Page 4 of Savage Saint

They move their merchandise worldwide.

The Royal Bastards move high quantities through the Iron Pipeline from Louisiana to Maryland and further north, to Canada.

But like all business, you expand.

Grow and dominate, and Jameson trusts me to do just that. He knows my family—the connections I have—how loyal I am to these colors. To this club.

“It’s always a good day for a visit, Santos,” Thiago says, his deep voice carrying over the music; a fast-paced merengue tipico is playing. Pure perico ripiao—it’s a frantic, hyper-speed rhythm born in the Dominican countryside. The sound is fueled by the hard pumping of an accordion and the sharp, metallic rasp of a guira that cuts through the room's tension like a blade. “Your godmother is demanding a visit. Both of you.”

His brother, Ivan, doesn’t say anything. Eyes hard on Henry.

“Our mother says the same,” Kaos snorts, his fingers adorned with brass knuckles stretching. “I think the two just want to catch up and get drunk. It’s an excuse.”

“Agreed, but the family reunion will have to wait.”

“Of course, Godbrother. Please proceed. It's been entertaining, to say the least.”

At Thiago’s response, Ismael flinches back as if struck. “You’re family?”

“So you know who they are?” I ask, and he nods. His hands tremble, while his associate’s stare ping-pongs between the De Leons and me. Back and forth. Each time it’s a little more frantic. “Use your words, cabron.”

“Si.”

“Sí, what?”

“I know.” The silence that follows is almost comical. Almost, because there’s nothing funny about what this hijo de puta has been trying to set up in my backyard. What I do enjoy, though? The way his face loses all color. The way Henry forgot about the bottleneck embedded in his shoulder.

Fear is a powerful anesthetic when death steps close enough to breathe down your neck.

“Then you understand why lying to me was a mistake.”

“We didn’t lie.” My head tilts to the side, brow raised, and Ismael swallows hard. I catch the shake of his limbs as he tries to stand, nearly tripping over his chair. “This is a bad time. Let’s reschedule and discuss the possible collaboration later.”

“Sit.” My fingers drum on the armchair, but I don’t move. It isn’t necessary.

“Saint, I really think—fuck!” His scream rends the air, and my godbrother’s chuckle is low. Each are standing to the right of me. They won’t interfere with how the Royal Bastards deal with problems, but are here to be witnesses. Ismael and Henry were dumb enough to try and talk to their women a few days ago.

A big mistake. Their wives are untouchable. Family.

Behind Ismael, Rizos grins, blood dripping from his fingertips. One punch, and Mr. Vega’s lip splits open—his teeth are stained red. It’s dripping down his chin.

This is a valuable lesson for someone like him.

People like him think semantics will save them. That if the right combination of words is used, the bullet won’t pierce or the blade won’t cut. Fools cling to technicalities. Dead men do, too.

“You said you were independent. Correct?”

“We are.” Ismael grimaces. Puts a hand to his busted lip, and when it touches the damage, a low whimper leaves him. Pussy. “I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression of us. We came with the best intentions, and you’ve⁠—”

“Careful.” One word. No rise in my voice or outward show of anger. Still, Mr. Vega’s mouth snaps shut. Behind him, though, Henry shifts at Ivan’s movement. He’s pulled out a powder-coated Glock. The print looks like a mermaid tail, and I bite back a grin. I don’t have to ask to know who it belongs to. My godbrother doesn’t point it, just holds it, and it’s enough to make the injured man piss himself.

The De Leon family has earned its reputation through decades of bloodshed and calculated brutality. They don’t pressure. Don’t need to.

Neither do I.

“Please don’t.” Henry’s sitting in a puddle of his own filth. “I don’t want to die.”

“Who hired you?”