Page 39 of Savage Saint

Not that it would’ve changed much. Kaos knows—we all know—the risks that come with the territory. If anything, this is on me. The shooter got into one of our clubs, walked past the staff, and made it to the private room while I was there.

Still, Onyx takes it personally, and I understand.

But this is my blood to spill. My error to compensate for.

“Did Henry recognize him?” Flow asks.

“Not from what Thiago shared.” It’s not every day we let outsiders discipline our guests, but the shooting is not just club business; it’s personal. We are family. Jameson knows this. Just like he knows my loyalties are with the club. “Tomorrow he gets another look at the body. Trojan, verify everything else tonight, and whatever doesn’t match gets explained.”

“And when we’re done with him?” Onyx sits forward, fists clenched tight.

“He dies.” No one objects. “He gave us something useful, which earns him mercy, not freedom.” I lift the gavel. “One round. Quick.”

“Agreed.” Kaos is the first to answer, followed down the line by every member. Unanimous.

“Judgment passed.” The gavel comes down, the sound sharp and loud. “Tomorrow Henry Diaz dies. As for Kirill, he brought trafficking into our territory and sent his men to offer us protection money, and then our VP was shot. This started with him, and the heavy price will fall on him.”

“Agreed.” This time they answer in unison.

“We put a price on his head.” No celebration. No excitement. Judgement. “Effective tomorrow at six. Vote.” No dissent. Every last one gave their si. The gavel comes down a second time, harder this time. “Then it’s done.”

At six tomorrow morning, Kirill Volkov becomes the hunted.

A good hunter doesn’t chase his prey; he lures him into the trap.

Before I close church, I pull out my phone and open Jameson’s contact. We haven’t talked in weeks, and we’re due more than one conversation: business and blood owed.

Need to talk. Call me when you’re free. ~Saint

“Anything else?” I ask the brothers, and get a quick shake of the head from each. Final strike from the gavel, and I stand. “Church closed. Doc, get Kaos upstairs.”

“I’m fine, hermano.”

“You’re sweating through your shirt and holding that arm tightly to your side. You came. They saw you. Now get the fuck upstairs before I have them sedate you again.”

“Might pay Doc to,” he mumbles, but I hear it, and so does Doc. Between him and Rizos, they get him out the door and toward the clubhouse, which is quiet for the first time in a long time.

No dembow or bachata playing.

No cueros shaking their asses.

Not so much as loud chatter.

The territory feels different tonight. Heavier.

I should go inside with them.

Eat. Drink. Wait for Jameson’s call…

Instead, my eyes move toward my bikes. The decision is easy; I choose the Road Glide.

The low rider is for runs, trouble—anything requiring speed and aggression, while the Glide is different. It’s heavier, steadier, built for long stretches or solo rides where no one talks to me and my head finally quiets.

I mount without pause, firing the engine, tearing out of the compound without telling anyone where I’m going. I need a minute.

The streets are quieter now; not a sign of yesterday’s country-wide celebration can be found. The locals are back to their routines today—work, eat, evening coffee or a cold beer—but done behind closed doors or on front porches.

Exiting the Royal Bastards residential area, I head toward the coastal road, letting the wind hit my face while the engine drowns out everything else.