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The Bancrofts have a rent-to-own situation in a building near the downtown district, but their landlord is corrupt as they come. After the first six months, he ended their rent-to-own, but when something broke in the rental, he said they’d need to handle it. Even though their contract had reverted to a rental, and as the landlord, he was responsible for the damages to his home.
I thought I’d dealt with him. Scared him enough to keep their agreement intact and at least get the house fixed up. It’s been six months since I’ve seen hide or hair of either of them. The family or the landlord.
When I arrive, the Bancrofts are outside the apartment building, suitcases surrounding them.
“I thought we handled this,” I say. I’d gotten the landlord to reinstate their rent-to-own contract, because he had no legal right to terminate it once it was signed. So, the only reason he could have them standing outside the building is if he’d taken court action against them. Which, as scheming as Mr. Garcia is, I don’t assume he has.
Mr. Bancroft has his elderly hand on his wife’s shoulder, and he flexes it, comforting her in my presence. I don’t let it bother me. I’m used to it. It’s instincts that kick in when a predator is near. Goes back to our origins on the food chain. “He evicted us, had a policeman come and oust us this morning. But I got no notice of our contract having any issues. We haven’t bothered him at all. I even fixed the stove myself, didn’t bother asking him. Just like you and I discussed.”
I grind my teeth, looking up to where I know the little weasel lives only one floor above the Bancroft’s apartment.
Pulling out my wallet, I hand over my credit card. “Go to a hotel, on me. Let me handle this. I’ll find you afterward.”
Mr. Bancroft looks between the building and me apprehensively. He likely doesn’t know if he’s making the right choice, nor what I’ll do to Mr. Garcia when I get inside. But you can’t have a conscience when dealing with a man like me. You have to go in wholeheartedly.
And in this world, as corrupt as it is, the only way to deal with people is through someone like me. And that’s the sad thing about trying to survive anymore.
“Don’t worry about anything happening here. I’ll get your home back for you.”
Mr. Bancroft ushers his wife toward the underground parking lot, only looking back at me once as I enter the apartment building. Going up a few floors on the elevator, I ready for whatever might have to be done. I slip on my black gloves, closing them with Velcro as the door dings open to the tenth floor.
Sighing in front of the door that saysmanagement,I press the doorbell with my gloved hand, pulling my revolver from behind my waistband. When he doesn’t arrive at the door in a timely fashion, I ding the bell again.
“I’m coming! Hold the hell on!” he shouts from behind the door.
For the life of me, I can’t understand why this man continues to torment people who have nothing. I hate doing these ‘house calls’, as Trevor likes to call them. It’s what makes me different than my father. But they’re necessary when men like Howard Garcia prey on people beneath him. Because I won’t stand for it.
The Bancrofts won’t owe me a thing after today. Because I owe them more than they realize. They’ve never understood why I’ve protected them. They just know a card slipped under their door a few years ago, telling them to call if they needed help.
There aren’t traces of the little boy they fostered in my face any longer. None of my innocence is left behind. For a moment earlier, I thought Mr. Bancroft remembered me, as he traced my face with his eyes. But then he looked away, and I knew they’d forgotten.
I tried to run from this life. And they tried to help me. But here I am, doing what I tried to run from to protect them. It’s the reason people like me are necessary, and I find the older I get, and the more darkness I see in the world, the more I agree with my father.
Which isn’t something I want to do.
The chain slides behind the door, and it finally opens. “What is the problem?” Garcia growls as he whips it open, likely thinking I’m one of his disgruntled tenants.
His eyes go wide when he sees me.
I cock my gun, lifting it with two hands, and stepping toward him. “Let’s have a chat, hmm?”
* * *
Howard is tiedto a chair in the middle of the kitchen, his face bloody from our discussion. I lean against the counters, heaving in breaths after losing my cool. Rage has been something I’ve been trying to keep a lid on. But Howard Garcia and his cocky nature and razor-sharp tongue made me lose my fucking cool over an hour ago.
I close my eyes, thinking of Carina, trying to muster her calming scent to let it wash over me. But it won’t come, and I snarl.
“You’re fucking insane,” Howard gurgles.
“Well, you seem to like to toe the line of insanity, Howard. Because I told you what would happen if I came back, didn’t I?”
He swallows.
I’ve gotten nowhere with him, so I’d had Trevor do some paperwork online and contact his son. Now, we’re waiting.
I check my phone, hoping to see a text from her. Anything.
Nothing. I sigh, wiping sweat from my brow as the front door sounds, and Howard eyes me.
