the similar circumstances.” She frowned. “But if you can’t see those differences, then she’s not for you. You could get the marriage annulled.”
The idea of losing Beatrice sent acid into his stomach. “I—”
“You haven’t brought her by the restaurant for me to feed,” Giulia accused.
Montrell blinked at the change of subject.
