Page 149 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

“Because he made me.”

Cross stilled on the couch. “What?”

“He made me. He’s my father. My mother’s rapist; he made me violently. See, I grew up like you, thinking one man—although a dead one—was my father, until I learned the truth. I blamed my mother without knowing the whole truth, for lying to me. The thing was, Affonso wanted something, and so he took it from her; when she birthed the product of what he had done to her, he then took me from her, too. It took me years to figure it out, and it was already too late to apologize to my mother for what I had done. So yes, I hated him because he made me.”

“I …”

“But you should not hate him for that reason,” Calisto said when Cross couldn’t form words. “You should hate him because he took your mother, and made her a very young wife when she wanted anything else but to marry him. You should hate him because he hurt her, and he used her. He wanted one thing from her. When she could not give him what he wanted, he tossed her away like garbage.”

Cross glanced away, taking in those words.

“I am sorry that you’re hurting because of my choices, but I am not sorry that I love Emma,” Calisto said quietly.

“I know you love Ma.”

He had always known that.

He never questioned it once.

Calisto—first and foremost—had always given Emma everything that he had to give that was good, wonderful, and honest. Cross only knew what a healthy, real love looked like because of his mother and father. No one else around him growing up had showcased that kind of love and respect for their spouse.

He simply thought it was something his parents learned over time. He assumed because of things he was told that their marriage had been for convenience because Emma had been left to fend for herself and Cross after Affonso left.

“I am not sorry that I loved her when I was not allowed to, Cross,” Calisto added after a moment, “because had I not loved her then, you would not be here. You and your sister are everything that I am most proud of in my life. I chose to protect your mother’s image and reputation, and our family’s respect for all these years, so that we could sit here and have this fucking conversation. Had I done it differently, you would be talking to a gravestone where your mother and I were concerned, and we would not be answering back.”

“I get that,” Cross said.

“Good. I need that to be clear between us.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Affonso didn’t run off, Cross,” Calisto said gruffly, “and he didn’t leave you and Emma. He took you from her after he beat her one night, and I killed him. I would do that again, and lie to you again, as long as in thirty more years, you are still sitting across from me, and I am able to look at you.”

“Would you have ever told me the truth?”

“Someday.”

“When?”

“I don’t know, Cross. This was my greatest fear—that someday you would see me the way I saw him. A monster that made me, and took from me. I hated him because he made me love him with a lie. I hated him so much, and I never wanted you to hate me, too. Not like that.”

“I can’t hate you,” Cross admitted.

Calisto stared him down. “No?”

“How can I hate you when I have always loved you?” Cross smiled faintly. “And you’re not my monster. I’ve never had those. You were the man who chased them away when I was little, remember?”

“I do.”

Cross scratched at the underside of his jaw, and muttered, “I’m sorry I’m such a shit.”

“Yeah, but I’m not really sorry I made you this way, son.”

Later, Cross found Catherine kneading bread dough next to his mother in the kitchen. He leaned against the counter and watched the two work. They laughed at a joke he hadn’t been privy to, but he didn’t mind.

His mother looked over her shoulder at him. “You better stop standing there like you’re being paid to do nothing but look cute, Cross. You don’t stand still in my kitchen; clean or cook, pick one.”

Catherine snickered, but kept her gaze on the dough.