Page 8 of Savage Saint

Standing, I walk over to the small closet to the left of where they kneel. It’s kept locked, a personal collection of different-sized blades, and I press my thumb to the lock. My toys. The lock disengages and I pull both doors open, letting everyone in the room see my collection.

Inside, I have everything from Japanese swords to solid gold butterfly knives and an old machete that once belonged to my father. The latter is special to me. My viejo died five years ago from a car accident, and this is one of the things I kept.

Dad was a cacao farmer, and his lands are still fertile and well-kept to this day, while his family had ties to several local businesses. The most profitable one still operates today under hired management.

My fingers wrap around the base, and I lift it, running my thumb across the sharp blade.

Then I turn and look at Ismael. Walk back over to him, my strides slow, while the man simply begins to pray because men tend to remember God when they’re about to meet him.

“Thiago.” My godbrother looks over at me. “Both?”

“Both.”

“Every debt must be repaid.” The tip of the machete slides across the small table they’re leaning on, the mild screeching sound making Henry visibly gag. Like his entire body knows what’s coming and is rejecting the inevitable outcome. “You touched my family. Luna and Amberlyn De Leon are more than my godbrothers’ wives; I see them as I do my sister.”

“I’m sorry,” Ismael cries out, but it’s empty. As insignificant as the promise of money that follows. Twenty thousand to let me walk. I'll leave the island.

Then there’s the offer for more information. To give me anything I want. The club wants.

“I don’t argue with dead men.” A swing of my arm brings the machete down hard. Once, twice, and each time, his scream rends the air like a broken choir. A haunting little melody that pulls a grin from my face as I hack off the right hand, watching as his blood squirts out—arching through the air—before dripping from my cheek down to my cut. Then I take the other just the same, bringing down the blade and then sliding through the mangled flesh until what’s left behind is bleeding stubs.

A white cloth on a tray is presented to me by the only prospect in the room. Presentation matters.

He’s been silent in the corner until now. His only job is to hold my offerings.

Ismael is left vomiting between sobs after my men released him, letting him crumble to the floor before I turn my attention to Henry. The latter is frozen in place, shaking uncontrollably as he stares at the bloodied hands on the tray.

“Look at me.”

“Saint. I didn’t…please…I never touched the woman!”

“You looked.” That’s his sin. Ivan is possessive of his mermaid, and coveting her is unforgivable to him.

“Ivan?”

“Both, Hermano. He will never just look again.”

“Consider it a blessing I’m not cutting your head off, Mr. Diaz.” Placing the tip of the machete under his chin, I lift his head, then lean down to pick up my tri-blade. His fear-filled eyes never leave mine. Not after the threat of what could still happen if he makes this difficult. Tears flow down his cheek, mixing with his blood, and I give him a few moments to take in the last view he’ll ever see.

My grin.

My knife.

The bloodstains on my clothes.

On his next blink, I pierce his right eye and twist, destroying the eyeball. It doesn’t come out whole on my blade, but in two, sliced clean through, and I pick each piece with the tri-blade tip and drop it beside the hands on the tray. The left follows just the same, and I’ll give it to Henry; he bites down hard on his bottom lip, teeth cutting through the skin. No sound, but his body shakes from both pain and shock—the brothers holding him up don’t drop him like his buddy; they lift him and sit him back in his chair.

Looking over at Thiago and Ivan, I arch a brow. “Payment accepted?”

Thiago walks over and squats down to Ismael’s level, and he says something to him that makes the man pee himself. The puddle grows while my godbrother’s face darkens; I don’t hear what he says, and I don’t need to.

Ismael won’t make it to sunrise.

After patting the man’s face, Thiago stands and gives a single nod while his brother is quiet. Ivan doesn’t look away from Henry before opening his hand, and I hand him the tray, chuckling as the younger De Leon drops what’s left of Henry’s eyeball on the floor and stomps them.

Only then does he grin at me. “We good, bro.”

“Take Henry to El Hueco,” I call out to two patched members, before pulling a gun from my holster. “Prospect, Ismael’s yours once I⁠—”