Page 47 of Savage Saint

Exactly how I want it.

El Hueco lives up to its name.

Large, dark—half swallowed by the jungle, with rough concrete walls and narrow windows—nothing about this place is welcoming anyone in. It’s a hole. The last place you see, because once the Royal Bastards sentence you, there is no coming back out.

The building itself isn’t big.

One low, concrete building sits beneath the canopy, flat-roofed with small, steel-reinforced windows and walls left in the same dull gray they were poured in. No landscaping or attempt to make the place seem occupied.

This isn’t a hotel.

From a distance, it could pass for an abandoned building. Up close, not so much.

The place reeks of death. Of bloody tears and horror-filled cries.

Reminds me of the day our godfather took his boys, Trino, and me to one of his properties in Cuba. The head of the De Leon family never hid the reality of his life from us. Never pretended the money, power, or respect came without blood attached.

We saw it all:

Luxury. Power. Death.

The places men who crossed him disappeared to, never to be seen again.

Thiago and Ivan eventually followed the world waiting for them.

We chose differently. This life called to us after we moved from Miami to New Orleans halfway through high school. Our father met the founder of the Royal Bastards, and it changed everything.

The patch. The brotherhood.

Then eventually, it was the freedom to build something that belonged to me because I earned it. Because Jameson gave me the trust to expand, moving a chapter to our home country.

I’ll never forget the lessons De Leon Sr. taught us, though. And years later, when the chapter needed somewhere private to hold tribunals and executions, I made the move.

El Hueco was born.

I kill the engine, and immediately after, four more die behind mine. The breeze sweeps through the trees and birds chirp from somewhere above, but I can still make out the cry of a man who’s living a nightmare.

The noise comes from the open window and Onyx dismounts first, his jaw already working again. Grinding. Neck cracking.

“Henry talks first, Onyx. You got that?”

He looks at me. “Si.”

“You don’t touch him until I say so.” My tone leaves no room for argument, and his nostrils flare, but he nods. Beside us, Gallo stands and grabs the case from the saddle bag, quiet as always. I glance at it once, but make no move to grab it. Not yet.

Rizos walks past us toward the door, already pulling his keys from his pocket. The lock of the large metal door disengages, and the click is loud. It seems to bounce against the inner walls of the structure, and I hear Henry call out a who’s there.

No one answers him as they follow me inside. Immediately, we’re greeted by an oppressive heat—the putrid scent of old blood, sweat, and urine. Something burned. Something dead.

Flow pauses just inside and grimaces. “That’s going to be a pain to clean.”

Rizos snorts, head shaking. “It’s about to get a lot worse.”

“Agreed.” Flow steps past him, face still pinched in disgust. “Still smells like cooked mierda now. Later, this place will need a spiritual cleansing.”

Nobody laughs. It’s not a joke, but a fact. El Hueco traps everything.

And right now, the loudest is the sound of a man knowing no one is coming to save him. That I’m coming to kill him.