Page 20 of Savage Thief

A flash of a muzzle, a scream, and the stench of blood all hit me head-on.

Fuck. I press the pads of my thumbs into my eyes and snap out of the past.

I reach inside my cut. Standing beside Pretty Boy smelling like his daddy’s money I pull my gun and press the muzzle to the idiot’s head. “Put the safety back on, asshole.”

Wide eyes come around to find mine. Surprise stares back at me. I remain unmoving. I can see his buddies are about to stand up and protect their alpha by channeling me.

“Stay seated, gentlemen. This won’t take long. Safety, please,” I say sweet-like and with a smile. When he does nothing but stare back at me, I tap Pretty Boy on the head to get him moving.

These clowns are cutting into my plans for the evening and my patience level is running low. This means they have about three and a half seconds to do as I ordered before I let security have a little fun with them in the backroom for fucking up my night and breaking Asylum’s rules.

Pretty Boy jerks his head nervously in agreement. “Uh, yeah, yeah. Sorry. I was just joking around, man. You know how it is.”

Pretty Boy’s friends eye my cut and it only takes one to mouth Savages before they are pissing in their pants.

That’s right motherfuckers. You should be pissing your pants.

I traded my badge the night I narrowly escaped death’s grip. When I regained the ability to walk, I found my way to the Savages. They didn’t even bother having me as a prospect. I was patched in within a week and I’ve worn my Sons of Bratva Savages cut ever since. But we didn’t start out as the Bratva Savages. Back then it was just Savages.

“Hey, dude, how do we get a cut like that?” Pretty boy’s friend moves a finger like he wants to touch the flaming skull on the back of my leather. I smack his hand away.

Renewed irritation pulls my expression into a deeper scowl. Not until a month back did the club’s prez take on the Bratva bit. After revealing his bloodlineandhis betrayal of the brotherhood. I don’t need another excuse to wanna put bullets in people. I hate being lied to or used and he did both. These punks are about to take some of my pent-up frustration if they are not careful

I grunt. “It’s Dragon. Not dude. You come into someone’s house waving a gun, have the decency to learn the bastard’s name first.”

“Dragon, sir. Sorry about that.”

“Keep, yoursirshit. I ain’t your daddy and the only way you get a cut like mine is if you survive me beating the shit out of you for your punk ass stupidity.”

The one beside Pretty boy throws his hands up. “Look man, we didn’t mean shit.”

Asylum enforces strict policies. It’s neutral ground. Anyone who wants to come in and have a drink, hook up, make deals—it doesn’t matter—this is the place. No guns are allowed unless they are in the hands of a Savage Son. And this douche is no Savage.

I take his gun—a common Glock with a standard magazine of nineteen rounds. Nice silver color with gold inlays though. Custom made for sure. Must be a special piece. “Didn’t mean shit, huh? What are the rules of Asylum?” I flip my gun around and pop Pretty Boy in the back of the head when he stutters through gibberish. Not to knock him out, but hard enough to get his attention and leave him with a rager of a headache for a few hours.

I release the mag to the Glock and check the chamber before handing it over to the head of my security team. “Get these fools out of my sight. Black list them for six months and call Pretty Boy’s dad and let him know the shit he’s getting into.”

All five of the friends turn ghostly white as they are led away.

I reclaim my position over the railing after finding my glass which is sadly empty. It’s maybe my fourth, or fifth whisky over rocks for the evening and I have no plans of stopping now.

It’s only been a month since the shit hit the fan back at the Volkovs and my nerves are still shredded. The twin Russian brothers were a nightmare to deal with. The worst part is that they are only a fraction of the problem. Ares’ family will be out for blood now that we severed the veins feeding their underground trafficking ring and God only knows what else.

The Antonovs. Bratva blood, evil fuckers looking to grow their power off the skin of others. And, surprise, our club president is the eldest sibling and by my calculations first in line to take over the good ol’ family business.

Except his younger, more sadistic brother has claimed that title.

I know the prez came clean at the last hour before all hell broke loose, but the burn of his lies doesn’t settle well with me.

I grab a waitress, take the bottle she has and send her on her way. Only with the help of the Genesis men and new patches did we have the strength to take them down. But not without a price.

Devil. The bastard was a pain in my ass every day with his shenanigans but he was a brother. Seeing his lifeless body covered in Ares’ cut will chase me into sleep tonight. Just like the last twenty-nine days. But I plan on cutting the pattern off tonight with the good help of some fifty-year-old Glenfiddich.

I forget the glass and go straight for the bottle this time. I bring the brim to my lips and swallow back all I can handle. It goes down rough.

Disgust mixes with bile in the back of my throat. No matter how much I drink I can’t seem to wash the shit down.

The second the news crew arrived and the cops cleared me, I high-tailed it out of there. And the media hasn’t taken their teeth out of the story yet. Until they do, I’m here. Playing watchdog where no cameras are allowed.

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