This was how I got by until the probation, anyway, but then I figured out the whole jail gig was not really for me and had to expand my business. That was around five years ago, but I never thought I’d be sitting here, in front of the most formidable dude in Todos Santos, conducting…well, business. Legitimate business, at that.

“About your nickname.” Baron Spencer, dubbed Vicious by everyone who was unfortunate enough to know him, smirked. He poured four fingers of Macallan into two glasses, staring at the golden liquid with the kind of admiration people usually reserve for their kids.

I came all the way from Todos Santos to Los Angeles to meet Spencer at his office. It made zero logistical sense. We lived ten minutes from one another. But if there was one thing I’d learned about rich assholes, it was that they liked the act. The whole enchilada. This was not a social call, so we needed to meet at his workplace, where I’d see how big his corner office was, how fuckable his secretary was, and how expensive his whiskey was.

Truth was, I couldn’t care less if we were meeting on Mars, as long as I got what I’d come here for. I crossed my ankles under his desk, my unlaced boots knocking against one another, and ignored the drink he slid across his chrome desk toward me. I preferred vodka. I also preferred not to get shitfaced before climbing on my Harley. Unlike Mr. Spencer, I didn’t have a personal driver to chauffeur me around like a legless prick. But first things first. He’d asked a question.

“My nickname?” I stroked my beard thoughtfully.

He gave me a curt don’t-fuck-with-me nod. “Bane is awfully similar to Vicious, wouldn’t you agree?”

No, I wouldn’t, dipshit.

“Weren’t you the creator of the game Defy?” I pushed my chair off the floor, tipping it back on two legs and chewing on my cinnamon gum loudly. I should probably explain: Defy was an old school tradition at All Saints High, where students challenged other students to a fistfight. This clusterfuck was founded by the HotHoles, four kids who ruled the school like it belonged to their parents. Ironically, it sort of did. Baron Spencer’s ancestors built half the town, including the high school, and Jaime Followhill’s mom had been the principal up until six years ago.

Vicious angled his chin down, inspecting me. Dickwad had the kind of smirk that would make women moan his name even when he was on another continent. He was happily married to Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer and strictly off the market. Shame they rocked the happily-in-love vibe. Married women were a favorite flavor of mine. They never asked for more than a dirty fuck.

“Correct.”

“Well, you got the name Vicious for starting the game. I got the name Bane for killing it.” I produced a joint from my pocket. I figured Vicious smoked in his office, because his workspace bled into an open patio, and there were more ashtrays than pens on the desk. Not a job for Sherlock, apparently.

I told Spencer about the first time I was invited for a fight in my freshman year. How I hadn’t known the rules, because I’d been too busy finding creative ways to pay for my backpack and tuition to get all the ins and outs of All Saints High. How I’d broken a lunch tray on a guy’s head when he got in my face. How he’d suffered from a concussion and been saddled with the nickname SpongeBob FlatHead. How, two weeks later, he’d ambushed me outside of school, armed with six senior jocks and three baseball bats. How I’d beaten the crap out of them, too, and broken the bats for good measure. Then I told him about the trouble we’d all gotten into. The pussies whined that I’d fought too hard and hadn’t followed the rules. The name “Bane” stuck because the principal, Mrs. Followhill, accidentally pressed her elbow to the loudspeaker when she discussed my behavior with a counselor, calling me the “bane of her existence.”

Principal Followhill took the opportunity to kill the tradition her son, Jaime, had helped make.

It didn’t help that a month prior to the cafeteria incident, a private school in Washington had a Columbine 2.0 massacre on their hands. Everybody was scared of rich kids. But then, I’d be the first one to admit everyone was even more scared of me.

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.

“Why did you invite me here if you knew you were going to say no? I’m one of the main runners for buying the lot. That’s public knowledge. You knew I wasn’t coming here to admire your pretty eyes.”

Vicious tapped his chin with his laced index fingers, his lower lip poking out. “What’s wrong with my eyes?”

“For one thing, they’re not attached to someone with a pussy and a rack.”

“According to the rumors, you don’t limit yourself to one gender. Either way, I wanted to see for myself.”