Page 70 of Savage Saint

Exactly.

Trojan’s fingers move across the keyboard for less than a minute before he lets out a whistle. “Found her.”

On his screen is her picture with the name Lucinda Valdez underneath. It’s from her social media account, and every picture shows opulence: private parties, yachts, and luxury hotels. A different man is beside her in almost every single picture or short video as Trojan scrolls.

“Mami calls her un cuero fino.” Kaos shakes his head, disgust in his tone, while a few chuckles ring from the patched members around the table.

“Lorena said that?” Doc asks.

“You know my mother.”

While a few discuss her, I focus on the few faces I recognize from the photos. Ferrero appears twice, Enrique once, and it’s obvious they don’t care about it either. In his pic, Montalvo cups her naked breasts, while in the ones with the commandante, he’s grabbing her ass.

Both are married. Both have kids of varying ages.

I also catch a few well-known men in the Dominican government. Less explicit, but can be damaging to their clean image.

How are these not making headlines?

Then I see one man who stands out among the natives. Blonde, blue eyes, tall yet very lanky, dressed in Gucci’s signature print from head to toe.

“Stop on that one.”

All eyes turn my way before focusing on the screen. Conversations stop as I read the caption below out loud:

“Turns out my favorite kind of trouble has a Russian accent, expensive taste, and pockets deep enough to keep my legs spread.”

For a second, no one says a word as Trojan zooms in on the picture. The picture is clear enough to catch every detail, from the tattoo running up the side of his face to the left hand missing two fingers.

The pinky and the ring.

Hijo de puta.

“Pull up the picture you found of Kirill.” Trojan’s already moving, and a second later another image appears; this one is grainier and taken from afar. The face isn’t as clear, but again, the tattoo is unmistakable. So are the similarities.

Same build.

Same deformed left hand.

Same light hair.

Kaos leans forward again, face pinched, but Doc stops him with a hand against his arm. “I’m fine.”

“Quit pushing it.”

“That’s Volkov,” he says instead, ignoring Doc’s warning.

“Agreed, brother.”

Trojan sits back, eyes still on his screen. “I’ll keep digging. Dates, locations, everyone she’s been photographed with. See how far back Volkov’s been moving through this circle.”

“Do it.” I look down at Henry’s note again. At the names on it, and the one missing—Henry had already given it. Three players who are making a mess in my backyard, and I’m not the type of man who lets disrespect go unanswered.

While Trojan hunts, I turn to everyone else.

“Klara.” Kaos beside me goes still. I still haven’t explained why the compound is on lockdown, and I feel his questioning gaze. The simmering anger. He knows I wouldn’t give the command unless it’s warranted. “Henry confirmed Kirill knows who she is. That he wants to use her against me—the club.” My jaw ticks, and that simmering rage I’ve been fighting back crawls over me. The urge to put my tri-blade through Kirill’s throat and watch him choke on my sister’s name settles deep in my bones. Takes everything in me not to go hunting. “He wants her for himself.”

“Maldito hijo de puta,” Rizos mutters, Toro adding a low fucking mamagüevos. The others around us look murderous; my younger sister has grown up around most of them. My family has known them for years, and yet the one I focus on is Kaos.