Page 37 of Savage Saint

The design sits deep in the center of the table.

No one puts boots on it.

Nobody eats over it.

Nobody who hasn’t earned the club’s patch touches it.

Doing so earns a bullet to the head. No questions asked.

I take my seat at the head.

Kaos is already in his seat, slightly slouched with a pained expression on his face. My vice president is sitting to my right and looks like he belongs in bed instead of here. His face is pale, a contrast to our naturally bronzed skin, his eyes heavier from the medication Doc gave him. He’s wearing a loose black shirt, arms held close to his side to keep pressure off the wound.

He’s hurting, but he came. That matters.

Rizos, my sergeant-at-arms, takes the seat beside him, while Toro, the road captain, follows. Then Onyx, the enforcer. To my left sits:

Flow, the secretary.

Then Los, the treasurer.

Junior, the chaplain.

Doc, our club MD.

And last is Trojan, the tracker.

Beyond them, the rest of our brothers fill seats running down both sides, Gallo among them.

Junior bows his head, and the rest of us follow. His prayer is short.

Padre nuestro, protege a nuestros hermanos, familia, y colores. Danos cabeza pa’ reconocer a los que nos traicionan. Fuerza pa’ defender lo nuestro. Y que no nos tiemble la mano cuando toque cobrar.

Amen.

When he finishes, I pick up the gavel and strike the wood.

“Church is open.” No one moves or speaks; I look around the table, meeting every man’s eyes before beginning. “What happened last night stays inside these walls.”

Every man sitting here knows this, but some things deserve to be said before blood is shed. And there will be a reckoning. I would never allow Volkov to live for long.

“Hasta la muerte,” they respond in unison; closed fists pound their chest once. To the Royal Bastards, until death means more than a simple si. It’s an oath. Every man here would die for our colors—would kill just as brutally to protect them.

I let the words settle before continuing.

“Two men entered our territory last night—Ismael Vega and Henry Diaz—carrying a message from Kirill Volkov.” Several expressions harden around the table. “They approached two women we know with the intention of taking them, then were stupid enough to come and offer a partnership afterward.” Those who were not at the club go still; the others remain silent. “They want to traffic through our ports. Use our containers and connections.”

That’s Kirill’s biggest mistake. Thinking I’d sell myself. Sell our club.

“Ismael is dead. Henry is willing to offer more information.” I look at Trojan. “He gave us enough information on Kirill to start digging. Anything useful gets verified before we act on it.”

“On it. I’ll have a full report soon.”

“Good.” Then my attention turns to Toro and Flow. “The extra police presence this morning? Who sent them?”

“All were from Santo Domingo.” Flow scratches his jaw, his fingers thrumming on the table. “What caught my attention was the posing for pictures between traffic stops. That, and one of the younger officers filmed something on his phone. Looked like a video for social media.”

“Doing what?”