Page 2 of Savage Saint

You don’t bite the hand that feeds, much less the owner of the farm.

A movement to my right catches my attention, and I give my VP a faint nod. My little brother, Kaos, is quiet, but the glint of solid white gold on his brass knuckles catches the faint lighting in the room. At first glance, people think it’s an intricate set of rings, but the three-inch blade at the end near the pinky promises pain when he strikes.

In my family, we like to play with knives.

Then there’s the MC’s patch engraved into the metal, a thoughtful addition to the gift from our godmother’s family in Miami. I have a pair in gold, and so does her son. They’re designed to hurt—break bones—with a touch of class in the intricate carvings.

Solid. Heavy. Destructive.

“We’re just here to have a drink, mi Presidente.” His tone grates, and Kaos takes immediate offense at the little dig, just like every club brother sitting throughout puts a hand on his Glock, and I give a minute shake of the head. Not yet. The two across from me ignore the hostile room, though. They’re oblivious or just plain stupid, and the cockier of the two men, Ismael, picks up his beer and tips the bottle back. In a few deep pulls, he empties it, then tosses it onto the floor. Disrespectful. “It’s time to celebrate, Saint. Don’t be so stiff.”

“Is that so? What’s the occasion?” I say, my head tilted to the side as I place my drink down on the table. The act is deliberate, and the waitress working this section rushes over with two new bottles and more ice. A mamajuana and a Brugal Private Collection—the latter is my drink of choice.

It doesn’t go unnoticed that she didn’t look at either man across from me.

Roni’s a club girl and knows the rules. Recognizes the changes and, without saying a word, exits after serving my drink. Three fingers’ worth of Brugal that I pass on to my VP; I’ll have my next drink after this meeting ends.

It always tastes richer after sex, or after I spill blood. And I’ll have both tonight.

Two dead bodies and then a tight cunt to fuck after. Plenty of eager pussy outside these walls.

“That was rude, Santo.” This time, it’s the other man who speaks. Of the two, Henry is the smarter one, yet not by much. He still lacks tact and manners, thinking his size alone makes him a threat, especially on a territory he holds no control over. “How can you let one of your bitches…fuck!”

His scream rips through the room, and blood spills from the split skin down his right eyebrow to his cheek. It’s a few inches long and bleeding heavily. Moreover, I’m both impressed and annoyed with Kaos, who stands back, a smirk on his lips. Fucker drew first blood. “My apologies. I tripped.”

A bald-faced lie that no one will correct. My brother is fast, spends a lot of time playing baseball with our cousin or club brother’s kids when he has time off—it shows. The single throw smashed the thick glass tumbler into Henry’s face before he could move or block it, and the resulting expression of pain is more than satisfying.

The hijo de puta earned it.

Never insult a brother’s woman. Kaos has been sniffing around Roni since she came to work for the club, she’s one of the few girls who doesn’t sleep around, and he likes it. The fact that Roni’s denied him—doesn’t flirt or play games—intrigues him, no matter how hard he denies it.

Henry touched a nerve and reaped the reward.

“You were saying, Henry?” The man in question wipes his face, gritting his teeth when his fingers graze the gash. He’s pissed. All two hundred and seventy pounds of the six-foot man with short curly hair and a cross tattoo on his wounded cheek vibrate with ire. “You gonna need a Band-Aid for that?”

“Fucking mamagüevos. You’re going to pay for—” Henry moves to stand, but his friend puts a hand on his arm, yanking him back into the seat, stopping him from making the situation worse. Because now, Ismael’s looking around. He’s taking in the hostile expressions of my men, his eyes flicking every few seconds toward the dark corner where two people sit.

They make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t know who they are.

“Don’t stop on my account. Finish.”

“He means no disrespect, Saint. This is a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding…” I trail off, leaning back in my seat as I watch the two. My eyes move from Henry to Ismael, and neither meets my stare for long. “You mean like thinking I wouldn’t find out that you’re trying to move women through my territory?”

Every man wearing a Royal Bastards cut stands, turns to face us, then takes three steps forward. They close around us, and now the two go from fear to nervousness.

“Santo, this isn’t⁠—”

“Greed overrode your common sense, Ismael. You and your friend forgot your place.”

“Please let me explain. I’m not the enemy.” My response is presented by Rizos, the club’s sergeant-at-arms, who drops a thick manila folder on the small table between us, letting the pictures and papers slide out. Possible routes and lists of foreign buyers…a map of our compound. “Saint, we⁠—”

“From the beginning. Talk.”

“It’s just a small business venture. We won’t interfere with...” Ismael trails off at the look I give him. His leg is crossed at the knee, shaking. His hands are, too. Henry beside him hasn’t said anything else, but I do catch the hardening of his eyes when he looks at Kaos. Pale face plus hard eyes will equal a stupid mistake on his part; I correct his behavior.

Before either man can react, I crack the bottle of mamajuana against the table’s edge. There’s now a small dent in the metal; a mixture of spiced rum and shattered glass splatters across my cut, and I glare at the man responsible. Moving out of the way is impossible, and what’s left of the bottleneck—a jagged, sharp shard attached to the neck—is embedded deep into Henry’s shoulder.