Creed’s inked fingers intertwine with mine, holding me tight. I feel his reaction to the test results, and when I look at him, an excruciating ache rises to consume me, seeing his anguish.
“You wanted it to be positive,” I whisper.
He stares at the white stick and the single line. He drags his free hand over his face, not letting go of my hand with his other. “It just hit me how much.”
His touch against my skin and his nearness will be my downfall, and I try to tug my hand away. However, he holds on and turns so we face each other.
“I didn’t want it to be positive because it would force us together or tie you to me, and it’s not because our species is hardwired to procreate.” He lifts our hands and rubs his lips gently over my knuckles, which messes with my resolve and my legs’ continued ability to keep supporting me.
“I wanted it to be positive because it’s you. It would’ve been our child. A piece of you would live on through time as our children have children and our grandchildren have children.” He gently cups my face. “And because it’s you, and it’s me, and nothing has ever felt more right.”
My resolve is hanging on by a thread. I’m dangling over a cliff, digging in my fingernails to hold on, and about to fall.
He steps away from me, breaking physical contact. I fight the overwhelming urge to sob.
“These tests can be wrong. I think you should see a doctor.” He raises a hand to stop my protest. “If not to confirm, then to investigate why you’re missing your cycles while on a medication that’s supposed to regulate them.”
The worry in his eyes makes me fall for him even more. He has always treated me like a precious treasure, one he wanted to keep by his side forever, right from the beginning.
“I will.”
“Come sit, Sophie.”
His words sound like a blend of a soft command and a gentle question—such contrasting qualities for this man who always exudes strength, confidence, and power.
“I should go.”
He frowns, his eyes skating over me. Not in a sexual way, but in that quiet, assessing way of his. “You’re pale and have lost weight. You’ll join me and eat.”
For as gentle and soft as he is with me, that dominating, commanding side likes to appear.
And damn if I don’t love that. It’s like the little submissive hidden inside me preens at his tone and words, so eager to follow his commands. ‘She’ didn’t exist before Creed and has been quiet with his absence, but she responds to him now.
He holds out his hand to me, and I slip my hand into his, silently begging him not to whisper ‘good girl’ because I’ll be a goner if he does. Submissiveness be damned; I’ll push him onto the bed, rip off his clothes, and ride him until we’re both exploding.
Thankfully, he doesn’t say those words. But the slow circles on the back of my hand as he holds it are playing with my control just as much.
He pulls the chair out for me, then pushes it in when I sit. But he doesn’t move away immediately; instead, he plays with a tendril of hair that escaped my messy bun until he finally lifts the lids off all the dishes.
My eyes widen, and I laugh lightly. “This isn’t a meal, Creed. It’s a feast.”
I eye the appetizer platter, which includes smoked salmon, mini tourtieres, shrimp tartlets, and bruschetta. Then, there’s fettuccine carbonara with thick slices of seasoned grilled chicken. The beans are lightly sauteed with garlic. I don’t even think I’ll touch the salad, because why focus on blah greens when these delectable dishes are in front of me?
The salad, compared to all that goodness, is like me trying to imagine myself with any other man besides Creed—none could compare or satisfy me in the same way.
Which means I’m destined for singlehood. I might as well throw in the towel now and become a nun.
“Would you like me to dish you up?”
On a platter for you to devour, yes.
I squeeze my thighs together, fighting the visions of him laying me across this table, kneeling between my legs, and eating me as the feast.
I clear my throat. “No.”
I focus on the food and take something from every dish. My appetite has been in the toilet for the past two months; food hardly has a taste, and I’ve buried myself in schoolwork and often forget to eat until the end of the day. This smells heavenly, though, and my stomach rumbles, which makes Creed smile.
On the first bite of the shrimp tartlet, my suspicions are confirmed: food finally tastes again, now that Creed is here with me.
“How are your classes this semester?”
“Good.” I wipe the corner of my mouth. “I have one with a huge assignment that accounts for a hundred percent of my grade, so that’s daunting.”
“What’s the assignment?”
“To make a full business proposal.”
“Good thing you know someone in business, then.”
My eyes flick up to him. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “I guess it is.”
“If you have any questions, or want to use me as a soundboard, I’m happy to do so.”
“Thanks.” I consider his offer as I drink the perfect ratio of ginger ale, club, and lime.
Could I do this? Have contact with him, keep him in my life, even if it was on the periphery, in a platonic way? Could I keep that connection hidden from my family? Was it right to do so? How fair was that to either of us? Would it cause us more pain to remain in touch, even if we couldn’t be together because I wasn’t willing to put myself first?
