Page 7 of Savage Saint

“Why did you approach me tonight?”

“Kirill thinks you’ll agree to a ten percent cut.”

“He thought wrong.”

“Yes. We were wrong.” Better.

“What does he, Kirill Volkov, want from the Royal Bastards?”

“Not the Bastards, just you.”

“Just me?” A few of my brothers chuckle while Thiago smirks and Ivan raises a brow. Me? I sit with it. Try to understand where a man who’s never met me thinks I’ll bend for money.

“Yes.” He licks his dry lips. “You.”

“Volkov thinks I’ll betray my brothers? My patch?”

“Si. No one else was supposed to know.”

“And yet you walked into our territory…a club business…and didn’t think my men would be here? That they wouldn’t be present during this meeting?”

I don’t know if I should be impressed by the size of their cojones or their stupidity.

Kaos mutters palomo under his breath, but I disagree. It’s not being naïve.

They underestimated me.

A mistake. A death sentence.

I smile.

Not because I find any of this funny, but because Kirill Volkov has made a very unfortunate assumption. He believes my loyalty can be bought. And worse, he thinks I’d allow innocent women to be dragged through my territory—protect their abuser with my patch—and allow him to sell them to whichever sick fuck offers the highest bid.

“Volkov should’ve done his homework, Diaz. The answer is no.” Looking over at the De Leon brothers, I nod at them. “Same info you had?”

“Yeah. Same shit.” Thiago lifts a hand to his scruffy jaw, scratching his chin. “But I’m owed for his disrespect. The asshole on the floor grabbed Luna’s hand.”

“Fair enough. And you?” I ask Ivan. “What’s your price?”

“Henry’s eyes. I don’t like the way he looked at my mermaid.”

“Okay. You don’t need your eyes to talk, much less your hands.” Kaos and Rizos step back as other patch members grab and force the two to their knees, hands on the filthy table.

Both idiots struggle at first, Ismael more than Henry, as he tries and fails to kick back at the brother pinning him in place. “No. No, wait!” he screams, tone high and grating while an old-school reggaeton plays through the club’s speakers. It hypes the crowd; they’re singing and grinding—alcohol flowing—completely ignorant of the two men kneeling before me. “Saint, please. Henry told you everything. You said⁠—”

“I never made promises. At most, I’ve been polite, and that’s mercy enough.”

“Let me walk out of here and I’ll⁠—”

Not us. Just him.

They both suffer from that syndrome. One for the ex-wife, and the other for self-preservation above loyalty.

“No.” He swallows hard, forcing his head up to meet my eyes. There’s fear and shock, and I also don’t miss the way his eyes shift toward the clock on the wall, then the door. A few times he does this.

I’m not the only one who’s noticed this, too. My younger brother moves closer to the door and so does Rizos. Thiago and Ivan shift; their body language is alert.

I place my tri-blade beside the chain at the edge of the table. I’m not worried about either of them making a grab for it, but I keep them within my reach. Two Glocks in my holster.