Page 1 of Savage Saint

1

SAINT

EARLIER THAT NIGHT…

“Remind me. Why am I here?” My voice cuts off every conversation inside the private room. We’re overlooking the dance floor of a popular club in Puerto Plata. The noise outside these walls is a background to the sudden shift—my brothers and guests all turn and look at me—yet no one speaks. And that silence only highlights the sinners below in the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Every sinful act becomes part of this moment. The bodies grind to a popular dembow beat, completely unaware of the threat a few feet from where they worship.

Lust. Excess. Gluttony.

Then again, very few people are cautious enough to notice true danger until it’s too late.

Most will walk by, ignorant of the deals and the blood spilled inside the same packed room where they play, especially on a Saturday night when the country celebrates its culture. It’s independence.

Beautiful women. Smooth rum. Thrumming beats on the sea breeze.

Hoy se bebe. Today we drink is a common phrase for a reason.

They’ll give in to need. How the heavy rhythms pulse beneath their warm skin.

The heavy bass reverberates through the walls, heightening the senses of every person below, and inhibitions no longer exist. Hands wander, clothes begin to disappear, and the top-shelf liquor men buy to impress the women who caught their eyes ends up spilled.

Every tick of the clock equals money. My favorite kind of client.

Moreover, not many know the Royal Bastards own this place, unless I want them to.

The mother chapter and Jameson are aware of my operations, and he trusts me enough not to question it—my methods. I’m loyal to the patch. I wear my cut with pride.

Defend it just as savagely.

Disrespect is met with consequences; I am death.

The feeling of my tri-blade piercing through a neck, severing the aorta, is my favorite kind of judgment. Because there’s no stopping that kind of damage, and most bleed out before anyone can help them. A little messy? Yes, but it’s satisfying. Moreover, it’s their idiocy that brings them to beg at my feet.

Just like the two men sitting across from me. Cocky. Stupid. Lambon.

The two are dressed in designer labels—a mix of gaudy styles—with two thick Cuban link chains draped around their necks. There’s also thick gold watches on their left wrists, the Rolex symbols standing out. They’re posturing, trying hard to convince me by their appearance that they’re successful—living in luxury, but no man reaches my door without being vetted first.

That includes our mother chapter after what happened to Jameson and his father.

Because I trust no one outside of my family: club and blood ties. Not until you give me a reason to.

It’s why the Dominican Republic Chapter of the Royal Bastards exists.

Jameson asked me to expand the club’s routes via the port, and I agreed. Defend them with my life, too.

Around us, my brothers are spread out, drinks in their hands while they act like the civilized men they are not. It’s quiet—subdued—nothing compared to the clubhouse.

It’s where we differ from other criminal organizations on the island.

In this business, discretion is everything. You let people see what you want them to, and our clubhouse is a privilege, not a revolving door. Even our tribunal is just within the city limits on a private stretch of property where the club’s jail sits.

My reputation precedes me, but ask anyone about Saint, and they’ll talk about my height, sharp jaw, and hazel eyes. They’ll describe my tattoos and the women I bed, not the pool hall manager I killed a few nights ago for skimming a little off the top. Forgiveness is not in my nature, and it’s a creed my brothers follow.

Steal once, they’ll do it again.

Let the thief breathe; he’ll leave you destitute.