Tommaso (Santoro Mafia)

Chapter 1

Tommaso

I stare at the contract in my hand. It’s very different from the other one I signed recently. For one, that contract was for a land development deal that was entirely legal. And two, my signature on it was legitimate.

This document in my hands is no less binding, but it’s a blood contract, and my signature has been forged.

By my own father.

Stefano Santoro is a control freak. He rules the Calabria region of Italy, molding my oldest brother, Riccardo, to take over in his stead.

I’ve escaped being directly under his thumb for the past few years.

When I was young, I saw the potential for us overseas and convinced my father to expand.

He agreed, though he hadn’t sent me initially, feeling eighteen-year-old me didn’t have the leadership capabilities.

Granted, I was on the impulsive and unhinged side back then—both due to my age, as well as my training—so my father felt I was best suited as the family’s Enforcer.

He had sent Zio Luca, who had established a foothold in San Francisco.

But Luca had died shortly after, and I convinced my father to send me to stabilize our hold here.

Over the past decade, I’ve not only stabilized our hold but also expanded our control throughout all of California. My impulsive, unhinged side still makes an appearance; however, I need to stay calm and controlled to maintain my power and position, both in my father’s eyes and with my enemies.

I may be called the Don of this territory, but I’m merely the figurehead, an extension of my father. In his eyes, and in the ‘Ndrangheta, the organized crime syndicate we’re a part of, I’m not autonomous or my own power hub. I still answer to my father, who ultimately calls the shots.

And apparently, the latest shot he’s calling is an arranged marriage. A forced arranged marriage, because he damn well knows I would’ve never signed this contract without argument.

But even if my signature is forged—a damn good job, by the way—I’m backed into a corner.

However, even if my father and I had a conversation, or more likely, a fight, before these papers were signed, I know I’d be in the same position, only with my legitimate signature on these papers.

There might be an ocean between us, but Stefano Santoro is still the ruler of my world.

If I want to keep my position and power here, then I need to play his game.

So, I would, because I’m not willing to give up everything I built with my blood and the blood of the men who follow me.

“This is bullshit,” Marco, my youngest brother, grits.

I turn from the window and regard him. He’s pacing and is agitated and angry.

One would expect that should be me and my response to this.

He pulls on his dark hair and pivots once he reaches the corner.

Except for my crystal-blue eyes, Marco and I look remarkably similar and have been mistaken for twins several times.

“How are you so calm, Tommaso? This is fucking bullshit.”

I motion for him to sit beside Silvio Romani, my best friend and newly appointed Capo in the Los Angeles territory we just won. Marco stalks toward the chair and sits down.

I lower into my chair, feeling every one of my twenty-nine years, and set the papers on my desk. I stare down at the forged signature.

“What are you going to do?” Silvio asks, making me lift my head.

“There isn’t anything he can do,” Marco spits, then heaves a rough sigh when I flash him a warning look.

I brought Marco to America as soon as I could.

He and our father have a stormy relationship, and getting him out from under our father’s thumb was imperative to both Riccardo and me.

I made Marco my advisor, or my consigliere, when he was nineteen, ignoring my father’s warning that I was making a huge mistake.

But he didn’t see the potential in Marco that I did.

Except for today’s outburst, Marco is analytical and has been my voice of reason more times than I can count over the years.

“There isn’t much I can do, Silvio,” I reiterate what my brother said. “Not if I don’t want to lose my post.”

He snorts. “This isn’t a military assignment. You’re Don here, T.”

“The fact remains that I still answer to my father. Our territory isn’t an independent, autonomous faction—not in Stefano’s eyes and, more importantly, not in the ‘Ndrangheta’s eyes. You know this.”

I’m not frustrated with him; I’m frustrated with Papà for backing me into this corner.

Silvio leans back in his chair. “So change that.”

Marco sucks air harshly between his teeth.

“That’s treason,” I say tightly, clenching my fist and crumpling the corner of the forged contract.

“We’re not a crown kingdom or a military post,” he retorts. “We’re a strong criminal faction, holding and expanding our territory here in California. Stop selling yourself short, Tommaso. You’re a damn good leader and a powerhouse of your own.”

He looks between Marco and me, then continues when we stay silent. “Stefano knows it; that’s why he’s doing bullshit moves like this to keep you under his thumb.”

I respect and love my father, even though he’s become surly and cantankerous lately. Family is everything to me, and my father deserves my loyalty. He doesn’t deserve mutinous rebellion that would make all of us Santoros look weak to our enemies.

I glance down at the contract again, unclenching my fist and smoothing the crumpled corner of the paper. As much as I crave the freedom I foolishly let myself start to believe that I had, this contract reminds me who truly holds the power here.

“Family above all,” I state the phrase that has been instilled in me since birth. I regard Silvio, who has stood beside me through thick and thin. “Santoros above all.”

He looks at me with determination and commitment. “And I will give my last breath to this family. To you, Tommaso. As will any of our men. We have your back for how you want to deal with this.” He jerks his chin at the papers on my desk.

I have no doubt that if I choose to challenge my father, he and our men will have my back. But even if I challenge my father and am successful, breaking the blood contract with the Alteras could lead to war.

“You need to fall in line,” Marco advises.

I stare down at my hands. Like my body, they bear scars that attest to my willingness to defend what’s mine.

As much as I may look like the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, with my neatly styled hair and impeccably tailored suit, I’m a criminal leader.

Yet, I wouldn’t classify myself as a thug or a warlord.

I’m a strategic man, raised within the criminal underworld and governed by a set of non-civilian—and what most would classify as uncivilized—laws, who is intent on protecting his family and keeping what he’s built.

