Creed: Chapter 9

Rubbing my eyes, I take one last look at Costello’s report for the real estate development project and finish my response to him.

There’s a sudden shortage of some key supplies, and he sourced out alternates. He’s the expert, and I trust his judgment. It adds a slight bump in cost to the project; however, it won’t face delays before it even starts, and the quality of materials isn’t sacrificed, so I’m happy.

What I’m not happy about, though, is yet another dinner my parents are summoning me to. This is the third in two weeks. The last two were tolerable only because Vito and I had dove into the bottom of a bottle of bourbon.

As suspected, the hopeful, simpering bride-to-be and her parents had zeroed their attention on Massimo each dinner. Mamma had scowled at Vito and me when the guests weren’t looking, but since we’d been relatively behaved, she hadn’t been upset, which meant Papà didn’t intervene. But Vito and I had gotten a bit carried away at the last dinner, and I suspect the hard alcohol will be on lockdown tonight.

Massimo takes it all in stride, though; I have to give him that. He handles the groveling and ass-kissing even though he’s uninterested in these match-making efforts, remaining polite but cool and aloof. He doesn’t need our mother’s help; he’ll choose his own bride, one that benefits the family because he is dutiful and loyal to a fault. Those are the sacrifices for being firstborn and heir to the Santoro power position.

Spinning in my desk chair, I look out the floor-to-ceiling window of my San Francisco headquarters office. The Golden Gate Bridge serves as my backdrop. My phone buzzes, and I reach back to grab it off the desk and read Vito’s text.

Great minds think alike, I smirk.

You turning into a grumpy motherfucker like Mass?

You gotta ease up on him with that

Never

He’s gonna turn into one

Pfft. You worry too much, baby brother

Someone’s gotta worry

It keeps your ass alive

🙄

I say we just bail entirely         Whoever the chick is will only have a wet pussy for the future Don

Mamma will cut us

I can hear Vito’s groan as if he’s in the room with me because it echoes my own.

FFS, Vito

“See you in a bit” would’ve been fine

What? She fucking loves giving head

Vito loves to taunt Massimo and me with TMI, and I imagine he’s laughing his ass off.

My brother lives by ‘one-and-done’ when it comes to sleeping with a woman. However, with Lexa, because it’s only oral sex—which she’s the one who calls him up because she loves sucking his dick, apparently—Vito’s golden rule of only fucking a woman once is never broken. It’s a weird arrangement, but who am I to judge?

“Asshole,” I mutter, slipping my phone into my suit jacket pocket.

I shut down my computer, walk out of my office, and close the dark walnut door. Jo, my executive assistant, who makes my work life smooth, smiles at me, and the lines around her eyes and mouth deepen into ready laugh lines.

“It’s time to head out, Jo.”

“Night, boss.”

“I meant for you to head out as well.”

“But I still have an hour on the clock.” She shakes her head. “And I still have things to do.”

“There are always things to do.”

I’m a hard worker and demand that of my staff; however, Jo had gone above and beyond, like always, when we were securing our latest deal. I ensured her paycheck reflected the extra hours she hadn’t logged. “Head home to that new grandbaby of yours.”

Her cheeks pinkened with the reminder of her pride and joy.

Jo’s daughter, Susan, fled an abusive relationship and is staying with her until she gets on her feet. I’m working on convincing Jo to let me help; however, she’s a proud woman and won’t accept anything that looks or feels like charity.

She nods and says, “Thank you, boss.”

My phone rings as I say goodnight, and I glance at it, half expecting it to be Vito. It’s an unknown caller, but I recognize the number from the last time he called, and Jo had patched him through: Manuel Morales. Even though I told him to lose my number, I’m curious and in a mood to taunt him, so I answer instead of blocking the call.

“Creed, my man, so glad I reached you.”

I frown as I enter the elevator, trying to understand why he’s acting like we’re pals. “What the hell do you want, Manny?”

He laughs. “You like that nickname for me. It’s cool that we have that kind of relationship.”

“Are you drunk?”

He laughs harder.

“Okay, high then.”

It’s like a switch flips, and he hisses, “You’re a snotty little shit, aren’t you?”

As the elevator descends, I look at myself in the mirror, at how my tall, chiseled form fills out my suit and smirk. “Little isn’t exactly the adjective people use to describe me.”

