The three guys in the room look at each other.
“He definitely fucked,” Salv says.
They laugh.
“Who fucked?” Mason walks into the room followed by Grant and two other guards carrying a large crate.
“Saint,” Kaz answers.
Mason stands over me, looking down at me.
“It better have been with his wife.”
I roll my eyes. “If you must know, it was.”
Mason’s brow lifts before he turns and takes a seat on the other accent table. His men place the crate down on Salv’s marble coffee table.
“Hey,” Salv, scolds. “Be gentle; that’s custom-made.”
“Why are you in your underwear?” Mason looks at his youngest brother with his nose turned up.
“I slept late.” Salv shrugs.
“Go get dressed.” Kaz shakes his head.
Salv looks down at his body as if he doesn’t understand our issue.
“What, is my dick print intimidating you?” The grin on his face is typical Salv behavior. Always ready to make a joke.
Mason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Salvito, go put some fucking clothes on.”
“Ugh, fine.” He places his water bottle down on the counter before heading up the stairs to his bedroom.
I turn my attention back to the crate. Grant and Ghost are leaning against the wall. The other two men that came with Mason are near the door.
“What’s this?” I ask, pointing at the wooden crate that’s a little too familiar.
Mason leans up. “This is a problem. Three nights ago, the DEA did a raid on the south side. They’ve been investigating a drug house for six months. Inside the house they found 156 pounds of fentanyl and 44 pounds of meth.”
I look over at Kazimir, and he looks just as confused as me. Salv deals with the drugs, not me.
“How is that my problem?”
The drug game is lucrative. Even with a bust like this, it won’t even put a dent in Salv’s pocket. Most of the time, with Mason’s connection with the police force, Salv ends up getting his drugs back after a raid.
“They also found two crates of guns.”
“Bullshit,” I say out loud.
I’ve been doing this gun shit for years. Nobody I do business with would sell crates to small dealers. They would sell them a few guns individually, but no one is giving them full got damn crates of weapons. Not to mention, one crate is worth $250,000.
“Are they Saints?” Salv asks, coming down the stairs dressed in a pair of sweats.
“That’s what I want to know.” Mason turns back to me.
I frown. Standing from my seat, I go over to the crate on the table. I don’t mark my weapons. Once they are out of my hands, there is no way for me to track them. That’s part of the draw of my guns; they can’t be traced. But there are ways I can track whether a shipment belongs to me.
I pull the top off the crate and look under the lid. Serial numbers are carved into the top right corner. To anyone else, these numbers mean nothing. But to me, they are how I keep up with my shipment. Each serial number can be traced back to a specific container and cargo ship.
