Page 4 of Creed

Maybe tonight will breathe some new life and remove that vague hollowness as of late. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.

Chapter 2

Creed

Andro matches me stridefor 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 brazenlyeye-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,Papàinsisted. 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 andlast 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 wholelot 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 fromPapà,so I’ll have a drink and then leave.

“What can I get you?” a husky voice asks on my left.

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