#HOMEGROWN RUNS THIS PLACE. FUCK THE REST OF EM.

[princess00wifi]

Listen to me and listen good. If you ain’t rockin with the AEW originals, you a bitch. IF YOU AINT A OG, YOU PUSSY. AEW HOMEGROWN GANG OR DONT BANG. PERIOD.

[anavoliselenu]

Creighton chapter 28

“I’m a man in love with an amazing woman, and while that argument will not hold weight in a court of law, in a court of public opinion, I think it makes perfect sense. The purchase of Homegrown was meant to be a surprise belated wedding present for my new wife, so I acted quickly, and perhaps without thinking things through in my normal logical fashion, because I wanted to do it before my beautiful, intelligent bride realized what I was doing.” I’m pretty sure every female in the crowd is now sighing. Glancing up from the podium, I see Selena standing in the back corner, and she’s lifting a hand to her face and dabbing at the underside of her eye. I don’t try to hold the smile back. “So, there you go. That’s the explanation I have for you. Now I’ll take your questions.” The flurry starts, but a booming voice cuts through the din. “You really think that ridiculous explanation is going to matter? Not likely, Justin. I thought you were smarter than that.” With that, my uncle Damon turns on his heel and leaves the room. I spend over an hour answering investor questions before my portion of the presentation is over. Selena is waiting at the back of the auditorium, and I stride to where she stands and pull her into my arms. “You know how to give one hell of a speech, Justin,” she says, speaking in muffled words into my chest. “I meant every word of it.” “Is Homegrown really my wedding present?” I loosen my grip and step back a fraction so I can look down into her eyes. “Yes. It was always for you.” Her brow furrows, concern shading her eyes. “Does that mean you expect me to run it?” “If you want to; you can do whatever you want. The management team I’ve got in place now is starting to turn things around, but if you want to get involved with the business side of things, you’re more than welcome.” I pause to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “I think that’d be sexy as fuck, if you want to know the truth . . . my wife, the CEO, running her own empire.” I groan as my dick jerks against my zipper. Not the time or the place, buddy. A small smile spreads over Selena’s face, which doesn’t help matters. “Justin.” The sound of Cannon’s voice, however, deflates my hard-on. Selena called it when she referred to him as a cock-blocker. Releasing Selena with one arm, I turn. “What do you need?” “What are you going to do about Damon?” “Besides take a hit out on him?” Cannon’s eyes widen only slightly. “I know a guy.” “Jesus. Fuck, Cannon. I’m joking.” He shrugs. “Desperate times.” “And that’s called conspiracy, and I don’t care to find out the New York prison system’s policy on conjugal visits.” At this, Selena snorts. “Can I second that?” A tall, thin black man approaches us. He’s the associate from the conference room who made the “Oh no, he didn’t” comment when Selena walked in. “Mr. Karas, Mr. Cramer wanted to run one more idea by you, given your uncle’s latest outburst. Could we have a few minutes of your time in the conference room across the hall?” I look to Selena, and she says, “Justin, do your thing. I’ll be waiting. I’m feeling an epic song about revenge coming on, à la Carrie Underwood’s ‘Two Black Cadillacs’ or maybe ‘Good-bye, Earl.’” Leaning down, I brush a kiss across her cheek. “I love you, woman. I’ll be right back.” “Give ’em hell. And I love you too.” I follow Cannon and the associate—I really need to get his name—to the conference room across the hall from the auditorium. My lawyer, Cramer is waiting, and he looks less than amused. I suppose it’s lucky that he works for me and not the other way around. “Save your breath, Cramer. You didn’t approve before, and you don’t approve now. I also know you’re not going to approve of what I’m going to do next.” “And what’s that, Mr. Karas?” he asks, the skepticism in his tone thinly veiled. One of the largest negative aspects of this suit is the element of fear that has slipped away from my persona. This will be remedied. I’m Justin fucking Karas, and the world will not question my judgment again when this is over. “My uncle may be brave enough to take me on in front of a crowd, but we’ll see how he feels about taking me on man-to-man.” The lawyer’s silver eyebrows hit his equally silver hairline. “That’s highly inadvisable.” “Consider it a family matter and none of your concern.” My words carry the unmistakable weight of authority. He swallows. “Mr. Karas, we have your best interests in mind here. I’m sure you understand.” “Of course, Mr. Cramer, but sometimes the only thing a bully understands is a bigger bully. It’s time the gloves come off. I’m done with his bullshit.” “You’re not going to listen to a logical, reasoned argument, no matter what I say, are you?” “There’s no reasoning with my uncle, so no. Save your breath.” “Fine.” Cramer nods. “We’ll leave you to it. Please call us if we can be of further assistance.” I turn and head for the door. “Cannon, walk out with me?” He’s on my heels as we hit the threshold.

