Page 83 of Sweet Ruin

By quarter to seven, I’ve stopped believing anybody’s coming. I go to the bathroom for a nervous pee. It’s as I’m coming out, of course, that the bell over the door chimes.

Which is a neat trick, seeing as I locked it.

I race around the counter fast and there he is, filling up the whole doorway with his hand still on the door, snow melting in his hair, a long black coat, black gloves, and green eyes that pick up the light from the pendant over the register and hold onto it jealously.

Behind him, out on the sidewalk, two men in dark jackets take up positions on either side of my door with their backs to the glass, like a couple of concrete planters.

“The lock’s broken,” Kane says.

I frown. “It worked just fine a little while ago.”

He extends an open palm and shows me the metallic guts of my lock lying in his gloved hand. A few of the bits are melted into brass blobs and still smoking.

I gawk at him in disbelief. “Did you… blast open my lock?”

His eyes sparkle as he shrugs. “Can neither confirm nor deny. Regardless, it’s really shoddy security. Can’t have that. I’ll have someone come install a proper one.”

“Shoddy?” I cry out. “It’s supposed to keep people from wandering in when we’re closed, you lunatic! I’m not being raided by freaking SEAL Team Six!”

“Well, if that does occur, your new lock will ensure they’ll at least have to go around back.” He smirks, completely unapologetic.

I have to take a deep breath to settle myself down. Arguing with this nutcase about proper and improper ways to enter a place of business is not getting me any closer to my goals here. I certainly didn’t call him here to debate manners.

Woosah. In and out through the nose. You are calm, you are grace, you are beauty.

After a few rounds of affirmations and inhales, I do feel a bit more centered.

He takes his gloves off and pushes them into his coat pocket. He doesn’t take the coat off, and he doesn’t take his eyes off me, either. I glare back. I can’t let him think I’m rattled. This is a negotiation, or at least, that was my intention in calling him here. I need help and I’ll offer whatever it takes to get things done.

What remains to be seen is exactly how much that will cost me.

Kane walks over to the counter and stands on the customer side of it. I go around to my side, because that’s where I feel most comfortable, and also because I want three feet of scarred wood between us while I do this.

“So,” he says. “What did you call me for?”

Did I script out a speech, practice it several times in a variety of voices, and then throw it away because no version of me can deliver a stern message to a literal mob boss without sounding insane?

Uh… Maybe. The world may never know.

Regardless, I go with the short version. Straight to the point, Shark Tank style.

“I want to make you a deal.”

Kane rests his forearms on the counter. He’s so big that leaning on it makes my counter look like something out of a dollhouse. “Let me get this straight: You want to make me a deal?”

“That’s what I said.”

“With what?”

“… I’m still working on that part.”

He laughs. “‘Deal’ implies you have some leverage to utilize. If you don’t have that, I’d call this more of a ‘request.’ And even that’s being generous.”

“It’s a deal,” I insist. “I’m calling it that since I’m the one talking.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not how leverage works.”

“How would you know? Since when are you the one on this side of the bargaining table?”