His breathing is heavy, but he says, calmer, “Look, we’re getting off on the wrong foot.”

“I honestly don’t give a fuck.”

“Creed, wait.” He sucks in deeply, and I imagine him smoking those cigarettes he loves. “I just wanted to reach out and offer—”

“No,” I flatly cut him off.

“You don’t even know what I was going to offer.” He sniffs.

“You’re right, and I don’t care. I don’t need or want anything you’re offering.”

The elevator doors open. As I walk through the main floor lobby of my building toward the glass front, I nod at Dan and Kate, the two head security officers, and wave at Petra, who runs the front reception.

“Even a mentor?” Morales asks.

“You? My mentor?” I laughed richly. “Manny, come on, you’re on a downward path toward a washed-up has-been. I haven’t reached thirty yet; however, I’ve accomplished more than men like you at twice my age.”

While true, my statement is purposefully egotistical and arrogant. He sputters in anger and hits back with the suspected line.

“Not all of us were born with a silver spoon up our asses or have the family you do, Santoro.” His words are spat with venom.

Several corporate leaders, including Manuel Morales, started with privilege and a different starting point than others. The foundation of my empire was legitimately earned, and I’m not passively relying on riding the coattails of my family’s name or wealth. But I feel no need to argue in my defense to this cockroach.

I push out the door and stride toward my Maserati MC20. The little black rocket can do zero-to-sixty in two-point-nine seconds. One of Dan and Kate’s staff watches over the car, standing beside it, with sunglasses on and beefy hands clasped before him. When I park on the street, the guard isn’t there so my vehicle doesn’t get stolen or vandalized, but so nothing can be done to it, like a tracker placed on it or a bomb planted. I still have the Santoro name and can be a target to get to my family, even if I have no role in the underworld.

Plus, the number of threats and enemies a legitimate, extremely successful businessman has is shocking. I may not walk around with the guard detail that Massimo or Papà did—I refuse that just like Vito does—but that doesn’t mean I don’t have other levels of protection.

I incline my chin in thanks, and he dips his head respectfully, then steps back as I get into my car.

“You’re wasting my time, Manny. And my time is too expensive to be wasted,” I taunt further, sounding like the arrogant bastard I want him to think I am. If he thinks that, then he’ll continue to misjudge me. And when your enemies misjudge you, that helps you keep an advantage.

“You’re a hijo de puta inmaduro,” he spits and then flings more vitriol at me in Spanish.

“Don’t call me again, or trust me, you will not like the consequences.” My tone is dark and menacing. I may not operate in the mafia world, but I was born and raised in it. I was trained in it, and I have spilled blood to protect what’s mine.

It’s not that I’ll order a hit, or do it myself, because Morales is a pain in my ass, but if he comes at me, I will retaliate. Not with guns, but I’ll destroy him as a competitor; I’ll dismantle his business one brick at a time if I have to. I’ll fucking ruin him and smile maliciously while I do.

Firing up my car, I toss my phone onto the console. Working to calm my anger, I look at the tower of glass that houses the headquarters for Santoro Ventures Inc. It looks etched in blue, twists upward, and catches the reflection of the bay. I’ve worked hard to build what I have, and I don’t give a fuck if Morales thinks I have what I do as the result of ill-gotten means. I know for fucking certain he can’t actually say the same for a lot of what he has.

Huffing out a breath, I ruminate on Manuel Morales as I drive to my parents’ estate. His two recent phone calls are illuminating—not so much because of what he said, but because of how he quickly devolved into showing his true feelings toward me. Both times, he tested the waters and unraveled quickly when I challenged or taunted him.

He resents my youth as much as my success. He wants something from me—something besides the obvious desire he has for me to fail. The way he unraveled quickly tells me he may not be all that stable, which supports quiet rumors Andro has heard.

I’ll have to pay closer attention to the cockroach. Morales may be a pest, but if not taken seriously, it could escalate quickly into a rampant problem.

The light ahead turns red, and I downshift. My mind jumps to Sophie, and my anger dissipates completely.

She’s never far from my thoughts, but the memory of her driving my Ferrari in San Diego, trying hard to concentrate while I touched her… My cock jerks and fights against the confines of my pants.

I love how even the simple memory of her makes my body react instantaneously.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen her, and I am heading back to San Diego in the morning. We’re on a crash course to encounter again very soon. I’ll make sure of it.

