Page 100 of Savage Saint

The main office building is inside a hangar. This houses the logistics, shipping manifests, and, more importantly, the expensive or private art pieces—priceless artifacts—and jewelry moved through the black market, and every unethical billionaire hunts as a pastime. They want, and will pay ridiculous amounts of money to buy, then sell or trade items that are useless outside of being coveted by museums or other collectors.

It’s a game to them, but a pricey, illegal one. They pay to protect their valuables, and I don’t feel a single iota of guilt for what’s about to happen.

We walk inside the open doors and find three police officers from the Puerto Plata precinct talking. They don’t stop us as we walk by them. Instead, they look the other way before walking out.

The large metal doors are open, but the strong hum of a commercial A/C drowns out a lot of noise. They keep the place cool, not cold, because the doors stay open—employees and managers need access—and today that noise covers our footsteps.

And true to his word, standing near the stairs leading to the owner’s office is Victor. He nods, looking back over his shoulder a few times. “It’s just them upstairs. I left them there with a bottle of water and the excuse that I was calling the owner for an ETA.”

“They still don’t know who owns this place?”

“No. Not a clue.”

“Any bodyguards? Santo Domingo police?” I ask, because this is either a trap, or they’re overly confident. Stupidly cocky.

“No. Just them and a woman. Younger than them, think I’ve seen her on TV.” He’s pensive for a moment. “Ferrero did make a phone call shortly after arriving, though. It was odd. Something about visiting a hospital. Claimed his back was tweaked, but he was walking perfectly fine.”

That stops me cold.

They know about Genesis.

Of that I have no doubt, but how much? Not that they’ll get near her. I’d butcher anyone who tried to hurt a single hair on her head.

She matters to me. Has burrowed herself so deep under my skin; I’d die for her.

“How long?” I spit out, my hand already on the railing to head up.

“Say, five minutes ago?” He gets a good look at my face, then looks past me at the other men with me. Whatever he sees in their eyes makes him take a step back. “Saint, is everything okay? What do you need me to⁠—”

“Head out and clear the area. No one walks in until we walk out.”

“Done.” Within minutes, whoever was left on this side of the port has vanished. The noise from heavy machinery and tools is gone.

Then we head up.

The stairs creak under our combined weight. The sound of our boots hitting each landing is loud, and yet the three people inside are oblivious.

That is until I kick open the door.

It flies in, smashing against the wall as a woman’s scream pierces the air. Montalvo and Ferrero freeze, shocked that I found them so fast. I’m sure they thought I’d learn of their visit hours after they left. But then again, they underestimate just how deep the Royal Bastards’ connections run.

They thought I’d forget loyalty for profit and bend the knee. That was their first mistake.

A single shot from my Glock hits Ferrero between the eyes, and he slumps in his seat, eyes wide while blood drips from the hole. Brain matter splatters behind him, some decorating the wall and a few bits on the screaming cuero beside the body.

I don’t need them both alive for information, and this is my way of helping him find the hospital. He just won’t be visiting the emergency department; the morgue is better suited to treat his ailment.

“You either talk, or end up like him. Your choice,” I say, fully stepping into the room while the men take positions, Rizos staying the closest as my sergeant-at-arms. He walks over and grips the woman’s arm, pulling her from the room and handing her to Onyx.

She’ll wait outside for another body to take back, or nurse what’s left of the broken man who talked.

“Please!” Lucinda screams, the same cuero fino from the society events. A high-paid escort. “Whatever this is about, it has nothing to do with me. I’m just here⁠—”

Then silence. She’s not dead, but the quiet is appreciated.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Montalvo starts, raising his voice to try and sound intimidating. He fails.

“Talk. Last chance.”