The questions go off in my head rapid-fire, and my head swims as I consider my options.
Keeping in contact with him, secretly and platonically, is wrong for both of us. Hurtful.
But having lived two months without him, with only the one-sided daily texts and voicemails from him, has been hell and painful. That hellish pain hadn’t eased as time went on; if anything, it got worse.
Suddenly, I need to know details that could make or break my decision to allow myself to have any contact with him in the future.
“What is your family all into?” I ask quietly.
He stills immediately, then slowly lifts his eyes to mine.
For a moment, I think he’ll remain silent. When he places his fork on the plate, rises, and walks across the room, I’m unsure what he’s doing. He presses the wall beside the TV, a panel opens, and he enters a code.
Then he returns to the table and sits down, watching me closely. “We can talk freely about this now.”
I realize what he’s done. Some spy-worthy James Bond tech is wired into this private suite, and he has just activated a device. Probably so no one can overhear if they’re listening.
Listening, because they had planted listening devices.
Unease settles into me. I’m an idiot to ask this question and to be here.
But I can’t make my body obey to stand and run out the door.
“What would you like to know, angel?”
“You’d tell me?” I don’t know if that makes me more uneasy.
“I won’t or can’t give you too many details. One, because I’m protecting you. Two, because of the need to protect my family. And three, I don’t have details because I’m not involved in that part of my family’s empire.”
Empire.
Christ Almighty.
Taking a breath, I ask the question that has haunted me since I found out his family was the Italian mafia. “Are you involved in human trafficking?”
“No.”
“Is your family?” I amend the possible loophole in my question.
“No.”
I search his face for a lie. His eyes are steady and calm, his expression open.
“Our family abolished that arm of income five generations ago,” he adds. “And we refuse to work with any factions involved in that.”
Relief sweeps through me. “How many generations has your family been in power?”
“Massimo, my brother, will be the seventh when he becomes Don.”
“Your father… he’s getting sicker?”
That day, when everything came crashing down, I overheard Creed speak with his father on the phone when I returned to get my laptop.
Pain etches his face. “Yes. We’re keeping it hidden how sick he truly is, though. Enemies will use any weakness, perceived or actual.”
“I would never say anything,” I whisper.
“I know, angel.”
I take another deep breath, working up the courage to ask about my second deal breaker. “Drugs?”
Given my family’s efforts to keep me away from my father and his life in a drug cartel, I knew they would never understand or forgive even a friendship if Creed’s family was involved in that.
Creed’s eyes remain steady on mine. “We don’t sell or distribute. We control California, which includes the ports, and our import-export channels are used.”
They aren’t directly involved, but they aren’t entirely clean as ‘enablers.’
“Most of our… activities involve things like arms dealing, cleaning money, and fraud targeting corrupt corporations and its executives.”
He says all this so matter-of-factly.
I frown. “You target, like, legitimate, real corporations?”
“Corrupt ones or corrupt executives, yes. You’d be surprised how many there are.” He tilts his head, watching me. “And also to know that the criminal underworld is run much like a corporation, with business practices and mindsets similar to those of a Fortune 500 company. The main difference is the tax-paying part.”
“Or the criminal mandate,” I scoff.
“True. However, power begets power, Soph. You’re drawing a line in the sand between the worlds, and that’s not wrong to do. I have done it myself, so I stay firmly entrenched in the part of my family’s world that I have chosen. However, even on the side of the line that isn’t mafia-related, there are copious amounts of power-grabbing, greed, and corruption.
“Sure, the smiling faces of the Fortune 500 companies are revered, as many should be,” he continues. “However, not all are as clean as they portray themselves, and have corruption and practices to gain access to resources, opportunities, and relationships that feed only their end goals, often of which aren’t listed in the company’s mission and vision statements.”
He relaxes back in his chair, swirling more pasta and chicken, and inclines his chin at my plate, telling me to eat. “Being on the legitimate side of the line doesn’t equate goodness, angel.”
He’s right; I know that. There are lots of shitty people who are law-abiding citizens.
“I have two brothers,” he states instead of trying to convince me further.
I appreciate that he doesn’t try to push and justify anything or convince me. Instead, he opens up to help me learn more about him.
“Massimo is the oldest and will take over as the Don.” He smiles. “Vito, my other brother, calls him a grumpy motherfucker every day just to taunt and tease him.”
“You’re close with your brothers?”
“Very. My immediate extended family as well. We’d probably be the equivalent to the Brady Bunch, only the mafia version.”
I can’t help but laugh. “What’s your mom like?” She, of all his family members, intrigues me the most.