My smile’s dark as I think of Sophie believing she has gotten away with one night only.

I can’t wait to look at her again, to see all that sweet innocence hiding the naughty little siren underneath. I can’t wait to taste her or to feel the way her walls clutch around my cock, as if trying to prevent me from leaving. I can’t wait to fill her pretty little pussy with my cum. And I most definitely want to fill her mouth and throat as she stares up at me with those beautiful brown orbs swirled with copper.

But most of all, I can’t wait to wrap her in my arms, settle her against my chest, and listen to her tell me about her life. I want it all—everything from her, everything with her.

I grin because, for the first time in my life, I’m turning into a lovesick bastard, but I don’t give a damn.

As I approach my family’s estate, I slow and turn in. The guards know my car, but as per protocol, I lower my window so they can see it’s me before they let me through the gates. I loop around the drive, bypassing the road to the parking garage, and park in front of the house.

Well, ‘house’ is a bit of an understatement. It’s a mansion, or a palazzo, as my father calls it. It has four wings, and we all could still easily live here. Us three boys still have rooms here, but we all have our places. The three-story house’s exterior is covered in stone and boasts a baroque design—high, dome-like ceilings, rows of columns, multiple doorways, smooth stucco, and windows framed with rough stone.

Massimo’s Rolls Royce is here, along with a town car, which I assume belongs to the dinner guests. Their driver smokes a cigarette and chats with a few of my father’s guards. A rumbling noise coming down the driveway tells me that Vito has arrived. Massimo loves classic, elegant vehicles and has outfitted his Rolls as a mini-tank. I love the high-end Italian-made cars. However, Vito is a lover of American muscle cars. The 1968 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500 is his pride and joy.

I wait on the steps for Vito to park. He unfolds himself from the car and stretches to his height of six-five. He wears a black shirt, leather jacket, jeans, and boots—it’s like wrestling a rabid lion to get him to wear a suit, but his casual attire fits the nature of his work.

His hair isn’t as dark as Massimo’s and mine and is close-cropped. He’s the tallest of us all but isn’t quite as broad; however, he’s chiseled with muscle, complete with an eight-pack and the sharpest Adonis belt I’ve ever seen that isn’t photoshopped. And scars… His hands are scarred, as is his body. He only has one tattoo, which is of our family crest on his chest, right over his heart. Massimo isn’t like me with the ink; however, he has several tattoos, which are only visible when he takes his shirt off.

Vito grins as he climbs the stairs to join me. “Baby brother.”

“I didn’t expect you here yet.”

He adjusts his jeans. “I was parked outside Lexa’s when we were texting, and like I said, she’s a Champion Hoover.”

The door opens, and Adolfo, the ancient head of the household staff, greets us with a nod. He’s been with our family since Papà was a child. His eyes are lively, though, as Vito and I greet him.

“Your parents, brother, and guests are in the dining room.” He nods toward the large dining room.

As we walk through the house, Vito mutters, “Fuck, my gym bag is still in the car.”

“You think Adolfo won’t suspect anything with you carrying in a gym bag and not rat you out to Mamma?”

He grins. “We could go out now for shots.”

I clasp his shoulder, the leather of his jacket creaking under my grip. “Shooting back bourbon, no matter how expensive, isn’t my idea of fun.” He groans as I pull him along with me toward the dining room. “But it’s not off the table if this dinner takes a turn for the worse.”

“Fuck, yeah.” He claps me on the back as we enter the large dining room. It has a long, wide table comfortable for twelve people, which extends to seat up to thirty. Like elsewhere throughout the house, this room has paintings and sculptures and an ornate crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.

Papà is elegantly dressed as always in a black-pinstriped suit; his smoothed-back dark hair is salt and pepper at the sides. He and Massimo usually look like twins in terms of body width and musculature, but Papà has lost a some muscle mass with his declining health. He’s tall and scarred like Vito. While I’m only slightly smaller than Massimo and Papà, he and I share his sharp, attractive looks and unique, light blue eyes.

Mamma is smaller, with medium-brown hair and dark-brown eyes. She’s a classic, elegant beauty dressed to the nines in a cream Dior dress. Her smile is friendly, but her eyes are always sharp and shrewd.

“My good boys.” She reaches up to kiss each of us. “So glad you could join us.”

