“Shit,” I mutter, running my hand over the bed. “Memory foam.”
I move to the next open door inside the suite and find a full bathroom. “Damn. This place is fit for a fucking king.” My eyes sweep across the tiled floor and large walk-in shower. We really seem to have hit the lottery. I mean, the bathroom is stocked with towels and all the basic toiletries. We’re going to be able to move right in. Well, at least those who want to live here, which I do. I love my Ma and Pop, but I’m not sure I’ll survive another night of having to listen to them going at it. Enough is enough.
Spinning around, I head back into the living area. “Shit. There’s more,” I murmur to myself as I spot the small kitchenette in the corner. The L-shaped counter holds a microwave, sink, and beside it is a mini-fridge.
“Dibs on this one,” I call out, though there’s no one around to hear me.
I make my way back to the hallway and continue my exploration, finding that all the rooms on the second floor follow the same layout. Private living spaces for the members who need them. The Saints have really thought of everything.
My chest tightens with gratitude. After months of uncertainty and wondering if we’d made the right call by walkingaway from the RBMC, this feels like validation. We’ve done the right thing, and now we’re being rewarded for it.
Finding another staircase at the end of the hall, I head up to the third floor. I’m curious to see what else our new home has to offer. When I get to the top, I quickly realize the layout is similar to the second floor. I peek into the first door. “It’s more living quarters,” I say to myself. As I turn to head back downstairs, I hear a sound that has my feet moving towards the end of the hallway. When I get to the last door on the left, I lift my hand and slowly push it open. There sits Titan in a big black leather computer chair with his mouth hanging open.
“Uhhh, you good, brother?”
His eyes come to me then go back to the computer monitors lining one wall, each displaying a different angle of the property outside. Multiple desktop setups occupy the large L-shaped desk, their towers humming quietly. More tech gear sits on the shelves along another wall.
Titan spins in his chair, his brown eyes lit up as his face splits in a grin that makes him look like a kid on Christmas morning. “Fuck yeah, I’m good,” he hoots. “Dude! Look at this shit?”
I step further into the room, looking at all the gear. “Uhm… Yeah.” I don’t know a thing about computers. I’m good with my fists, not technology.
Titan shakes his head and laughs. “You have no idea,” he replies, turning back to one of the computers. “With this rig alone I could hack into the Pentagon and those smug bastards would never know I was there.”
“That’s good,” I say, though it comes out more like a question.
“Good?” He runs a hand through his shaggy dark hair. “Klutch. The Saints must have dropped at least a hundred grand on all of this shit.”
My brows shoot up. “Are you fucking serious?”
His head bobs up and down. “That’s not even the best part.” Titan gestures to the wall of security monitors. “We’ve got eyes on every inch of the property. Motion sensors, heat detection, facial recognition software—nobody is getting within a hundred yards of this place without us knowing exactly who they are.”
The implications aren’t lost on me. With the kind of enemies we’ve made by walking away from Rogue and the Valenciaga cartel, this level of security isn’t just a luxury—it’s a necessity.
“The Saints don’t fuck around,” I say, echoing my earlier sentiment.
“No, they do not,” Titan agrees, still taking it in. “And check this out.” He taps a few keys on one of the computers, and a blueprint of the building appears on a monitor. “We’ve got a panic room built into the basement. Steel reinforced, separate ventilation system, enough supplies to last a couple of months.”
I shake my head in amazement. “Fucking crazy, dude. It’s like we’re ready for World War III.”
“That’s why they’re still the top dogs,” Titan replies. “Planning and preparation.”
Leaving him to his new toys, I make my way back downstairs to find most of my brothers gathered around the bar. Denali is pouring shots of the gifted Macallan, passing them around with a satisfied look on his face.
“Find anything interesting upstairs?” he asks as I approach.
“There are twenty private suites upstairs. And Titan is in nerd heaven with all the tech stuff the Saints left up there,” I reply, accepting a shot glass.
Denali nods, his expression thoughtful. “The Saints don’t do anything half-ass. When they bring a new charter into the fold, they make sure they’re set up for success.”
“Speaking of which,” my father interjects, raising his glass, “I think a toast is in order.”
We all lift our glasses, the amber liquid catching the light.
“To new beginnings,” Denali says solemnly. “And to the brothers who stood by their principles, no matter the cost. Bastards Saints for life.”
“Bastard Saints for life,” we echo, downing our shots.
The whisky burns a path down my throat, warming my chest. It’s smooth as silk.
