Page 52 of Savage Saint

“Already on it, Presidente.” Flow shows me his phone. Trojan’s name is on the screen, and the call timer reads twenty minutes. Good. “Go, Saint. We’ll take care of things here.”

I pause long enough to meet each brother’s gaze, and each mimics mine. Angry. Bloodthirsty. Ready to go to war.

With a slow nod, I walk out. Don’t remember much of the drive to my private home on the Royal Bastards’ territory. It’s a large, two-story house with four bedrooms and an oversized garage to house my bikes, SUV, and jet skis. Room to work on them if I want, without having to leave my home.

It’s where I restore old Harleys that I ship back to the States. A hobby.

I rode here on autopilot, my head replaying Henry’s confessions.

Kirill is a dead man.

My hands will make sure of it.

12

SAINT

By the time I step into my house, I’m dissecting every answer.

Meticulously. Clinically. Because in the heat of the moment, it’s easy to give in to anger and make mistakes—that’s not who I am as the Royal Bastards’ President. Not as a man, either.

I’ve always been able to remove myself, see the problem from every angle, and this one is no different. This snake has three heads and a cuero with loose lips. Nothing I can’t kill.

Sharpened knives are more effective than rushed plans.

And right now, I’m going to deal with the closest enemy.

Tossing my keys onto the entry table, I head upstairs and toward the master bedroom.

I’m shrugging off my cut before I make it to the top of the stairs, checking the leather over for any part of Henry I’ve brought home. There’s a small dark spot near the bottom seam, and just beneath the club’s name. Blood. Maybe something else.

My jaw tightens as I grab a cloth from the bathroom, dampen one corner with cold water, and work the spot over carefully. Slow enough not to damage the leather or stitching, especially the patches.

The stains lift after a few passes. Good.

I turn the cut beneath the light and give the rest a quick check before wiping the rest with a dry section of the cloth. Once satisfied, I lay it down on my bed before turning the shower on to hot.

Steam billows immediately, quickly fogging the mirror…my phone rings in my back pocket.

I pull it out and place it on the counter, pressing the answer button when I see it’s Kaos.

“Que lo que?”

“What the fuck happened?”

I remove my holster and weapons, placing each down beside the phone. When this house was built, the bathroom counter being one solid piece of stone was something I demanded. Easy to clean, no grout lines, and enough space for my guns and knives after a club run.

“You’re going to need to be more specific.”

“Why is Mami here?”

That almost pulls a smile from me. Almost. “She said she was coming to cook for you.”

“She brought an overnight bag, Santo. To the clubhouse.”

That ends my amusement. Henry’s words come back to me, and I grip the counter with my unoccupied hand, exhaling roughly. “She’ll be staying longer than that, Trino. Klara, too.”

“Don’t be an asshole.” He laughs, and it sounds like he shifts on the bed, but that soon turns into a low hiss. I don’t rush him; I let him breathe through the discomfort until he’s ready. “She brought food…she’s feeding everyone…and checking my forehead like I’m dying.”