Vito bends down to kiss her cheek with an affectionate smile and a cocked brow. “Did we have a choice, Mamma? I seemed to have missed that memo.”

She’s all smiles. “Behave,” she warns and reaches up to pat Vito’s cheek.

“I’ll keep him in line. Promise.” I hug her to my side. “It’s good to see you. You look beautiful, as always.”

Vito scowls, grumbling, “Suck up.”

Mamma laughs before leaving to rejoin Papà and the hopeful bride’s parents.

Regardless of how much we hate her match-making efforts, we love any time spent together as a family. We’re like the fucking Brady Bunch—only mafia style.

Glancing at Papà, sitting and drinking a brandy with the girl’s father, only reaffirms my gratitude for the time with my family. His coloring isn’t as pale as it has been in the past; however, it isn’t the robust ruddiness he’s always had.

I nod at Massimo, who stands cool and aloof with a petite blonde who looks like a doll. She gazes up at him, her hand on his arm as she chats animatedly.

I’m quiet and introspective, a people observer, and have learned to read people well, which is a large reason for my success in my career. Two things I notice as the woman chats to Massimo: her incessant chatter is a direct turn-off for my eldest brother, and her baby blue eyes; while they are looking with adoration at Massimo, there is a cunning hidden within. This is a woman used to using her innocent, doll-like features to lead men around by their dicks.

My eldest brother isn’t an idiot, though, and the look he flashes at me says he sees right through this one. He’s calm—another trait he and our father share—and polite, letting her chatter so as not to insult or embarrass Mamma.

My father nods at Vito and me and stands. “Boys, I’d like to introduce you to Bartolo and Rosina Insigne, and their daughter, Lalia.”

Bartolo is a short man who’s nearly as round as he is tall. His wife is so gaunt, she looks like she lives on air and celery sticks. Lalia turns her rapt attention away from Massimo and flashes me a smile, then Vito. Vito licks his lower lip, and her smile falters slightly and turns dazed.

Oh shit, this should be fun.

Fighting a smirk, I move to a chair at the table as Mamma invites us all to sit. I catch Massimo’s small smirk and know he’s thinking the same thing. There won’t be any marriage arrangements with this woman. However, Vito is probably going to screw Lalia. That bastard always thinks with his cock.

Adolfo and Etta bring out the antipasto to start the meal—bruschetta, bread, dried salami, cheese, and salad. Mamma carries the conversation as a seasoned hostess while pulling out details about Lalia through her questions. The questions are innocuous—her hobbies, favorite things to do, and plans for her future. However, our mother is as analytical as I am and will psychoanalyze those responses. Not that she has the final say in who Massimo or any of us marry, though; however, it keeps her happy, so we got along with it.

As we eat, Papà is unusually quiet, and I notice his hand in his suit jacket pocket more than once. He always carries a bullet on a strip of leather—it’s the first bullet he was shot with, and he keeps it on him to remind him how fragile life is, and that all life has value. I take a long pull on the red wine—the only alcohol out and offered—and regard my father.

With his quietness, seeking out the contact with the bullet, and Massimo’s extra seriousness tonight, I know they’re considering someone’s fate. When Tommaso Santoro orders someone to be taken out, it’s never done lightly or without excessive consideration. I know none of the details, though, nor will I ask.

An annoying baying laugh pulls my attention back to the guests around the table. Bartolo ignores the women; I pegged him as a misogynistic asshole after hearing him speak his first sentence. Even though Vito and I do have cocks that hang between our legs, Bartolo is only jonesing for Papà and Massimo’s attention, showing that he is a power-hungry, misogynistic asshole. The tight lines around my father’s mouth tell me he reads the bastard the same way, and his patience is wearing thin.

The next course—primo—is brought out, which is Fileja Pasta ala Silana; a rich and hearty dish with spicy sausage and peperoncino in a tomato-based sauce.

Mamma reaches over to squeeze my hand. “Il preferito del mio bambino, no?” My baby’s favorite.

“Si, mamma.”

“Could you pass the parmigiano, Babbo?” Vito asks our father.

“Babbo?” Bartolo frowns.

“Yes.” Vito smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

When Vito was young and he discovered that Mamma had called her father Babbo, he insisted on using it, and Papà came to expect it from him.

“I thought you were joking,” Bartolo guffaws, jiggling his round belly.

“You’ll find I rarely joke.”

