Creed: Chapter 1

“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 keys onto 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’s Manuel, 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 a crème de la crème of 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.

I hang up and grip the balcony rail. I’m pissed at myself that I let him get under my skin as much as he does.

I work to calm my anger by distracting myself with the memory of the fuck session I’ve just returned from. Katy is a casual hook-up whenever I’m in town.

However, thinking of that has the opposite effect because I remember that Katy pushed heavily to come back to my place—which she knows is off the table—and had tried to convince me to stay over. She’s getting too many expectations, and I decide I won’t be fucking her again.

I’ve never fucked any woman in my bed; I’ve never even brought one back to my home. And I absolutely don’t spend the night and sleep next to anyone. I don’t stick around once we’re done with sex. With the reality of my last name, even though I’m not involved in the criminal underworld, I don’t trust many people.

It might be cold; however, any woman I sleep with knows my ‘rules of engagement’ before shedding their clothes. I may not be a gentleman in the sack, but I’m not a complete piece of shit, either.

My anger lingers, and I grip the balcony railing more tightly.

It’s not that I care what anyone else thinks who isn’t my immediate family. Especially a cockroach like Manuel Morales; he’s a fading star. I won that three-hundred-million-dollar deal because I was strategic and cunning in my approach, whereas a competitor like Morales relies on old, comfortable methods and past reputations.

The true root of my anger lies in that I feel like something is missing lately, which is a mindfuck.

I have a fantastic life with power, wealth, and success. People call me a corporate titan. Beautiful women ready and willing to be on my arm or to drain my balls on the regular. Women like Katy—gorgeous, willing to do whatever I want, and panting for more of my brand of rough fucking. However, there’s a dullness to it all, an emptiness.

My phone rings again, and I see it’s Vito. It’s almost like he knows my thoughts and is calling to taunt me.

“Baby brother,” he says after I answer. “How’s San Diego pussy?”

“Same as everywhere else,” I grunt. The wind catches the top of my hair again. I re-shaved the sides last night and I drag my hand over the smooth patch at the side and around to the back.

There’s a slight pause before Vito asks, “You okay, Creed?”

I grit my teeth. This vague emptiness that I feel, and that I’m letting Morales get under my skin, is pissing me off. “I’m fine.”

I turn away from the bay and go back inside my bedroom.

“You get more ink?” he asks.

“No. Why?”

I swing my eyes to the circular mirror hanging by my bed. Tattoos cover my exposed skin—the only body parts that don’t have any ink are my face, palms, soles of my feet, head of my cock, and my balls.

“When you get in a mood, you usually reach for the tattoo gun,’ Vito says. ‘You and I are similar creatures—”

“Straight from hell?”

“Watch your mouth, or Mamma will clip your ears.” He chuckles when I grunt. Gina Santoro’s ear clips are legendary. She may be the wife of a Don and mother of sons who’ll be taking over the criminal empire, but we’re her ‘good boys,’ and we don’t dare forget it, or she’ll bring us back in line. “When I get in a mood, I reach for a gun, too. Just a slightly different one than a tattoo gun.”

“No shit, a slightly different gun. At least no one ends up bloody and likely dead when I get in a mood.”

“You’re a dick.” Vito laughs.

“I speak no lies, brother.” I walk into my walk-in closet, trying to decide between another shot of caffeine or a nap, so I’m alert for tonight’s event. “What’s up?”

“Just checking in. How did your meetings go yesterday?”

“You know how it went, you asshole.”

“I just wanted to hear it from my humble baby brother. And to say congrats; that’s a huge win, Creed. Mamma has been broadcasting how her baby is gonna be the US’s biggest real estate mogul ever.”

“Do you think I’ll make the cut to be in the Santoro Family Christmas letter?”

Vito chokes on his laugh. Out of all of us brothers, he laughs the most. He may be our family’s ruthless, slightly unhinged protector, but he loves big. However, anyone outside our family sees more of the stoic, ruthless side of him. The predator.

“I really am proud of you, Creed. Although, I don’t envy all the travel you’ll be doing between home, San Diego, and LA.”

“It comes with the territory.”

“Speaking of territory,” he says darkly. “Raf is closing in on the gangbangers who hit Dominion. Thought you’d want to know, baby brother.”

Even though I’m not involved in that part of our world, I want to know. Not to involve myself in criminal world politics about a new gang trying to make a name for themselves, but because they killed our club’s manager, Effie.

Raf, or Raffaello Romani, is Vito’s best friend and righthand man, and I know he’ll have Vito’s back when they grab the guilty Mambo Posse members, but I still warn, “Don’t be stupid.”

“Bitch, please,” he gripes. “Stupid is not my middle name.”

Vito is one of the most level-headed people I know, but I still worry. “The Chamber could back this,” I say about the additional power structure in San Francisco.

Formed years ago, and a brainchild of my father and a Triad leader, the Chamber is a collective of the five strongest factions in San Francisco. The Santoros, Triads, Havoc Guardians motorcycle club, the Saints, and the Fire Clan created an alliance to minimize warring and focus on enforcing their version of peace on the streets to avoid collateral damage to innocents. They also recognized the business perks of the collective.

“This one’s personal,” Vito growls.

To lighten the mood, I smirk. “I just don’t want your pretty face and body more scarred than it already is. One of us has to get married soon, or Mamma will start convincing Papà arranged marriages are the way to go.”

“Fuck that.” Vito laughs. “You and Massimo are gonna have to pull through there. My strategy always has been, and always will be, that I fuck one-and-done. There are no repeats, and I keep things uncomplicated. Can’t really find a wife that way, can I?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Mass is gonna have to carry the torch, I guess.” I sober, knowing Vito needs to go. “We’ll meet up when I get home.”

“Fuck, yes. We’ll hit Vixen’s or maybe Hedon to get you laid with dirty things that will make your eyes cross and roll into the back of your head.”

“Not a visual I need from my brother,” I deadpan.

“It’s not like I suggested you tag team with Raf and me for sharing.”

“Shut the fuck up, Vito,” I groan, trying desperately to prevent any imagery from appearing in my mind.

He howls like a loon. “Later, baby brother.”

Thankfully, he hangs up, and I firmly shove away thoughts of my brother and his best friend’s dirty antics.

Deciding against a nap, I turn to the row of suits in my closet to pick out my attire for tonight’s industry mixer.

I’m going out of respect for my father, but I dread this. Especially since it’s Halloween-themed, but thankfully, costumes are optional.

An idea takes root for how I might find someone I’d want to invest more than the perfunctory, polite, brief small talk.

Normally, I’d wear something like a royal blue three-piece suit with a black shirt and patterned silver and royal blue tie. Instead, I select a light gray suit and white button-down and grab a pair of non-prescription glasses that Andro had left here.

I walk out of the closet, texting Andro—Alessandro, my cousin and right-hand man—for him to find me a pair of specific cufflinks before he comes over later. His response is as expected.