Andro matches me stride for stride. We’re both tall and broad, but he’s slightly less chiseled than I am. Of course, I rub that in his face whenever I can.
He slings his arm over my shoulders as we walk. He’s more than a ‘little in the bag’ from his search for the Mickey Mouse cufflinks after stopping in at several pubs—he handed me a wad of receipts, claiming he was expensing everything. But I cut him slack for his inebriated state because he’d succeeded. But mostly, I always cut him slack because when I chose not to go down the made-man path, he fully supported my decision and joined me. As Uncle Marco’s only child, and six generations of Santoro’s being involved in the upper ranks and inner circle to lead our mafia, that was a huge decision.
Three women come toward us, looking dressed for the club in short, tight dresses and mile-high stilettos, openly and brazenly eye-fucking the two of us as they strut past. Andro nearly face plants as he looks over his shoulder to watch their sultry walk.
Turning back to me, he asks, “How long do you have to stay at this shindig?”
“Are you whining?” I cock my brow at him.
“No.” His bottom full lip is in a pout. He side-eyes me with his dark blue eyes—his are the color of denim, whereas my blue eyes are exactly like my father’s light icy-blue. “You think you’re gonna find Minnie in that place?” He jerks his chin at the towering glass building with the event underway inside.
I ignore his taunt and shove him toward the pub close by. “Don’t be shitfaced when I’m done.”
“Fine, but I’m not promising I won’t be tits-deep when you’re done.”
I shake my head as I walk into the industry mixer, regretting once again that I agreed to attend this. Since I was in San Diego, Papà insisted. And what Tommaso Santoro wants—be it as the Don or our father—Tommaso Santoro gets.
The open, airy room, surrounded by glass walls, showcases the starry sky and the dark water of the bay. The lighting is dim, with flashing lights, almost like the feel of a club and not some stuffy business gathering. The two guys working the front reception recognize me as they greet me by name, smiling excitedly as they shake my hand.
“We’re happy you’re able to join us, Mr. Santoro,” one of them says. They look the same to me—neatly quaffed hair and plain black suits, AKA boring and stiff.
Stiff One and Stiff Two.
“I’m glad it worked out for me to attend,” I lie.
“Have you attended these mixers before?” Stiff One asks.
“First time.”
“Ah.” Stiff Two leans in with a conspiratorial whisper, “Gonna get your cherry popped tonight, I see.”
Stiff One frowns and glares at Stiff Two. I decide I like Stiff Two and flash him a smile. “It’s been quite a long time since I popped my cherry, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Stiff One stands there… well, stiffly.
Stiff Two grins. “The way this works is just to mingle and chat. I’m sure with your reputation, you’ll have several people wanting to connect with you.”
I’m not exactly the epitome of what the business schools are selling. They want you to pay tuition to give you theoretical knowledge, and it depends on the school how much they give you in the practical sense. At least, that’s my jaded opinion.
I’m not such an arrogant ass that I ignore the fact that I started at a different place than a lot of others—my family’s wealth and last name gives me capital and power, as well as a safety net for taking risks. However, I started to make my own money legally at a young age. At sixteen, I used that meager start-up capital to invest and make it grow. I never used any of my family’s money; therefore, the foundation of my empire was always on society’s version of the right side of the line. My schooling was the real world, and my teacher was my father because he’s the sharpest businessman I know. His world of domination isn’t hedge funds or oil, like regular society thinks of when they think of business tycoons.
However, I appreciate that the business schools organize these mixers to connect their students with leaders who can further their education and careers.
Before I took over the non-mafia-related assets, we never took on students for internships because, sometimes, the lines blurred between the two parts of our empire. With Santoro Ventures Inc., though, pulling all our legitimate companies and businesses under that umbrella and running everything above board, I’m changing that.
“I’m one of those wanting to chat once I’m done my shift here,” Stiff Two says, glancing at the people coming in behind me and looking disappointed that chat couldn’t happen now. “Have a good time, Mr. Santoro.”
As I casually walk into the crowd, which buzzes with conversation, I’m not surprised that most people here are male. Not that I’m treating this like a pick-up event, but glancing around at the straight-laced women here, if that were my intention, I’d be sorely disappointed. I like my women a whole lot sexy with just the subtle hint of slutty—those are the ones who tend to love the rough and hard way I like to fuck. No one seems to fit that bill here.
As Stiff Two predicted, people are interested in chatting me up as I strategically try to move toward the bar. After spending thirty minutes stopping to chat, I finally reach the bar, resting my elbow on the ledge as I scan room. I decide that half an hour is avoid to avoid catching too much hell from Papà, so I’ll have a drink and then leave.
“What can I get you?” a husky voice asks on my left.
I turn and smile my practiced, polished smile at the redheaded bartender. “Bourbon, neat.”