“She’s a plotter.” Creed smiles, shaking his head but not expanding. “She had her hands full raising us boys, yet she instilled in us an awareness of our privilege and not to be cocky or vain. And that, even in our world—a family who’s ‘in the life’—you can do good. When…” He pauses, rubbing his thumb over his jaw. “If you meet her,” he amends, “don’t be surprised if she speaks only Italian to you.”
“She’s not fluent in English?”
That makes Creed laugh. “Oh, she is. It’s a little game she likes to play if we bring a girl home who isn’t Italian.”
I can see Abuela doing the same thing if I brought home a non-Hispanic male. “As a test? To see the character of the person and how they respond?”
“Exactly. Tell me about your family again.”
I push my pasta around with my fork, then select a chunk of bruschetta instead. “You know my mom died before I graduated, and we lived with my grandparents for several years.”
“Why do you feel so strongly about helping to support your family?” There’s no judgment in Creed’s question, just curiosity.
“We weren’t poor but weren’t flush with cash, either. Besides my grandparents helping support some of my cousins, they give whatever they can to the people in our community who need help. Family helps family, and our family helps others who need it. That’s how we were raised.”
“That’s commendable. And what’s the order of all the cousins?”
“Antonio is the oldest; there’s roughly a ten-year difference between him and me, and he loves all of us like his own. That’s why we call him Tio. Then there’s me. Sylvie is the next oldest; she’ll be thirteen soon. Then they clump together closer in age—Jose, Isabel, Carmen, Matias, Josefa, Laura, Pilar, Lucia, and Diego is the baby.”
“That’s a brood.” He steeples his fingers under his chin. “Mamma would be envious.”
“She wants lots of grandkids?” My stomach flutters.
“She loves children and wanted more herself; however, she couldn’t get pregnant again after me.”
“You totally used that, didn’t you? To brag that, because you were so perfect, the mold was broken or something like that.” I smile, even though a woman wanting more children and being unable to isn’t a smiling matter.
His eyes dance. “Of course, I taunted my brothers with it. They were the practice-run babies, and I was perfection, so there was no need for more.”
I settle back in my chair and chuckle. “You were a little shit growing up, weren’t you?”
“Of course.” He sniffs. “I was the baby, after all. Plus, Massimo forged a narrow path using a machete through the trees. Vito clear-cut it a bit more. Then I rode my quad right through.”
I burst out laughing at the imagery, analogy, and explanation of how often it is for the younger siblings after the older ones had ‘broken in’ the parents. “You sound like a nightmare.”
“Nah.” He extends his hand on the table toward me, palm up, and I rest mine on top of his, fighting a sigh of relief that wants to escape at being in physical contact with him. “I’m glad you reached out to me tonight, and I could be here with you.”
“I’m… I’m glad, too.”
“I won’t pressure you, angel. However, I would like to be in your life, even if it’s only like this.”
“That will be hard, Creed.”
I’m torn because I do want him in my life, even if it can never be what it had been. However, it would be unfair to both of us because it would stop us from truly moving on. And eventually, he would move on, and I’m not sure I could survive seeing that.
“Being apart… Being nothing to each other when we’re everything to each other?” His hand tightens on mine.
“That’s a never-ending pain. At least having you connected to my life, even if you’re not with me, is a small balm that keeps the pain from overtaking me.” His tattooed thumb strokes over the back of my hand. “We can keep our friendship secret; that way, your family doesn’t have to know you’re friends with someone like me.”
I lower my eyes as they fill with tears because I feel so much guilt. “I’m not ashamed of you or our…”
Love.
“I know, angel. I understand your choice and am trying to accept it. However, I can’t let you go. Not entirely. Not now. Maybe never.”
We’re willingly fating ourselves to never being fully happy or loved.
“Creed…” I know the aching pain I feel coats my features, but I can’t hide the torture inside me.
“I know, angel.” His soul calls to mine through his deep and raw voice. “We’ll take it day by day. If it’s more painful for you this way, we’ll stop, and I’ll find a way to truly and fully let you go. But… just give this a try. Please.”
I feel my resistance waning. I shore it up to the point that I can resist him physically; however, I can’t resist him emotionally. Visualizing having him in my life, if only in a platonic way, at least has a little light, whereas the past two months have been nothing but dark.
I cave and nod.
He squeezes my hand, and in my mind, I hear him rumble ‘good girl’ in that deep and dark voice he uses, and I know I’ll be masturbating until the end of time to visions and memories of ‘my friend.’
Christ on a bike, I’m well and truly screwed.
Yet, I jump in with both feet.
