Page 41 of Savage Saint

So I do. Just the facts.

Volkov’s nephew’s trafficking ring.

Henry and Ismael.

The shooting. Kaos. Church.

Our vote to put a bounty on the asshole’s head.

Jameson listens without interrupting, a few mm-hmm here and there. Like me, he doesn’t need a story dressed up in unnecessary details—all he asks for is the problem and then the solution. What is needed to eradicate it, and how to help.

Facts are enough.

From his side of the line, I hear the clinking of ice against glass, followed by the faint sound of liquid being poured. This happens twice. Almost like he’s knocking back a few.

When I’m done, he exhales. “Club justice had help?”

Asked as a question, but we both know he just wants confirmation.

“Yes.” Not going to deny it. Not the first time a club works with an outside organization to reach the same violent goal.

No lines were crossed.

“Who?”

“Thiago and Ivan.”

A pause. Another drink. “The De Leon brothers?”

“Family.”

“That’s why you let them in?”

“Yes.” Again. Not denying it. “Their wives were disrespected.”

Jameson knows enough about my history with them—the ties—to understand the difference. They weren’t here to represent their criminal organization or stick their noses in club business—it was personal retribution.

That’s separate.

“Are they hurt?”

“No. Both are safe,” I say, stretching my neck side to side. “They confirmed what we needed, collected, and stepped back.”

“What’d they take?”

“The hand that touched and the eyes that watched.”

That earns a low, dry chuckle. “Then they went home? Or still on the island?”

“Back to Miami. Messaged me before getting on the plane.”

“Is that where it ends, Saint?”

“For club business, yes.”

“The Miami chapter knows about the family ties?”

“I don’t hide my family. You know this.”