Bane (Sinners of Saint 4)

We’d come to the States when I was three, so I didn’t really remember much from Russia. My mom barely had money to buy a pair of sensible shoes, but she did have a fancy plan for out-of-country calls, and she talked to her family every day, twirling the curly phone cord, gossiping in Russian. Her face would light up like Christmas every time she’d hear a piece of hot gossip about her friends Luba or Sveta. For the longest time, I wondered what the fuck had made her move in the first place, since she was still so hung up on Saint Petersburg. But it was clear as fucking day.

Me. I was the reason. She wanted something good for me.

I may not have remembered Russia vividly, but I did remember America. Every piece of it. I remembered the looks, the glares, and the wrinkled noses whenever my mom opened her mouth in a new room for the first time. She would stutter, blush, and apologize for her heavy accent, which watered down with every passing year of living here.

I never forgot the way people’s smiles dropped every time she struggled with explaining herself to customer service and at job interviews. So, I vowed to be charming, and sweet, and good-natured. To be nice, and respectful, and too alluring to resist. I might have been fearsome to men, but women were a different story. You see, I had a bit of a mommy-issue, and putting women under my spell was a compulsion I did on autopilot.

Come. See. Conquer (then come again, but in a completely different way).

Unfreeze frame.

I silently locked the door to the store behind me then sauntered over to the counter, my hand already brushing the shit on the display shelf. What were they selling, anyway? It looked like a souvenir place. Todos Santos snowballs and pens. Who needed that kind of stuff? It wasn’t goddamn New York. Just a beach town in the anus of California. I dumped my ball cap on the counter and smirked.

“Nice place.”

“Thank you.” A woman—late twenties?—rose up from a chair behind the counter. A little stocky, with red-dyed hair and brown eyes. “Are you looking for something specific today, sir?”

“Yeah. My protection money.”

“Excuse me?”

“Protection. Money,” I said, loud and slow, like the entire issue was her hearing and not what came out of my mouth. “Twenty percent of your rent, to be exact. Which, I believe, is twelve hundred bucks. We only take cash at this time.” I let loose a wolfish grin. “I’m Bane, by the way.”

She gasped, slapping a hand over her chest and twisting a necklace back and forth. “I…I don’t get it. Who do I need to be protected from?”

“Me.”

“B-but, why?”

“Because you’re in my zone, and therefore play by my rules.” I loved giving that speech. It was very Scarface. “This is my beach. I brought the pro surfers here. I brought the annual competitions, the capital, and the tourists. The skaters outside your store? I brought them, too. I’m the reason why you wanted to open a shop here in the first place, so consider me a silent landlord. I have a business partner, Hale Rourke, and we alternate between months, just to keep things fresh and make sure you miss me.”

She nodded jerkily, taking it all in. The look on her face was anger flirting with horror. But I was casual, smiling, and nice. So, so nice. For now.

She gulped. “What if I don’t pay?”

I parked my elbows on her counter. She didn’t lean back, because she was attracted. I looked intimidating, but the kind you should be wary of in bed, not in an alleyway. “Accidents will happen. You’ve no idea how clumsy I can be.”

“What accidents?”

“If I knew, they wouldn’t be accidents. You feelin’ me?”

“Will you…will you hurt me?”

I clutched the fabric of my tattered, abused-by-bad-laundry Billabong shirt. “I will never lay a finger on a woman if the end game is not making her come. The only thing that concerns me is your business, ma’am. Or, lack of it, if you’re late on rent.”

“Do you ask everyone on the promenade for a cut?”

“Baby.” I lifted her chin with my index finger, locking my gaze on hers and throwing away the fucking key for good measure. “Don’t think for a second that you’re singled out because you’re new here. Everyone pays the same dues.”

Maybe it’s the Marxist in me, but I always liked the idea of true equality. I just never thought it was plausible. It’s like loving the idea of coming for three hours straight—it sounds great, but it also sounds fucking impossible. Still, I wasn’t lying. I charged protection from every single fucker on the promenade, save for Edie Rexroth. I liked Edie, but my not charging protection of her wasn’t personal or anything. She was great, but she was business like everyone else. I chose to ignore Breakline because I didn’t want to mess with her husband and his three friends. They had too much power over this town, and I was smarter than my ego.