Unless it’s with our family, because Vito is a different man with us.

Vito’s tone—dominant and dangerous—grab Lalia’s attention, and I don’t miss her biting her bottom lip as she casts furtive glances at him for the rest of the meal.

As soon as the tiramisu is served, Etta, bless her soul, hands out limoncello as the digestif for the big meal, instead of waiting until after the dessert settles.

However, Bartolo looks ready to pit in for the night and reaches for the bottle of red wine as my father clears his throat. “It was a pleasure to have the Insigne family join us.”

The fact he didn’t address them by their first names and has clumped their daughter within that indicates that the Insigne family is not getting any closer to ours and that the evening is coming to a close. Mamma doesn’t look upset; in fact, she looks quite relieved.

“I have to call our evening, though regrettably,” Papà continues graciously. He’s a deadly, ruthless man, as he has to be as the Don and to hold his power. However, he’s refined and polite when the situation calls for it. “There are pressing items that need to be dealt with.”

Bartolo’s eyes widen, and Rosina’s pinched mouth forms a small ‘O’ while Lalia looks like she could cream in her panties as she looks hungrily at Massimo again, most likely envisioning herself as the future Don’s wife, before she glances at Vito and bites her lip. She reminds me of a spoiled brat looking at an array of pastries, being told there is a limit of one only, and plotting how she can have them all.

Massimo flashes me a small smirk, then pushes away from the table. “It was a pleasure,” he says, gruff and cool.

Mamma takes that as her cue and ushers the Insigne family out of the dining room, thanking them for coming.

I finish my wine and lean back in my chair.

Papà rubs his chin, looking around at the three of us. “I’ll speak with your mother. This will be the last of these dreadful meals.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Massimo grumbles.

“You better find someone soon on your own, though, big brother,” Vito taunts Massimo, pushing to tilt on the back legs of his chair. “Mamma wants grandbabies soon.”

“There’s another brother here with a cock.” Massimo flicks his hand at me.

Images of Sophie rush at me like a train. Images of her belly round with my child. Those images fill me with both urgency to make that happen, as well as peace thinking of this as a future reality.

“I’m not sure if I’m insulted that you automatically discounted me from providing grandbabies,” Vito muses, interlinking his scarred hands over his taut stomach.

“You procreating, Vito…” I pause, then shudder for effect. “I envision them coming out of the womb fisting a knife.”

He laughs and whips the butter knife at me, which I catch before it hits my face.

Papà chuckles, and Mamma kisses his forehead when she comes back in. She loops her arms around his neck and rests her chin on his head as she looks at her three boys.

“I do want daughters-in-law and grandbabies,” she says without guilt at how she’s been pushing lately. “You boys are well past the age of me waiting patiently.”

“Mamma, I’m twenty-eight, Vito’s thirty, and Massimo is thirty-two.”

“Precisely,” she sniffs. “By your age, Creed, I already had the three of you.”

“You also were married at eighteen, Mamma,” Massimo protests.

“Things are done differently now, Gina.” Papà pats her hands resting at the base of his throat. His phone rings, and he pulls it out of his jacket pocket. He kisses the back of Mamma’s hand, then answers gruffly. “Ash, thanks for calling me back.”

Ash Dexter is the Prez of the Havoc Guardians motorcycle club, and a fellow Chamber member. The fate of whoever Papà and Massimo are contemplating likely involves the MC or the Chamber.

Knowing Papà, Massimo, and Vito will head to his office for this discussion, I take that as my cue to leave and kiss Mamma’s cheek.

“You could stay?” she asks, looking hopeful.

“I’m leaving for San Diego in the morning and need to get ready.”

Reaching up, she pats my cheek. “You work so hard, mio dolce figlio.” My sweet son.

I’m not a sweet man, especially with all the dirty things I’ve been envisioning doing to my angel once I have her again. I want to dominate Sophie’s body, mind, and soul, and tether it to mine for eternity.

“Don’t worry so much, Mamma.” I kiss her cheek. “We’ll all find our soulmates soon.”

Her eyes well with tears, and she glances at Papà. “That’s my wish for you all: to have a love like your father and me. Even though it can crush your soul at the thought of losing it.” Her voice breaks, and she straightens. “Every second is worth it, Creed. Don’t ever hesitate.”

“I don’t plan on it,” I answer, meaning that more than anything else in my life.