I’d never asked how my parents met, but this?
Antonio’s shadow falls over me in the kitchen, my hands braced on the counter to keep me up.
“I’m sorry you had to find that out. It’s not something you should have ever known.”
“Just more fucking secrets,” I heave, my muscles wanting to tear through flesh, a sleeping wolf beneath the surface wanting to escape. How many secrets does my father have?
“All families have them.” Antonio places a bottle of beer in front of me.
“Ours shouldn’t. It’s a cancer,” I snap, swiping the bottle up and chugging it.
“I told Maddox he’s not to drink any more tonight and to stay out of your way. I apologize for him.”
“You shouldn’t have to apologize for him.”
“I know, but he’s my brother. You need to remember that when your temper flares.”
That sounds like an underhanded threat if I ever heard one.
“Do I?” I straighten, the wolf inside howling in warning.
Exhaling an exasperated breath, he says, “Letting someone like Maddox get under your skin can cause wars. It’s a waste of your time and mine.” He sips from his own bottle. “He’s family. My hand would be forced to avenge him, and I’d hate to be on the end of your father’s wrath. There aren’t many men who rattle me, but he does.” He chuckles. “I’m asking, not telling. Just keep your cool when it comes to Maddox’s mouth.”
Silently, I calm the raging war inside me and exhale, shaking my head. Leaning my ass against the counter, I squeeze the bridge of my nose to alleviate the brewing headache.
“Did my mother come over here willingly or—”
“Willingly. She, like many of these girls, was running from overbearing parents, or violent boyfriends, lack of prospects. It’s always something.”
What had she been running from? I conjure up her laughter. The love in her singing voice when she’d put Rose down for the night. She was happy here.
“What happens to these workers? The ones who end up down there in the pleasure room?” There’s no way they’ll be allowed to live, not after seeing the politician’s face.
“It will be taken care of elsewhere. Far from your property.” He drums his fingers on the counter. “Don’t think about things out of your control. It becomes a sickness.” Once again, he slaps my shoulder. “Try to have some fun. It’s is a party.” He quirks a brow.
My head is racing. I need answers, but it’s a conversation I need to have in person. When my father gets home, I’ll cut the answer from his deceitful tongue if he refuses to give them freely. Antonio may fear him, but I don’t, and my respect for him is falling rapidly.
My phone jumps against my pec, alerting me to someone calling. It’s the front security gate. “What is it?”
“It’s Miss Freya Remington, sir.”
“What?”
“Should I allow her in?”
“Yes,” I bark. Ending the call, I go to the front door to wait for her. Remi’s BMW i8 jerks from side to side, the engine revving then cutting out before finally coming to a stop right at the steps leading into the house.
Fuck.
Tear stain tracks run down Freya’s cheeks as the door opens and she jumps out the driver’s seat. I scan the space around her, searching for Remi, my gut flipping.
“Where’s Remi?” My chest vibrates from the force of my heartbeat.
Flinging herself into my arms, she sobs, “He got arrested.”
What the hell? Scooping her up, I carry her into the house to the kitchen and sit her on the counter edge. Getting a paper towel, I blast the faucet over it and begin cleaning her face.
“How the hell did you manage to drive his car all the way home?”
“Slowly.” She sniffles. How the hell she wasn’t pulled over is a miracle.
“What happened? Walk me through it.” I urge her, cupping her cheeks.
“The game at the fair, a shooting game, it was rigged, so he shot the thing with a real gun.” She shakes her head, another tear falling free. “The place was heavily patrolled with police. They came from everywhere and took him away.” She weeps. “Will he go to jail?”
“No, don’t worry about him. He was an idiot,” I huff, pulling her into me, rubbing a hand down her back to try to soothe her. Remi had one fucking job: look after her and show her a good time.
“I need to make a phone call to our lawyer. Don’t move,” I warn her, slipping my phone from my pocket, pacing the floor.
On the third ring, she answers, “Rhodes?”
“It’s Noah Remington. Remi got pinched.”
“Where?” The sound of her shuffling around muffles the receiver.
“Desolation.”
“What’s the charge?”
“A weapons charge. You tell me. Get him out.”
“It will cost.”
“Just do it.” I end the call.
The sense of someone joining us has me turning to the entrance. Fucking Maddox. Clearly, he likes seeking out trouble.