Page 33 of Creed

As we eat,Papàis 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 forPapàand Massimo’s attention,showing that he is apower-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.

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

“Si, mamma.”

“Could you pass theparmigiano, 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 fatherBabbo, he insisted on using it, andPapàcame 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 thedigestiffor 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.Mammadoesn’t look upset; in fact, she looks quite relieved.

“I have to call our evening, though regrettably,”Papàcontinues 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.

Mammatakes 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.

Papàrubs 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. “Mammawants 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.

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