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His shrug shifted her away slightly, but he held her tight. “Giulia says it was brainwashing. Every day, my mother blamed me for her circumstances, and I believed it. I still kind of do, though I know better. She blamed me for being stuck with my father, even though she was stuck before I ever came. But you understand arranged marriages.”
“I’m surprised you wanted one.”
“I wanted power, and that was one thing an arranged marriage would give. I had just finally killed my father and needed to consolidate fast.” He placed a kiss on her head. “But your father knew that and wasn’t impressed. Honestly, it made sense he didn’t want me for you, but I had already been dazzled by you, too dazzled to see it.”
“We’re not talking about me,” she mumbled, pressing her face tighter into his neck.
“True enough. We’re talking about my mother, who should have never had kids but, luckily, only had one.”
“The Albanian wanted children,” Beatrice admitted.
He liked that she was calling the bastard that. She was steadily taking back the title of husband from that monster.
“You would be a good mother,” Montrell murmured.
She shook her head against him. “I was scared I wouldn’t be.”
“You would be,” he said again.
“I didn’t want them. Not his. Never getting pregnant was God’s answer to my prayers, and I’m so grateful, even if he did get angry every time I had a period. I wasn’t always regular, and he would hope. That made the next time even worse.”
Montrell massaged her back. He would never not want his turn killing her husband.
“It’s not like he wasn’t trying to get me pregnant. And he wouldn’t allow me to go on birth control. That might mean…” Beatrice swallowed. “I might have fertility issues.”
“Do you want kids?” Montrell asked.
Her nails were really digging in now. “You do. Don’t you?”
“I’d be a good father.” He continued trying to soothe her. “But don’t worry about me. I asked what you wanted.”
The silence drew out. “I might not mind a baby gorilla,” she said.
Montrell choked on a laugh and pulled her closer.
“Not that it’s an issue. You’d have to come inside me first.” Her hand slid over his shoulder, distracting him. A moment later, her fingers were caressing the back of his neck, sending tingles everywhere. “You are going to do that eventually, aren’t you?” she asked.
Montrell had to clear his throat. “Don’t doubt it.”
“And you, stop deflecting. We’re supposed to be talking about your bitch of a mother who, for some reason, you wanted to save.”
Montrell wasn’t offended. He liked the protective note in her voice. Even though he didn’t hold a grudge against his mother, he didn’t expect other people to understand. That was one reason he didn’t talk about it often.
So he skimmed over most of his childhood. He’d gotten lucky. His father often beat his mother, but he rarely broke her bones. She continued to dole out similar punishments to him, even after he was big enough to defend himself.
“Things changed for my mother when I turned eighteen. I was busy learning the business, had become part of the crew for one of the capos. Similar to how I am now, I was big and brawny, though a tad lighter, and I didn’t look all that young. The family was able to use me, so I was gone too often for my mother to hit me.” He swallowed. “So she tried to find relief another way.”
Beatrice’s fingers paused on his neck.
“We don’t need to talk about this, but it changed me. Giulia said she wasn’t serious, that it was just to get me to act. I’m not sure, but it’s true it set things in motion.”
“Your mother tried to unalive herself.”
Montrell hesitated, but he wouldn’t lie. Not to Beatrice. Lying was the opposite of protecting her. “Yeah. She waited for my father and me to both be home. She was screaming from her room, and I went in to break things up between them. I’d started doing that once I was heavy enough not to get knocked around. Well, before then, too, but he stopped only when I could make him. It meant I’d get some bruises, but that was an easy price to pay.”
He hadn’t noticed his mother rushing into the bathroom. His focus had been on punching his asshole of a father. He’d have his own black eye, but his father was backing down when her scream drew both their gazes.
Blood rushed down one of her arms. It was Montrell she stared at as she shrieked, “You can’t save me. You can’t even save yourself!”