“You’re not staying for the rest of Investor Day?” he asks. “You have a closing keynote.” I give him a sideways glance. “You think I don’t know that? I’ll try to be back in time. If I’m not, extend the dog-and-pony show. You’ve got promo videos and PowerPoints up the ass. Use something.” “And if that doesn’t work?” I stop, and my eyes cut to Selena. She’s curled up in a chair, scribbling in the journal resting on her knee. She’s so fucking beautiful, and I’d walk through a thousand shitstorms like the one swirling around us just to watch her like this. Not looking at Cannon, I say, “Improvise. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.” I take a step toward Selena, but pause when he lays a hand on my arm. “Justin.” I glance back at him. “What?” “Damon is fucking crazy. What he’s doing—his issue with you—that’s not based in logic. It never has been. Be careful. I don’t trust him, and I don’t think you should either.” I inhale, long and slow. “I know. This has been a long time coming.” “Good luck, man.” Cannon peels off and heads back in the direction of the auditorium, and I cross the half dozen yards between Selena and me. She’s so involved in her writing that she doesn’t notice me until I crouch in front of her. “I bet if I were naked, you’d notice me quicker.” Her head jerks up, and her smile is quick and bright. “Damn straight, I would. That dick of yours demands attention.” “Later. Definitely.” “Count on it. After all, I hear I got a hell of a wedding present, which means you’ve got a hell of a thank-you coming.” “Maybe I should book the room at the Plaza?” “Screw the Plaza. Let’s go back to Vegas. I didn’t get nearly enough time to enjoy that villa at Caesar’s.” I smile, thankful she’s not losing her mind over the Homegrown acquisition. “Deal. We sort this out, and you and I are going to high roll it in Vegas.” Selena leans forward and threads her fingers through my hair. “I’m going to head back to the penthouse to finish this song and pack. So, hurry up and sort it out.” “I’ll consider those my marching orders.” Her lips press against mine, and while I want to seize control, I’m aware of the people moving around us, their eyes on us. I pull away. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m on my way.” “You better.” Another quick kiss and then I step away. I don’t realize that the next time I see her, everything I think I know about myself will have changed irrevocably. I go first to my aunt and uncle’s penthouse in the city, but I’m informed by the doorman, who has been a fixture in the building for as long as I can remember, that my uncle’s already been and gone back to Westchester. Thanking him for the information, I slide back into the backseat of the Bentley. “Looks like we’re headed to the estate, Michael,” I tell my driver. “Very good, sir. I’m assuming we’re in a hurry?” “Aren’t we always?” I catch his grin in the rearview mirror. “Of course.” Midday traffic is thankfully lighter than normal, and I cruise through the e-mails piled up in my in-box before I read through the top stories reporting on my impassioned opening remarks at Investor Day. JUSTIN KARAS: EXECUTIVE IN LOVE. THIS TIME IT’S FOR REAL, LADIES. This morning at Karas International’s annual Investor Day, Justin Karas publicly announced that his acquisition of Homegrown Records was an impulsive move fueled by his feelings for his new bride. He claims that allegations of self-dealing and breach of fiduciary duty leveled in a shareholder derivative suit filed by the executive’s own uncle are baseless given the company’s portfolio of holdings. Further, Karas claims that a purchase of Homegrown by Karas International would have been detrimental to the health of the company and the best interest of its shareholders, given Homegrown’s precarious financial situation. Homegrown, which has been hemorrhaging money since . . . I skim the rest of the article and several others like it, but it seems that the court of public opinion is indeed turning in my favor. Now, if I can get my uncle to take my offer and sell his shares in Karas International, then this problem will be solved and I can move on to taking Selena back to Vegas, and if I have my way, on a real honeymoon. I think she’d enjoy Europe after she gets her next record cut. The beauty of my solution of having my uncle sell his shares is simple—he can’t maintain his shareholder derivative suit if he’s no longer a shareholder. Clean and elegant. Even my lawyers would be proud.

