Page 5 of Savage Saint

“Manin, no. Don’t say⁠—”

“A Russian. His name is Kirill Volkov.”

Volkov. What the fuck is a Volkov doing in the Dominican Republic?

“The Black Market Railroad?” Kaos asks, his eyes immediately meeting mine. The brotherhood had a problem with them in the States, and their reach shouldn’t reach the Caribbean. “Who is he to Maksim?”

“No. He’s gone rogue. Wants to make a name for himself.”

“Shut up!” Ismael hisses, but that earns him a second punch. This one to the temple, and he topples over, crashing hard into the polished concrete floor of the club’s private room. He’s gone stiff, eyes rolled back, and I pay him no more than a glance.

Instead, I wave a hand at Henry. A Henry who begins to recite the Padre nuestro prayer.

My mother would call that a mockery. One our Father in heaven will not save him.

Not someone who’s hurt innocent women. Fuck him.

“I’m going to make this incredibly easy for you, Mr. Diaz.” Pulling back my club’s vest, I reach for the custom sheath mounted against the outside of my holster and draw the Jagdkommando tri-dagger.

It’s my favorite.

Painful. Beautiful. Fucking lethal.

Three razor-sharp edges twist around each other in a flawless spiral, the polished steel gleaming beneath the low lighting before meeting at one wicked point. Clean and pristine, there isn’t a scratch or blemish anywhere along the mirrored surface.

Sexy as sin.

There’s something about a weapon this deadly having no business looking this good that appeals to me—Henry disagrees.

His eyes widen the moment he sees it; his entire body shakes now, but it’s nothing compared to the horror-filled scream that rends the air the moment I flick my wrist, the blade slicing through the air before marking its target.

Ismael wakes with a gasp. Unfocused. Clutching the side of his jaw where the blade kissed the skin before landing near my sergeant-at-arms, the latter picks it up from the floor before tossing it to me. I catch it with one hand, my grip firm, only to repeat the motion.

Four times. Each cut is different.

Jaw. Neck. Hand. Hairline.

Not deep enough to kill, but it’s a testament to just how sharp the blade is, and the way he bleeds for me. It’s fast, and he’s writhing on the floor, trying to cover his face but leaving another area open, and the fifth time lands with the point embedded in the cartilage of his ear.

Again, not deep, but it stings.

“Please stop!” I don’t know who cried out, but this time, when Rizos tosses the tri-blade, I stand. My brothers move closer; a few aim their guns, but that’s unnecessary, and I chuckle. Shake my head, too.

Then I turn my attention back to the only man in the room who will live to see the sunrise. Ismael won’t. “Do I have your full cooperation now, Henry Diaz?” The man nods, his wide, scared eyes on his friend and on the mess I made. Good. “I hate having to repeat myself, and you two have pushed that limit multiple times tonight. Let’s keep this civilized.”

“Yes, Saint.”

“Who is he?”

Henry swallows hard, his expression apologetic as he and Ismael share a look. “Maksim Volkov’s nephew.”

“And why is a Volkov doing business so far from Russia? Did the Black Market Railroad sanction this?”

“No.” Henry shakes his head quickly, the movement pulling at the broken glass in his shoulder. A hiss escapes him, but he’s smart enough not to complain. There are no heartstrings to pull here. “Kirill went rogue.”

“Meaning?”

“Kirill Volkov wants his own organization. His own territory.” His voice is low, and I don’t miss the nervous way his eyes shift behind me. Not focused on anything in particular, but wary… “He wants something that belongs to him, and not his family.”