#sorry gang nothing spicy today just plot

[cowboyemeritus]

Il Suo Campione (Copia/Reader)

Chapter Three

Series Masterlist

Summary: Copia has a meeting with his father while you try your best not to think about him.

Content Warning: implied gang violence, mild sexism (nihil is a gross old man)

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Notes: we’re keeping on with this series! i hope this chapter isn’t too dull; i don’t want to have smut in every installment and needed to establish a few Plot Things, if that makes sense. i didn’t actually have the plot fully planned out when I decided to make this a series, so that will likely bite me in the ass in the future. cooking up some spicy stuff for you all in the next few chapters though. stay tuned ;)

lmk what y'all think about the new header! graphic design is not my passion, so i'm worried it sucks lol.

feedback is always welcome! enjoy, friends!

Copia tugs at the collar of his shirt. It does nothing to relieve the choking feeling that’s been plaguing him all morning. The walk from the car is short, but sweat prickles across his back and under his arms as he climbs the front stairs. He takes a second to compose himself, one final moment of peace before the onslaught to come, staring at the obnoxious goat head knocker. Its square pupils bore into his soul, mocking him. Copia scoffs at the brass monstrosity, finally reaching for the ring between its teeth. It’s almost in his grasp when the door opens, startling him.

“Were you going to stand out here all day?” Psaltarian asks, a look of exasperation already plastered across his aged face. Copia swallows, shoving his hands in his coat pockets.

“I was not,” he quips. A beat passes. “Didn’t realize the old guy promoted you to doorman.” Psaltarian rolls his eyes, beckoning Copia to come inside with a wave of his arm. The foyer, as always, smells vaguely of cigar smoke, though today there’s a hint of chemical cleaner as well. The Persian rug at the center of the room catches his eye; it’s clearly new, the colors too rich and bright for this dismal place. On the opposite wall, a framed photo of Copia and his brothers as children hangs askew, the glass cracked. Glancing upwards, he finally notices the man sitting in a chair at the top of the stairs, a large gun laid across his lap. His finger rests on the trigger.

“Shit,” Copia mutters, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a stand near the door. “What-“ Psaltarian is already halfway down the hall, and Copia has to power-walk to catch up to him. “What happened?”

“An uninvited guest dropped by last night,” he says. “That’s all.”

Copia nods, wringing his hands. He’ll be in a bad mood. As the two pass by the basement door, he can’t help but pick up on the screaming emanating from the dark, musty labyrinth beneath the house. Whoever is down there… He chooses not to dwell on it any further. They’ll get what they deserve.

His father’s office is at the very end of the long, narrow hall. It’s not wide enough for him and Psaltarian to walk side-by-side, so he follows the old bookkeeper quietly. This part of the house has always reminded Copia of a livestock chute, pushing him through to the slaughterhouse at its terminus. Portraits of long-dead Emeritus patriarchs hang on the walls, their attire becoming progressively more antiquated the further he travels. He has never been able to shake the feeling that their eyes follow him, silently passing their judgement. Approaching the door, Copia recalls his words to you the night previous, the false assurance that his father would be pleased by your performance. He realizes now that he said it more to make himself feel better than to praise you.

When they arrive at the door to the office, Psaltarian steps to the side, looking at Copia expectantly. It’s awkward as he squeezes by the older man, turning his body so as to not brush against him. Fighting back a groan, he gingerly raps on the door.

“Yes?” Even through the thick wood, the frustration in Nihil’s voice is evident. Hesitantly, Copia opens the door enough to stick his head in. He finds his father sitting at his antique mahogany desk, hands clasped in front of him and looking at his youngest son disapprovingly.

“Hey, dad.” Copia smiles nervously as he steps into the room. “You’re looking well today.” The old man, unimpressed, scowls.

“Sit down. You are late.” Glancing at the clock on the wall — one of those stupid ones that spins and plays a song every hour — he sees it’s only two minutes past the designated meeting time. Knowing better than to say anything, Copia takes a seat in the rickety wooden chair across from the desk.

“So, eh… What’s up?” Nihil sneers, slamming his hands down on the desktop. Copia jumps a little.

“What is ‘up’ is that you refuse get your head out of your ass and participate in this business. Instead, you go galavanting around like you’re some sort of showman, putting on these silly cat-fights.” Copia is thankful his father is nearly blind, eyes so clouded with cataracts they look ghostly. He’s sure the indignant expression on his face would earn him an additional tongue-lashing.

“I am participating,” he objects, crossing his arms. “People pay good money to watch these fights, and we get a sizable cut of what the bookies make. Our dealers get good business, too; just ask Primo or Secondo.” Despite having intimate knowledge of the Family’s ledgers, Psaltarian, it seems, has been doing him no favors.

“Who wants to watch a bunch of girls fight anyway?” Nihil questions. “They can’t hurt each other like men can.” Copia rolls his eyes. If the geezer could see you fight, he’d know that’s horrifyingly false. “Now, Terzo? He’s got the right idea. He knows what kind of work women are suited for.” Copia cringes, knowing his brother would probably kill the old man for saying that. “You would make some real money if they wore bikinis.”

“Ahi, dad! We are not in the Dark Ages anymore.” Nihil scoffs.

“Don’t try and change the subject. There are serious matters at hand.” His father sighs, worry finally showing on his wrinkled face. “The other Families, they are growing bold.”

“I noticed the remodeling,” Copia says. “Who was it? The Sicilians? The Russians?” Nihil waves him off.