By the time we pull up to the tall, ornate iron gates of the sprawling Westchester estate that was arguably my childhood home, I have my entire speech planned. The gate slides open immediately, and Michael drives through. A blanket of crisp white snow blankets what I know is a manicured lawn with perfect shrubbery. It has never been graced by a swing set. Tag has never been played here. The ornamental trees have never been climbed. Instead, Greer actually had tea parties, archery lessons, cotillion training, and etiquette instruction. Nine days out of ten, I was banished to my room when I was home, but sneaked out and stole books from the library on economics, finance, philosophy, and anything else that I thought could help me learn enough to make more money than my uncle. I studied him. Mimicked his moves in the foreign exchange markets. Cashed in and got out to invest in business with people and assets instead of numbers and paper. I took my company public and made billions. And then he came and bought chunks of my stock, and his ownership of a piece of my company was eating away at the rest of it like a cancer. It’s time for him to be excised. I won’t stand for it any longer. I built my empire with my own sweat, guts, and determination, and I defend what’s mine. My uncle has forgotten that I am just as ruthless as he is. I learned from his example, after all. His reminder will be fierce and swift. Michael slows to a stop in the circular drive of the ten-thousand-square-foot Georgian-style mansion. “I won’t be long,” I say, reaching for the door handle and pushing it open. “Yes, sir.” I make my way to the front door, and it swings open wide before I reach it. “Elisabetta, it’s good to see you again.” The housekeeper, who has served my aunt and uncle in near silence for as long as I can remember, nods. “This way, Mr. Justin.” She leads me to my uncle’s study and shuts the door behind me with a quiet click. Damon is seated in an oversized antique leather chair that looks like it held a Russian tsar. Knowing Damon, it probably did. The Louis XIV desk is the size of a pool table, and the top is spotless, but for a sleek laptop on a leather blotter and a single Mont Blanc pen. “Figured you’d show up. It’s always good to be proven right.” His eyes are narrowed on me, and his tone clearly says he’s not pleased with my presence. “Damon.” “Justin.” “I don’t expect you to offer me a seat. I always enjoy being proven right as well.” His mouth twists into a mockery of a smile. “I don’t know what you think coming here is going to accomplish, but you might as well say what you’ve got to say and get out. Know in advance that you’re wasting my time.” I imagine that my own smile is just as sardonic as his. I step closer and lower myself into one of his chairs for the sole purpose of knowing that it pisses him off. I enjoy towering over him, but I enjoy pissing him off more. His scowl gratifies every part of me. “I came to end this, because quite frankly, Damon, you’re wasting my time, and I’m fucking sick of it. I’ve got better things to do than dicking around with all this petty activist shareholder bullshit, and so do you. We both know it. You’ve hated me since I was a kid; I don’t particularly care why. But we’re both adults, and we’re both businessmen. So how about we talk in terms that we both understand and respect—money. I want your shares. What’s it going to take to get you out of my company and out of my fucking life?” Damon’s eyes, dark like my own, harden even more, but there’s something else there that I can’t identify. I’m reminded of Cannon’s comment because in this moment, my uncle looks more than his normal shrewd and cutting self. “You want my shares? You can have them.” He sits forward, pressing his palms on the desk, and stands halfway out of his chair. “All you have to do is change your fucking last name and take it off your goddamn company.” What the fuck? His request rings in my head, and my brain spins to find a motive or logic behind his words. He’s fucking crazy. “What the hell are you talking about, old man?” My words come out low and harsh. Damon pushes away from the desk and stands tall. He’s six foot one, which means I still top him by two inches. Feeling the need to establish dominance once again, I rise as well. His face has morphed into the most twisted expression of perverted pleasure I’ve ever beheld as he tilts his head and studies me. “You don’t deserve that name. You never fucking did. Your whore of a mother got it for you by seducing my little brother. She ruined his fucking life. Killed him.” I suck in a breath but my lungs are burning, as if all the oxygen in this room couldn’t satisfy them. What is he saying? “Explain yourself before I fucking beat it out of you.” The evil light of perverse pleasure burns in his eyes. “You’ve never wondered why Greer actually looks Greek and you don’t? Oh, you’ve got Mediterranean heritage, but it didn’t come from this family.” Everything inside me goes cold. I become intrinsically aware of every unconscious function of my body. Every tha-thunk of my heart. The whoosh of blood through my ears. Each blink of my eyes. Every shallow, indrawn breath and shaky exhalation. The sensation of my stomach on the floor at my feet.

