Bane (Sinners of Saint #4)(4)
Call me a people-pleaser, but I’d provided them with good reasons to steer clear.
They’d given me a nickname, and I’d become it, lived it, and breathed it.
Way I looked at it, I was a Russian immigrant bastard living in one of the richest towns in the States. I never stood a chance to fit in in the first place. So, what was really the harm in standing out?
Vicious relaxed into his leather seat, his grin unwavering. He didn’t care that I’d killed Defy. I doubted if he cared much about anything. He was richer than God, married to one of the most beautiful women in our zip code, and a doting father. He won the battle, the war, and conquered every obstacle that had stood in his way. He had nothing to prove and reeked of contentment.
He was smug, but I was hungry. Hunger was dangerous.
“All right, Bane. Why are you here?”
“I’d like your investment,” I said, taking a hit from the joint and passing it to him. He barely moved his head in a no gesture, but his smirk widened an inch, morphing into a patronizing smile. “Easy there. We’re not friends, kid. Barely even acquaintances.”
I fanned smoke through my nostrils in a long, white stream.
“As you know, they’re bulldozing the old hotel on the edge of Tobago Beach. The acres will be available for commercial use, and the general idea is to open a shopping center there. There’s an auction at the end of the year. All the external companies who are planning to bid don’t know what they’re dealing with. They don’t know Todos Santos’ social fabric or the local contractors. I do. I’m offering you twenty-five percent equity for a six-million-dollar investment on a surfing park there consisting of a surfing school, surfing shops, a food court, and some touristy bullshit stores. The acquisition of the land and demolition costs will fall solely on me, so consider this my one and final offer.”
I was going to lose a lot of money in that deal, but I needed to attach Vicious’ name to my proposal. Stapling Spencer’s name to my bid would sweeten it in the eyes of the county. As you might imagine, I didn’t have the best reputation.
“I already own a mall in Todos Santos.” Vicious emptied his whiskey glass and slammed it against the desk, staring at the Los Angeles landscape through the open patio windows. “The only mall in Todos Santos, to be exact. Why would I help build another one?”
“You own a high-end shopping center. Prada, Armani, Chanel, and their ilk. The type of shit teenagers and tourists can’t afford. I’m building a surfing park. It’s like apples and oranges.”
“There’ll still be stores there.”
“Yeah, surfing-related stores. Beach stores. I’m not your competition.”
Vicious poured himself a second glass, his eyes hard on the liquid. “Every person with a pulse is my competition. Yours, too. Never forget that.”
I let smoke crawl out of my mouth upward, trying a different tactic. “Fine. Maybe the surf park will bite into your shit. If you can’t beat them, join them, right?”
“Who said I can’t beat you?” Vicious crossed his legs at the ankles on top of his desk. I stared at the clean soles of his shoes. He had no idea who he was dealing with. Sure, he knew about me. It was hard not to, at this point. At twenty-five, I owned the most successful coffee shop in Todos Santos—Café Diem. I had recently purchased an inn on the outskirts of town. I was in the process of gutting it and making it a boutique hotel. In addition, I charged protection money from every store and shop on the promenade and split it with my friend Hale Rourke fifty-fifty. It sounded like a lot, but really, I was spending more than I was earning on both places, and for all intents and purposes, I was still the same broke bastard. I just had more shit under my name to take care of.
My rise to power was slow, steady, and unstoppable. My mother’s family was affluent, but just enough to send us to the States when I was a toddler and leave us to fend for ourselves. Every penny I made was through pot-dealing, extortion, and fucking the wrong women for the right price. Sometimes the men, if I was really hard on cash. Every connection I’d made to get ahead in the game was through a string of illicit, short-term affairs and sexual favors. This left me with a less than squeaky-clean reputation, which was fine by me. I wasn’t here to run for office.
“I have to admit, Mr. Protsenko, I’m inclined to say no.”
“And from where, pray tell, does your inclination stem?”
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“Enlighten me as to what it says.”
He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, cocking his head sideways, his eyes a blazing ice storm. “That you’re a con artist, a bad egg—the kind that gives you food poisoning—and a goddamn thief.”
There was no point to disputing those facts. Call me a Renaissance man, but I checked every single fucking box on that list.
“For all I know, you may plan to use this place to launder money.” His jaw ticked in annoyance. I wasn’t planning to, but dude was definitely sharp.
“Nah, too risky. Money laundering is an art.” I blew out another plume of thick smoke.
“It is also a federal offense.”
“Can I ask you something?” I tapped the ash into the glass of whiskey he’d served me, showing him exactly what I thought about his sixty thousand dollar spirit. He arched a sardonic eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.