This was a transaction.
This was Queens, where such deals played out in every corner, day and night, without pause.
Wealthy white men from Manhattan waved their cash around in Queens, looking for a willing girl for a consensual, spur-of-the-moment fling.
Afterward, the girl would walk away with a hefty sum that, to those white men, was mere pocket change. The men would dust themselves off, put their suits back on, and return to their battlefields to keep fighting.
This wasn't a story.
It was so-called reality.
Robbing a rich white man might still give big-faced Benjamin some pause. After all, in the eyes of those wealthy white men, black folks like him, scraping by at the bottom of Queens, were nothing more than street vermin. If they didn't notice, fine—but if they did…
Heh.
Let's just say this:
The bounty placed on their heads might end up being far more than they could ever earn in their entire lives.
So.
Understanding this, Benjamin rarely targeted white men—especially the well-dressed ones in suits. But if it was a local Queens girl, that was a different story.
One sentence.
They were all hustlers, so there was no room for one crook looking down on another. You make money with your body; we make money with our skills.
Benjamin's mind raced. After a moment of silence, he looked at the small black figure, Ken, and said, "You stay here and keep watch. I'll take Milo and Bobby to grab the gear."
The small black figure grinned. "Got it!"
Benjamin nodded, then waved to the two other small black figures. They left the same way they'd come. Their masks and professional tools were stashed in an abandoned shipping container at the docks—they'd need to head there to pick them up.
Sure, they were small-time, but Benjamin had at least finished middle school. He knew one thing: never keep your crime tools where you live.
Queens had always been a hotspot for law enforcement. The big shots got paid off, and then small fry like them, living off scraps, became the cannon fodder.
Soon enough.
The small black figure, Ken, used his natural talent to blend into the ever-present shadows, watching as Lake and Mikaela stepped back into Mikaela's home.
Ken took a sip of water, his heart restless.
After all, Mikaela was something of a celebrity on Warren Street. Only sixteen this year, she already looked like a stunning twenty-something. A mix of three ethnicities, her beauty was beyond words. Privately, Mikaela had earned the nickname "Vixen" on Warren Street.
Inside the repair shop, Lake stood by the workbench, gazing thoughtfully through the window at a patch of shadow across the street, his eyes flickering.
Mikaela, who was brewing coffee with a soldering iron nearby, spoke up. "Coffee?"
Lake smiled. "Thanks."
Mikaela glanced at him repeatedly. "I thought you'd say no."
Lake pulled his gaze from the shadows and looked at Mikaela. "Why would you think that?"
Mikaela pulled out the soldering iron to reheat it, handed the coffee to Lake, and said, "You've got money now. You could totally go to a Manhattan café and order a fifteen-dollar coffee."
Lake chuckled softly. "I'm starting to agree with something you said."
"Which part?"
Mikaela flashed a sly, fox-like smile. "I've been passing a lot of mortal wisdom to you, oh great god."
Lake laughed heartily. "That's funny. But I have to admit, being a god for so long does create a bit of a disconnect with the mortal world."
Mikaela tucked her hair back. "No worries. Oh, I almost forgot to ask—why would that Supreme Mage give you ID papers and a Stark Bank card with a million dollars on it?"
Lake thought for a moment. "Think of it as your local guardian deity compensating me for crashing here—since she caused it—and making sure I don't have to fend for myself."
Mikaela clicked her tongue in amazement. "Looks like gods really have it better than us mortals. A million Franklins—wow. I bet ninety percent of Queens residents couldn't earn that in a lifetime."
Lake smiled. "Worldly money is worthless in the eyes of a god."
Mikaela tilted her head. "But if you didn't have that money, you'd probably be sleeping on the couch again tonight."
Lake looked at Mikaela with a deep gaze. "You're interesting. I can't wait to see if you'll still tease me, your main god, after you become a god yourself."
Mikaela shrugged with a smile. "Would you kill me?"
Lake shook his head. "No."
Mikaela laughed. "Then I think I probably will. You're leaving soon, after all. I've got to leave some impression so you don't forget me when the stars return."
Lake burst into laughter.
Who said Mikaela was just a pretty face? With this kind of wit, she'd already surpassed ninety percent of Hollywood's brainless, busty blondes.
Indeed.
Mikaela's impression in Lake's mind grew even stronger.
But…
Lake's gaze drifted back through the window to the shadow across the street, and he said faintly, "Looks like I can't leave tonight."
Mikaela grinned. "What, has the great god fallen for me? Planning to upgrade me from a subordinate god to the main god's wife?"
Lake glanced at Mikaela's smiling face, chuckled softly, and said, "I've had the thought, but that's not the reason."
Mikaela's expression shifted slightly, then she frowned. "What do you mean?"
Lake pointed toward the shadow behind the big tree across the street and said calmly, "Remember when I said I agreed with you? You were right—money really shouldn't be shown off. We've been targeted."
Mikaela looked through the one-way glass in that direction. "I don't see anything."
Lake chuckled.
The next second.
"Agatha!"
"Here, sir."
"Project and analyze the view across the street."
"Yes!"
As the words fell, Agatha projected a laser screen. In an instant, the scene across the street appeared vividly inside the repair shop.
Lake pointed at the small black figure almost blending perfectly with the shadows. "See it now?"
Mikaela was clearly shocked.
Lake smiled without a word. Though his divine power and the blessings of the stars, the bright moon, and the dawn were currently delayed, his instincts as a supreme god remained.
The third time that small black figure's gaze landed on him, he'd already noticed. At first, he thought the guy would back off, intimidated by his grandeur and handsomeness.
But now?
Alright.
This was Queens.
Queens, New York. New York, America. America, the world.
What did that mean?
According to incomplete statistics, the number of bullets fired in a single day in New York City could rival a week's worth in the entire state of New Jersey next door.
There's a saying, right?
Love him? Send him to New York.
Hate him? Send him to New York.
Want him dead fast? Give him five hundred bucks in cash, drop him in Queens, and within half an hour, you'll find his body in a stinking ditch.