“What the fuck are you saying?” I roar. Visions of my father—my swarthy, very Greek father—filter through my brain. My mother was a brunette as well. I always assumed I took after her more than him, but my looks never raised suspicion. “Don’t you get it, Justin? The only reason you weren’t born a fucking bastard is because your mother seduced my brother into marrying her before you were born. She got knocked up by a married man, and her family threw her out. My brother was a sucker. A good kid. A fucking junior in college. He was going to do great things—join me in the business. But he met her, and he wouldn’t listen. They got married six weeks later without telling anyone. When we found out and tried to talk him into annulling it, he dug in his heels. Joined that damn church and moved out of the city. Five years later, they ended up in Papua fucking New Guinea, and we all know how that ended. She as good as killed him herself. He never would’ve been there if not for her.” His words twist in a riot in my head, and I’m trying to make sense of them, but it sounds like complete fiction. It can’t be true. “You’re telling me that David Karas was not my biological father.” Damon is stone-faced. “No. He wasn’t.” My father was not my father. The realization pounds into my brain over and over. I turn and pace toward the door. Several beats later, I gather myself and face him again. “But he’s Greer’s father, because she was born in Papua New Guinea.” “Unless your whore mother—” I bolt across the room and my hand is at his throat, slamming him against the wall. “Shut your fucking mouth.” “Get your hands off me,” he forces out through the chokehold. “Tell me who my father is.” “Let me go.” “I said—” I wrap my fingers tighter around his throat. “Tell me who my fucking father is. You have to know.” Damon’s face is turning purple, but he snarls out, “A capo in La Casa Nostra.” I release him, and he stumbles back into the wall. What the fuck? The Mafia? “You’re lying.” “No reason to lie.” I lift my hand to my face as I try to let it sink in. “You have proof?” He nods. “DNA test. Pulled strings when you were a kid.” The man either has bigger balls than I could have ever suspected—or he’s stupid. “How did you not end up dead?” Damon tries to chuckle, but it comes out as a grunt. He rubs his throat. “I know people.” “Well, you can go fuck yourself. This stays between us. I’m not changing my name. You take that request and shove it up your ass.” “Then get ready to lose your entire company. I will drag you through court and destroy your reputation by dissecting every move you’ve ever made. I’ll be so far up your ass, you’ll taste me with every breath.” I have no doubt that he will attempt everything he’s saying. The crazy light in his eyes has settled over the expression on his face, and it’s clear that logic has fled his mind completely. “You’re going to cost yourself everything. You won’t walk away clean from this.” “I don’t care,” he roars. “I’m going to be a thorn in your side for the rest of your fucking life, like you’ve been a thorn in mine!” My hands curl into fists, and I ask the question burning within me. “Why? And if all you want from me is to change my name, why wait until now? Why not earlier?” Damon’s face twists into a sneer. “Every time I miss my brother—his birthday, our annual fishing trip, the World fucking Series, every time I see your goddamn picture in the paper, it makes me sick. If you didn’t exist, I’d still have him. It would be a fair trade, in my mind. And since I can’t have him back, it gives me some small measure of satisfaction to know that I can make you even a fraction as miserable as I am for losing him.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a beat as a wave of grief hits me. Because the man that my uncle still mourns is one I miss just as much, and had even fewer years with. “There’s something so fucked up about that, I don’t even know where to begin. You need help.” He chuckles humorlessly. “No one can bring him back. And now you’ve proven that blood will always tell. Your mother was trash, and now you’ve married trash. You’ve tarnished the family name with your stunt, and I’m done sharing it with you. I won’t stop until I win.” His last statement is a vow, and I know that all the words in the world won’t change his mind. The man has been buried in the grief of his loss for so many years, it seems to have twisted his mind. So I don’t respond to his dig as I cross the room and rip the door open. My time will be better spent developing a new strategy now that I know what I’m facing. My eyes have reduced to tunnel vision, and I barely notice Elisabetta wringing her hands as I stride for the entrance.

