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“Your father was a hundred yards ahead of her. He came to me with everything. I took it with the intention of tearing his legacy apart. He saw that coming, too. I got a box the night Alex hurt you, with a letter that told me everything.”
My heart painfully throbbed in my chest.
The man was screwed up and had a mountain of issues of his own, but he was a family man through and through. I would never hate my father for the decisions he made; I just hated how they all rolled into my life like a wrecking ball, breaking down every damn wall as I stood by and watched.
There was one good thing that came from all of this. My addiction to Mateo fucking Remmington. He was turning out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. His darkness was my happy place.
“So why did you help me?” I asked after a minute, tracing imaginary lines on his pecs.
“Every family has secrets,” he began, twirling a strand of my dark hair around his finger. “My father has—had—an illegitimate child. She was young, carefree, and happy. A little too carefree. She got pregnant at seventeen by a man like me.”
He shook his head, his eyes gaining a distant look as if he were reliving her memory.
As soon he mentioned the pregnancy, I knew where Camilla came into the picture.
“My father flipped shit. She may have been illegitimate, but she was family, our baby sister. We loved her. He dragged her into this world against my mother’s advice, and the rumor mill spread like wildfire.”
“She was deemed my barely legal mistress.” He laughed, but there was no joy in it.
“What happened to her?” I asked softly.
He looked down at me and blinked. “A power hungry bitch got rid of her to clear the way for herself.”
I nearly choked on my spit.
“My mother killed your sister?”
“No, amada, your mother never gets her hands dirty. She had someone else do it.”
I didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry’ was really fucking meaningless.
I didn’t need to ask why she did it. The Remmingtons were at the top of the pinnacle with no signs of falling off.
She wanted to be a part of it.
If there was one thing I knew, it was about power. Power is not given. You have to take it. People fought over power for
centuries. Countries went to war for it.
Men killed one another in the streets for it. Even animals would fight tooth and nail for it.
“You know, I’ve been told countless times that I’m just like her.”
“There’s a little bit of both your parents inside you, but you’re far from being just like her,” he immediately responded, turning me around. His large hands cupped my face and he ran the pad of his thumb over my cheek. “You’re already so much more than she will ever be.”
What was I supposed to say to that? I hurt for his sister and the life that was viciously stolen from not just her, but her baby. I was angry that my sister was turned into a victim, and that our father had been alone in the end.
Yet, at the same time, my heart swelled with pure adoration for the man in front of me.
His face, his body, his voice, his cock—that was perfection. His cunning brain, the power he exhumed ruthlessly, and the sweet parts of himself he reserved just for me, were everything.
He was a Brazilian god with a heavy dose of asshole and a gorgeous smile.
I tried to form one sentence that could convey any of these feelings, but my word bank continued to come up empty. Cupping the back of his neck, I pulled his mouth to mine, pouring all I could into a kiss.
He tried to maneuver me back into the wall, but I pushed away and took advantage of my small window of opportunity.
I dropped my knees to the slick tile, grabbed the base of his cock, and forced myself to choke on it. I took him deep, pulled all the way out, and then repeated the process with a satisfied moan.
