Page 9 of Saint's Preciosa
"Yeah?" I answer, all business now.
"Need you two back at the compound. Intel on Kovalev just came in.”
"On our way," I confirm, ending the call.
"Duty calls," Blade says, heading for the van parked next to my bike.
I swing my leg over my Harley and fire it up when I spot them across the street—Luna, clutching her tiny dog, surrounded by four gangbangers in blue bandanas. Fucking Los Lobos again. Is this a regular thing for her, this harassment?
A cold fury settles in my gut. I’ll put a stop to that. "Go on without me," I tell Blade, my eyes never leaving Luna. "I got something to handle first."
Blade follows my gaze, instantly assessing the situation with the tactical awareness that makes a great VP. "Want backup?"
"Nah. Just a few punk-ass bitches. I got this." I crack my knuckles, the sound loud in the quiet parking lot. "I'll catch up. This won't take long."
Blade nods. "Do what you gotta do, brother."
As he peels away, I stalk across the street, blood humming with anticipation. Some men hunt for sport. I hunt for purpose. Right now, my purpose is crystal clear—get those fuckers away from my woman.
My woman?
The thought should give me pause—should make me step back and examine what the fuck is happening to me—but it feels right in a way I can't explain. From the moment I saw her, something clicked into place—like finding a missing puzzle piece.
I approach silently, catching the tail end of their conversation. One of them—a snake-looking motherfucker with tattoos all over his face—has his hand wrapped around Luna's delicate arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. The sight makes my vision pulse red at the edges.
"Looks like you little bitches are having a party without me," I drawl, my voice deceptively casual as I step into their space.
They whip around, recognition and wariness flash in their expressions as they take in my cut with its Sergeant at Arms patch, my size, my stance. Luna's eyes meet mine, relief mingling with fear in their depths. Her lip trembles slightly, but there's a fire in those eyes. The little dog in her arms growls and then starts wheezing and choking out hacking coughs.
Snake-face recovers first. "This ain't your business, biker."
"See, that's where you're wrong." I take another step forward, deliberately invading their space, crowding them, using my size to intimidate. It's a tactic I've perfected over years of enforcing the club's will. "The lady clearly doesn't want your company, which makes it very much my business."
"We're just having a friendly conversation," says another one—younger, trying to sound tough but his voice cracks.
"Is that right?" I turn to Luna, softening my expression slightly. "These pendejos bothering you, preciosa?"
Her eyes widen at the endearment, a blush coloring her cheeks. Even in fear, she's stunning—all big dark eyes and full lips, her black hair pulled back in a practical braid that I suddenly want to unravel with my fingers.
“Yes,” she confirms, her voice soft but steady.
That's all I need to hear.
"Four against one seems unfair,” I observe, rolling my shoulders and cracking my neck. My body relaxes into the familiar pre-fight stance—weight balanced, ready to explode into violence at the slightest provocation. “To you."
Snake-face bristles. "You think you're tough shit because you wear that cut? You're outnumbered."
"Am I?" I smile, the expression devoid of warmth as I reach inside my cut.
Their eyes widen when they see what I'm packing—not the gun they expected, but my hunting knife with its wicked eight-inch blade. I've always preferred knives for intimidation. Guns are too quick, too impersonal. A knife promises prolonged suffering.
"Now," I continue conversationally, "I could gut all four of you in under a minute. Been a while since I practiced my knife work, but it's like riding a bike—you never really forget."
I tap the blade against my thigh, letting sunlight dance along its edge. The two younger gangbangers exchange nervous glances.
"Or," I say, "you could walk away. Pretend this never happened. Live to see another day." My smile widens, turning predatory. "Your choice, boys. And I'm feeling generous, so I'll even give you five seconds to decide."
The youngest one looks ready to bolt, but Snake-face isn't backing down.