Sliding in the backseat of the Bentley, I tell Michael, “Let’s go home. And hurry.” Because I sure as fuck didn’t get the answers I came for. No, I got my world rocked, and a completely new identity. Justin enters the penthouse, and it doesn’t take a genius to know immediately that something is very, very wrong. “Justin?” His hair is wild. His eyes are wild. His entire demeanor is wild. I’ve never seen him like this, and it sets my stomach on a high-speed churn. “What happened? Is it bad? He didn’t take your deal?” He walks past me to the window and presses a hand to the glass. His forehead follows next. “My father wasn’t my father.” His words are so quiet, I can barely make them out. “What?” I whisper. “My mother was pregnant when they met.” A lifetime of not knowing who my father is has had a massive impact on me, but just learning it? I can’t imagine how much it would throw a person’s world off its axis. “Oh my God. Do you know who . . . ?” “Not exactly.” I press both hands to my face before rubbing upward and dragging them through my hair. Holy. Crap. I cross to his side, wanting nothing more than to offer what little comfort I may be able to. His slumped shoulders look like they’re carrying the weight of the world. “But Damon did tell me he was married, and he was in the Mafia.” “What!” I don’t mean to yell, but if ever there was a time to yell, I think this qualifies. Justin pushes off the glass and turns to me. “Yeah. Apparently I’m half Sicilian and not half Greek.” I study him. “I guess I can see it. But holy shit, Justin. Holy shit. You can’t make this shit up. I mean, holy shit.” The edges of his lips curl up in the tiniest hint of a smile, and incredibly, he bursts into a laugh. “Fuck me, I know. Damon said he was a capo, and that was before I was born. He’s probably dead or in prison now. But Jesus fucking Christ. I went to buy back stock in my own company, not a place in the Five Families.” My eyes feel like they may bug out of my head. I’m sure it’s not an attractive look on me, but I can’t help it. This is so freaking unbelievable. “This is like real Godfather-type shit, isn’t it?” Justin shakes his head. “It changes nothing. I’m still exactly the same man. I’m a product of my experiences. The source of my DNA doesn’t change me. And I’m sure as shit not changing my last name.” “Why would you change your last name?” I’m totally confused now. “That was Damon’s price to leave me—to leave us—alone.” “What an arrogant asshole!” “Calm down, baby,” Justin says, reaching for my hand. I shake him off. “Fuck calming down. I’m about to go backwoods on his ass. I like my new last name. I may not be using it onstage, but I’m sure as hell not giving it up now.” Now Justin’s smile threatens to split his face wide. “You are an amazing woman. If anyone had told me that I’d be smiling this soon after having the foundation of my entire existence rocked, I would’ve told them they were insane. Because I remember, with startling clarity, you telling me that I was under no circumstances to call you Mrs. Justin Karas again, or I’d be at risk of being immortalized in a song about a nutless wonder.” “You do listen.” I’m grinning now. “And that was purely a matter of your this is my woman, and I own her like property tone at the time that I took exception to. It had nothing to do with your name.” Justin grabs me and hauls me against his chest. I swear I can feel the tension leave his body as soon as it connects with mine. “This is what I needed. You. In my arms. God, now I’m really tempted to consider Cannon’s suggestion about taking a hit out on Damon.” I crane my neck back and look up at him. “That’s the Mafioso blood in you talking now, baby. I like it.” “Well, right now I just want to forget this entire morning.” His lips descend on mine, and our mouths meet and devour each other. My tongue finds his and tangles, tastes, and teases. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself off my feet before twining my legs about his waist. Justin cradles my ass in both hands and heads for the bedroom. We’re two steps from the door before a knock interrupts us. I pull back, but Justin says, “Ignore it.” “We can’t ignore it. You know it’s Cannon, and if he left the Investor Day festivities, it’s got to be important.” “You’re more important.” I wiggle out of his hold and shimmy down his body, stopping to look down at the tent he’s sporting in his suit pants. “How about I get the door?” Justin shoves a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he says, scowling. “But tell him he’s an asshole for interrupting.” “I will.” He’s shaking his head as I turn away and head to the door. I’m still laughing when I pull it open. I stop laughing, because it’s not Cannon. I have to stop and smooth my hair because I think I’m about to meet my new sister-in-law.