Page 31 of Creed

“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 orPapàdid—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 ahijo 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 howhe 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 rumblingnoise 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.

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