Her lips tilt in an approving smile. She bends over, more than needed, to fix my drink, giving me a clear view down her shirt. Given the exaggerated perkiness, as well as the big rack on her rail-thin frame, her tits are very enhanced. There’s nothing authentic or natural about her—even her red hair looks fake.
But I can’t fault her. She’s like a lot of women nowadays: fake tans, fake lashes, fake tits, even fake ass implants.
I eye her, though, with a slight stirring of interest. Maybe this won’t be such a dry, painful event after all.
“Maybe after you’re done showcasing your niblets, you could get me my drink?” a pissed-off voice says from behind me. “I’ve only been waiting almost five minutes.”
The bartender rolls her eyes, and I turn around.
“I’m sorry if I butt in front…” I trail off, staring at the most beautiful, alluring woman—no, screw that, angel—I’ve ever seen.
Sweet Christ.
It’s like my soul has been holding its breath my entire life, and now I can finally exhale in relief.
Her dark hair is brushed back from her face; her tan-colored skin has a bronze sheen. Her dark brown eyes look like they’re blended with streaks of copper. They’re the most captivating eyes I’ve ever looked into.
The slight interest that had bloomed with the redheaded bartender dies a swift death; in its place, a deep gnawing hunger is awakening for the dark-haired beauty in front of me.
She is not my type. Innocent, sweet, prim-looking in a skirt suit.
Yes, absolutely not my type, but there’s no doubt of the want and need clawing through me. There’s no doubt that my cock is hardening simply by gazing at her. I’m hit with a craving like she is a potent drug that’s been dumped into my bloodstream but worn off too quickly, and my body is instantly greedy for the next hit.
I’m staring at her, but I don’t care. Not when those gorgeous brown orbs swirled with copper, previously blazing with fiery anger, now burn with arousal and lust as she stares up at me.
Being stared at with curiosity, or often with lust, because of my tattoos, my body—tall, big, muscular—and the handsome looks I’ve inherited from my father, isn’t new for me.
But the way this angel looks at me—like she is drinking in the sight of me, and it’s affecting her more with every second—starts a fire in every molecule of my body. It pleases me that the want and need that’s coursing through me is mirrored back in her look.
“I didn’t realize there was a line.” I finally find my voice and remember I can’t just stand and gaze at her for the rest of eternity. “I truly am sorry.”
And I am. I’ve never been concerned about what others thought of me outside of my family, but I suddenly care what she thinks.
Her eyes widen as if taken aback by my voice.
“Your bourbon, sir.” A hot breath is in my ear as the bartender leans in close.
I take the drink without taking my eyes off the sweet-looking angel in front of me. “What are you drinking?”
Her tongue darts out to lick her lips—pouty and full—and I want to lean down and bite the bottom one, suck it into my mouth, and run my tongue and teeth over it. I want all these people gone, and I want to pin her against the window glass, press her naked front against it, and torture her nipples in the best way possible. I want to slam into her ruthlessly and relentlessly, making her shatter and scream against the glass with the black night and water as the backdrop.
She licks her bottom lip again, staring up at me. “Half soda, half ginger ale with lime.”
Twisting around, I repeat the order to the bartender, who looks pissed off at the other woman, but she quickly mixes the drink. I put a fifty on the bar and say thanks.
“It’s an open bar, sir.”
“Well, then, it’s a nice tip for you.” I smile my practiced, polished smile at the bartender. She bats her eyes at me, but I only want to get back to the sweet-looking angel.
The angel is frowning at me, though. “Thanks for getting my drink.”
Then she starts to walk away, and I can’t have that.
“Wait.” I may sound desperate, but I don’t question it. There’s something about this woman. “What’s your name?” I close the distance between us, which makes her breath catch. “Or should I just call you angel?”
Her eyes widen, and then she laughs before she scowls. “This isn’t a pick-up event.”
“It isn’t?” I smile when her scowl deepens.
“Who are you supposed to be?” She hikes a delicate dark brow at me.
“Supposed to be?” Then I remember this is a Halloween-themed mixer, and some are in costume. “How do you know I’m wearing anything that’s a costume?”
Her eyes trail down my body to my shoes, then back up again. My skin tingles like she’s touched it with her fingertips or tongue.
“I’m not sure about the glasses—if they’re legit or part of the costume… But a plain, boring gray suit, with a standard white shirt…” She taps her chin, contemplating.
I bite my tongue that my shirt isn’t ‘standard’—not with the price tag, custom-made tailored fit, or that it’s made of the finest Italian fabric—because I sense arrogance will push her away.
“No flashy tie… and with those tattoos and stylish hair. Come on.” Her delicate brow arches even higher. “All this,” she waves her small hand at me, “can’t be your signature style, so yes, I’m saying you’re definitely in costume.”