“That is not important right now. The point, son,” something about that word makes his stomach churn, “is that I will not be here forever. When the time comes, I need the assurance that you and your brothers can protect what this family has worked so hard for. As it stands, I am not convinced you have what it takes, not until you start taking this seriously.” Copia is used to this treatment, but the words sting nonetheless. “Would you stop that?” For a moment, he’s confused, but then realizes he’s been bouncing his leg, causing the chair to squeak rhythmically. Copia sighs, stilling himself.

“Look, you may not think so, but I am serious about this. If we want to be able to hold our own against the other Families, we need to diversify.” Nihil still looks skeptical. “These events are only getting more popular, and more lucrative. With the right resources, we can expand the operation; more fights, more often, better venues, more money in our pocket. Believe me, this is worth investing in.” Nihil stokes his chin for a moment, glancing out the window contemplatively. He sighs, shoulders dropping.

“Convince your brothers that is the case, and maybe you will convince me. Maybe. This is a business, Copia, not the circus.”

It’s not a no.

“Alright, fine.” Copia rises from his chair. “I’ll do that.” Nihil rolls his eyes.

“Ragazzo testardo,” he mutters. “Proprio come tua madre.” Copia pretends not to hear him, making his way back to the door.

“Lovely to see you, dad,” he says, ready to get the fuck out of there. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” Nihil grunts.

“Yeah, yeah. You as well. And, son?” Copia looks back at his father, his hand on the doorknob. He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t think I do not know about that pet of yours — the girl. If you disappoint me, I will see to it that she finds better management.”

Copia’s mood instantly turns.

You wake up late. Copia is already gone, presumably at his meeting. On the coffee table is small plate bearing a blueberry muffin and more ibuprofen. Next to it is a stack of bills, the fifteen hundred dollars you won last night, and a handwritten note. In elegant script, it reads:

Dolcezza,

There’s coffee in the kitchen. Swiss is here and can take you home. You will find the full amount of your earnings here, plus a small bonus from me. Think of it as an expression of gratitude for all that you do.

Excellent work as always, mia tigressa. I will be in touch soon.

XO, C

P.S. Make sure you get some rest!

Fuck that.

After dry-swallowing the pills and absolutely devouring the muffin, you go to the kitchen. Swiss (you don’t know his real name) is sitting at the counter, a newspaper laid out in front of him. He perks up when you enter the room, flashing you a pleasant smile. He’s grown a mustache since the last time you saw him.

“Morning, champ.” You nod at him, awkwardly shuffling over to the cabinet where Copia stores his coffee cups. “Heard you kicked some serious ass last night.”

“I guess so,” you say, pulling out a mug decorated with a map of Florence.

“Bet that nose hurts like hell, though. Believe me, I’ve been there.”

“I’m used to it.” Please stop talking to me. You don’t dislike Swiss; you feel the same level of indifference toward him that you do with most people. He’s a decent guy considering his line of work, there’s just something about him being here, knowing you had a “sleepover” with his employer that’s just… ew. Thankfully, he seems to get the memo, returning to his reading as you sip your coffee in painful silence.

Once the caffeine hits, you’re ready to engage with him for real. “Can you take me to the gym, please,” you ask, placing your mug in the sink. Swiss grimaces, the skin around his dark eyes crinkling. He shakes his head.

“Sorry, but no can do. Boss wants me to take you home. Says you need to rest.”

That fucker.

You feel your temper flare, but quickly work to suppress it. Swiss is just doing his job, and you imagine Copia would be pretty displeased if you had it out with one of his guys. Taking a deep breath through your nose, you nod, muttering out a quiet “Okay.”

“Alrighty, then.” You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in a bad mood. “If you're ready, let’s get going.” Swiss grabs a pair of keys from a wooden bowl on the counter and heads for the garage. Following him, you're able to catch the headline running across the top of the newspaper.

DRIVE-BY AT THE WHISKEY LEAVES TWO DEAD.

As soon as Swiss leaves, you walk to the gym. You get a few weird looks on the street and end up having to pull down the hood of your sweatshirt to hide your busted-up face, but otherwise, the journey is pleasant. The guys at the gym don’t ask questions, and have learned — some the hard way — to leave you be. Without distractions, it’s easy for you to get into a groove, and you soon find your mind wandering as you go to town on the bag.

Stupid Copia. Stupid Copia and his stupid fucking face. Stupid Copia and-

“Where would I be without you, il mia campionessa?”

Your knuckles are bleeding again.

A handful of hours later, you’re rounding the corner of your apartment building. You took the long way home to, in your mind, spite Copia. Trying to imagine him in place of the punching bag had been unsuccessful, your fist stopping itself a fraction of an inch away. This is as good a substitute as you’ll get, even if he has no idea you’re doing it.

There’s a swarm of pigeons waiting outside the front door. They flock to you as you approach, cooing and fluttering their wings in a frenzy. Your landlord has tried everything to get rid of them, from hanging strings of old CDs to putting up those fake dummy owls. You’re sure you’ll get another notice warning the residents of the building that “anyone caught feeding them will be receive punitive action.” So far, he has yet to suspect you of anything.

“No, no food today.” Wading through the dense sea of birds is a challenge, and you nearly lose your balance trying to avoid stepping on one. Eventually, though, you make it up the stairs to the door, unlock it, and step in, shooing away a particularly bold pigeon that tries to follow you inside. The elevator is always broken, so you take the stairs. They creak with every step. You have a few hours until you need to be at work. A nap, and then maybe a shower seems in order. Anything to distract yourself from the thought of stupid, stupid Copia.

You’re so busy trying to not think about him that when you insert the key into your apartment door, it takes you a second to realize it’s already unlocked.