Chapter 1
Tommaso
Istareatthecontract 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,andmy 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 sentZioLuca, who had established a footholdin 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. Aforcedarranged 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 isfuckingbullshit.”
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 myconsigliere, 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 withPapàfor 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 andexpandingour 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.”