Lifting my head, I meet my brother’s eyes and nod. “I’ll fall in line.”

“Fuck,” Silvio mutters, but sighs with resignation. “Then who is the lucky bride-to-be?”

I push the papers across the desk, and he looks through them, then drags his tongue over his teeth. “Rosa Altera. The fucking Texans.”

Marco grabs the papers from Silvio and scans them, his face and body getting tenser the more he reads.

“Does Papà not realize the shit the Altera family is rumored about getting into?” His eyes snap to mine, and I see his cunning mind trying to make sense of why our father would make a stronger alliance with them.

“Flesh,” he seethes. “They’re not just pushing coke…

they are interested in moving women, Tommaso. ”

Silvio rubs his jaw, looking concerned. “The ‘Ndrangheta is allowing that?”

“The syndicate as a whole is still against it,” I growl in answer.

The Santoros may be criminals, but there are lines we won’t cross.

Or so I thought. I have no idea what our father is up to or why he agreed to make this alliance.

Plus, both the Santoros and the Altera family are part of the same syndicate, so we’re already allies.

Usually, arranged marriages aren’t made between syndicate families because that’s basically a waste of a good, arranged marriage to gain more power and wealth.

None of this makes sense.

According to Riccardo, a lot of what our father is doing lately doesn’t make sense. That’s what concerns me more than this forged contract.

“Shit.” Silvio pushes his hand through his hair, then settles his gaze on me. “At least she’s a looker.”

Marco tosses the papers onto my desk in disgust. They slide across the surface, revealing Rosa’s picture.

She is a looker. A stunner, in fact. Yet I have no reaction to her as I study her picture.

She’s a classic mafia princess. Born and bred to serve her family, to be the beautiful trophy on a man’s arm. Her marriage merely a transaction to make him and her family more powerful.

But I don’t want a docile, subservient wife. I’ve always envisioned a strong-willed woman, a queen, to be at my side while I ruled.

“This isn’t Italy, Tommaso.” Silvio’s voice is low, as if he can read my mind. “You don’t have to comply with Stefano’s orders.”

I rub my left temple, which is aching, indicating a stress headache is coming soon. Likely one of many in the future. “Stefano Santoro giveth, and Stefano Santoro can taketh away.”

Unfortunately, in his eyes and the ‘Ndrangheta, he is the ruler of my universe.

Silvio leans forward, resting his elbows on my desk, staring intently at me. “Then remove yourself from under his thumb.” He tries one more time to convince me to resist falling in line.

“Silvio,” Marco growls a warning. “Those are words of treason,” he repeats my earlier words.

“Fuck that.” He grunts. “Stefano isn’t my king.” He turns back to me. “You are. My loyalty is to you. Same goes for our men. Contest the contract and outright say that your signature is a forgery.”

Marco stands, comes around, and leans against the corner of my desk. His flared temper is banked, leaving my steadfast, trusted advisor looking at me. “Internal fighting will only give our enemies an opportunity to push in. The Triads will strike if they think we’re distracted and weak.”

There’s five competing, and as a result, warring criminal factions in San Francisco—us, the Triads, the Havoc Guardians motorcycle club, and two gangs: the Saints and the Fire Clan. There are other criminal factions in the city, but the five of us are the strongest and are vying for the crown.

Under my rule, we’ve fought for and conquered territory, both in this city and California as a whole. But power struggles within my family would be a distraction and could threaten the ground we’ve gained. The Triads, especially, have been testing my patience lately.

Silvio’s jaw is tight with tension; gone is my relaxed best friend. “You’re really going to go through with it?”

I glance at the picture, then at my brother and best friend, before I study my Don’s ring on my finger.

The ring with the Santoro crest—a shield divided into four quadrants with a symbol in each. A tree with deep roots, interlocking rings, a rose entwined with olive branches, and a lion’s head.

Each has a specific meaning to my family. Legacy and loyalty; unity, alliance, and oaths; sacrifice and mercy; and finally, power, pride, and protection.

“We rule as lions. The kingdom comes before any one man’s desire.”

“What time are we heading over to Caruso’s?” He accepts my decision without further argument.

My jaw shifts with annoyance. I’m not a fan of Franco Caruso. The man is an ass-kissing snake, in my opinion. He’s here in my territory at my father’s bidding. Honestly, I think he sent Caruso here because he can only stand him in small doses.

My father called this morning with the order that I was to attend the dinner and meeting tonight. The only reason I didn’t argue was that the Pisani family—Don Emanuele, and his son and heir Vincenzo—will be in attendance.

They’re from the founding family of the ‘Ndrangheta and serve as the de facto convenor. Usually, any meetings with the Dons in the syndicate happen back in Catanzaro, Italy, in their territory, but this isn’t an official Don meeting.

I’m unclear why they’re here to meet with Caruso, or why he’s hosting instead of me, or why I wasn’t given an appropriate heads-up that the Pisanis were in my territory.

But regarding the last one, I know it’s because neither my father nor Emanuele views me as the actual leader here.

As for the reason they’re here, my father was tight-lipped when I asked.

If it weren’t for the threat of war erupting for power in this city, especially with the Triads challenging us for control of the port, I might rock the boat a bit more with my father.

“We’re to be there at seven.”

Silvio’s smile is wiry. “Caruso better have the good stuff out tonight. I feel the need to get shit-faced to survive this evening.”

Marco cuffs him on the back of his head, making me laugh, and Silvio mock-glares at him while fighting a grin.

“Get out of here, both of you, and do something productive.” I point to my office door, and they both rise, grumbling but complying.

After they’re gone, I push the forged contract to the side, forgetting about it for now. Instead, I focus on growing my power, rather than challenging my father and risking everything I’ve built.