Page 6 of Savage Saint

“How old is he?” Because what I know of his family, no one in his chain of command is this stupid. Ambitiously irresponsible.

Because there’s nothing wrong with wanting more. Every man in this room understands the desire to build something of his own—take what is handed to him and turn it into an empire.

But there are rules. Lines you don’t cross.

Territories you don’t enter without permission.

And you sure as fuck don’t build your kingdom by trafficking women in a Royal Bastards backyard.

“Answer me. I want his age, current location, and how long you've been operating.”

“Shut up, Henry. Don’t ruin this.” Ismael scrambles to his feet, stumbles as he tries to grab his associate, but a kick to the back of his knee from Rizos sends him back down. The club’s sergeant-at-arms makes sure he doesn’t get up again by planting a boot firmly between his shoulder blades, pinning him face down to the floor.

“This isn’t what I signed up for, Ismael.” Henry rubs a hand across his face, right over the wound Kaos provided, and then brings the same fingers into his line of sight. They’re bloody, just like his face and upper torso, and his breathing labors. The change is fast—he’s panicking—and I cut my younger brother a look. The two men don’t notice him walking toward one of the patched members closest to the door.

The exchange takes seconds; Kaos retakes his place while the other steps out and comes back a second later with two thick metal chains in his hands. They clink against the polished concrete, yet the two mamagüevos don’t notice.

I do hear Ivan tell Thiago that we should toss some knives before they leave. I’d kick their asses. We haven’t challenged each other since Thiago’s release, and Ivan is good, but I’m better.

I have the perfect target, too.

“You said this was an easy job!”

“No te quilles. Kirill will⁠—”

“Are you kidding me, Ismael? Don’t get worked up?” Eyes on his associate, he grabs the bottleneck and, with gritted teeth, pulls it out. I watch him toss it at Ismael’s face before looking at me. Blood pours; a small arc of it lands on the table between us.

Moreover, not an ounce of the cocky man who walked into this room an hour ago is left.

Reality has set in, and I see the remorse. Late, but it’s there.

“You’re dealing with me, Diaz. How old and how long?”

“Kirill is twenty-four, and we’ve been trafficking for him six months now. Maybe longer.” At his response, my jaw ticks. Six fucking months. How the fuck did no one notice? “But we weren’t running our routes through here. We’ve only been back on the island for a couple of weeks.”

“You were mapping my compound.” He looks down immediately. “Look at me. Face this like a man.”

“No.”

“No what?” The tri-blade sits on my lap, and my fingers twitch to reach for it, but I’m presented with the thick, metal chain. It’s heavy. Cold in my calloused hand. “Use your words.”

When he doesn’t respond quickly enough, I give him a little incentive. The strike is fast and loud as it connects with his knee before I pull the chain back.

That’s all it takes for him to start stumbling over his words. Gibberish that means nothing to me.

“P-Please, Saint. I’ll t-talk.”

“Then do so. Where?”

“Henry, don’t. You know we will be—” The popping of a bone cuts off Ismael, his shoulder now dislocated by Rizos. His arm is extended back, his shoulder at an unnatural angle by my sergeant-at-arms. I can see the shift from where I’m sitting as Ismael goes still.

He can only whimper from the floor.

Henry’s shaking, his right hand cupping his injured knee. Funnily, that’s the least of his injuries. His multiple wounds are bleeding heavily. “Customers are in Europe. The shipments, though, are from South America. Those cost a lot. Port workers demanded a hefty cut to process the containers, and Kirill didn’t like that. It’s why he wants the Dominican Republic—you control the ports here. Less hands to grease.”

I nod. Dissect. Catalog. “What countries?”

“Argentina. Brazil. A few small islands off Venezuela…I don’t know them all.” He clears his throat, and I give Kaos a look. My brother walks over to an empty table, picks up a beer from an iced bucket, and uncaps it. This takes seconds, and he’s back to hand it over to Henry, who takes it with an appreciative look. This is a mercy we’re giving him, and he tips the bottle back, draining the contents in a few deep gulps. “Thank you.”