I smile and sip my bourbon.
Her eyes track the movement, and her throat bobs as she swallows, staring at the ink on the back of my hands. Then she smiles, and I feel my world shrink solely to this angel before me. All my attention is zeroed in on her. A gunman could open fire, and my only thought would be to cover and protect her.
She snaps her fingers, smiling even more broadly. “Bob Iger. CEO of Disney.”
I realize she must have noticed my Mickey Mouse cufflinks. Bob Iger is a powerful and pragmatic industry leader and one of my favorites.
“I’m impressed.” And I am. I truly had thought no one would’ve figured it out.
Tilting my head, I assess her as she had me, but with even more appreciation and heat. She’s tiny compared to me, at least a foot shorter, and the sheer size of my body feels like it dwarfs hers. She’s wearing a crisp skirt suit, the maroon color accentuating her skin and eye coloring. The skirt suit fits her curvy frame nicely but doesn’t suit her. Somehow, I seem to know this isn’t this girl’s style. The silk shirt under her suit jacket has a pattern on it, and I notice upon closer inspection it looks like computer code.
“Reshma Saujani,” I guess.
Her perfect, pouty mouth pops open slightly.
“Am I right?”
Her lips tug, but she resists the smile.
“Girls Who Code, among other things,” I add. “Reshma Saujani has been a big mover in empowering women in the tech field.”
“And for women’s economic empowerment in general,” my mystery angel adds further.
“We both figured out who each other was dressed as, even though we thought no one else would.” I cock my head, looking at her. “Interesting.”
Even in the dim, flashing lighting, I can tell her cheeks are flushed, and it pleases me to know that I affect her.
The crowd around us separates slightly, and the dean of San Diego University’s Knauss School of Business waves and heads toward me. The slight distraction costs me because my angel is slipping into the crowd when I turn back.
“Wait,” I call, but she doesn’t turn back around, and the dean is on me before I can follow my angel.
“Mr. Santoro.” He pumps my hand, smiling broadly. “Such a pleasure that you’re able to join us.”
I incline my head politely. “Dean Barlowe. A pleasure, as always. And please, call me Creed.”
He smiles broader. “I heard you closed quite the mammoth real estate development deal. Congratulations.” When I hike my brow, he grins. “I may lead the education of our newest minds and talent in the field, but I’m still connected.”
As the school’s dean, I take a chance that he would know the students by name.
“Did you see the young lady I was talking to?” I ask.
“Sophie?”
Bingo.
He looks pleased by my interest—though it isn’t exactly for the reason why we’re all here. “Sophie Demeanus. She’s a freshman but hasn’t declared a major yet. Exceptionally bright, as all our students are at the Knauss School of Business,” he adds quickly with a chuckle.
I’m about to excuse myself to hunt down Sophie Demeanus, but three people join us, and I politely smile as Dean Barlowe introduces us. I promptly forget their names.
“You specialize in real estate, right?” one guy asks.
“It’s a piece of what we do,’ I answer. ‘Construction was where we initially had a foothold and entrepreneurship with restaurants, clubs, and hotels. But yes, real estate is something I’ve been developing more aggressively over the past few years. You can never go wrong with investing in real estate and being the owner of the buildings.”
“That’s the gift that keeps on giving, right?” one of the others jokes.
I laugh at the appropriate times, nod, and half-ass answer their questions while I do quick scans, looking for my angel. My scanning goes unnoticed as this is an awareness skill I learned at a very young age to always be aware of my surroundings for potential threats to me or my family. I might not be an active member in the criminal parts of our family, but I have all the skills. It’s surprising how often I use those skills in my non-mafia corporate work world, which has as many sharks, vipers, and wolves as in the criminal underworld.
My scanning and attention pay off, and I spot Sophie across the room.
Possessive anger shudders through me when I see her put her hand briefly on another man’s arm. He looks like a fellow student—he’s a bit older, maybe a sophomore or junior, and is blonde with a nice suit that fits well over a build that skews more to the athletic lean side of muscular. She says something to him, making the guy laugh, and then they flit away from each other. He mingles well with others as he circulates the room, whereas Sophie looks less inclined to.
That works just fine for me. I’m a bit of a lone wolf myself.
Finishing my bourbon, I decide its time to meet Sophie Demeanus officially, and I excuse myself from the dean and the others.
A tingle trills up my spine as I approach Sophie. I’m not sure if it’s a hunter’s instinct narrowing in on his prey or something entirely different. I’m not going to question it, though. Not when instincts this strong are catapulting me toward a woman unlike any other I’ve previously had.
I know I’m about to jump into unchartered waters, but it doesn’t matter or make me hesitate. Even with my hands and feet bound, I’d still jump if it meant I got her.
