Page 1 of Creed

Chapter 1

Creed

“Creed Santoro.”

Upon hearing Manuel Morales’s voice, I fist my cell phone. I must be having a mini-stroke for giving Jo, my executive assistant, permission to patch his call through to my cell.

The guy is a cockroach. He hasn’t evolved in his business practice and feeds off others’ scraps. He could probably live up to a week after being decapitated, too.

“Manny.” Whenever I have the displeasure of talking to him, I call him that, knowing it grates his nerves. Newsflash: I don’t give a shit. “Mind telling me why you’re harassing my executive assistant?” I ask smoothly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he gets under my skin.

I exit the elevator into my four-thousand-square-foot penthouse with a stunning view of the San Diego Bay and toss my keysonto the island in the kitchen. The dark wood of the cabinets is stark against the marble floor, which looks like rich cream with bronze and copper streaked throughout it. Besides the beautiful swirls of bronze and copper, I don’t love the penthouse and its cold elegance. However, I’m only here when in San Diego doing business. Like the rest of my family, I call San Francisco home and that’s the headquarters of the Santoro empire.

I program a dark, strong coffee because I haven’t slept yet, and my patience with this dickhead’s call is already wearing thin.

“I called to say congrats.” He has a simpering tone, trying to convey that he isn’t forcing those words out through clenched teeth.

This makes taking his call worth it.

I toss my head back and laugh. “You want to congratulate me for sealing that three-hundred-million-dollar real estate development deal as much as I want to watch you get fucked up the ass.”

I imagine his teeth cracking and him foaming at the mouth on the other end of the line.

“Why the fuck you calling, Manny?”

“It’sManuel,you little snotty shit,” he seethes.

There you are, you little cockroach.

Taking my coffee, I walk through the penthouse to my bedroom with the four-poster bed that faces the wall of windows overlooking the breathtaking view of the Bay. Pulling the door open, I step onto the balcony, and the wind catches my brown hair and brushes it over my forehead. “Why the fuck you calling,Manuel? Because it sure the hell isn’t to congratulate me on winning the deal you were vying for yourself.”

“I’ve been in this game longer than you have, and I have grace and class,” he sniffs as if I hurt his feelings.

I spit out my coffee and cough while I laugh again. “You’re kidding, right?”

“You’re a cocky asshole,” he hisses. “I look forward to putting you in your place very soon, Creed Santoro.”

He sneers my last name, and I know what’s coming, and he doesn’t disappoint.

“How many favors did your Don daddy have to call in for you, little baby Santoro? Or how many death threats did you make to cinch the deal?”

The real estate development deal I had secured was acrème de la crèmeof business ventures for the legitimate arm of the Santoro empire I run. I’m expanding the non-mafia parts of our empire beyond my father’s and brothers’ expectations. I smirk again at my conquest, besting a bastard competitor like Manuel Morales.

I’m the youngest of three brothers in the Santoro crime family. With two older brothers, larger-than-life, powerful—physically, and for their roles in our empire they had rightfully earned with the trials our father had put them through—as the ‘baby’, I could feel inferior. But I don’t because I’m carving out my own path. Even if it’s different from my brothers, and I’m not a mafioso—or a made man—I’m still benefiting the family, growing our wealth, power, and reputation.

We’re part of the ‘Ndrangheta—one of the organized crime syndicates from Italy. The Santoro family is one of the ‘ndrines, or autonomous clans, and our territory is the whole of California. My father, Tommaso, is the Don; however, with his ailing health, he’s beginning to transition control to my eldest brother, Massimo. Vito is our family’s ruthless protector and heads up our security side.

As the youngest, I have had a less defined role all my life, which has suited me well. I’ve stayed clear of my family’s criminal operations. Vito is a whiz at sourcing and procuring hard-to-get weapons. Massimo’s diversification of money laundering operations has made us a major source of cleaning money for other criminal entities. We control every port in California, so we facilitate the import and export of contraband and drugs.

At a young age, I knew I didn’t want to be mired in our empire’s underworld operations. Our family already had a foothold on the legitimate side of things with construction and multiple restaurants, bars, and hotels, and my goal was to grow and expand that under Santoro Ventures Inc.

At twenty-eight, I’ve made a name for myself, particularly in real estate and the corporate world—which is often as cutthroat and volatile as the criminal underworld—all without my family or father paving the way for me.

“Manny, if you need to make up reasons for my success—other than the obvious one that I’m just better than you ever were, even at the height of your career—then you do you.”

He chokes and sputters, cursing me in Spanish.

“Lose my number, asshole,” I growl, baring my teeth.

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