Page 26 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

Inside, I walk down the narrow corridor leading to the reception desk with Samantha, our hostess, smiling brightly at us and holding two menus, but her grin quickly dies when she notices it’s me. “Santiago—”

My raised hand stops whatever else she has to say, because I’m not in the fucking mood to listen to any updates right now.

She looks over my shoulder, the heavy footsteps thumping on the floor indicating that the rest of the dark four followed me, wanting an explanation for tonight.

We’re the unbreakable unit who destroys everything in its wake; however, we don’t operate with secrets, and tonight, they went in blind.

A price I’ll have to pay for later, as all of them are mean motherfuckers ready to fucking collect debts.

Just like me.

I push at the double doors practically vibrating from the music, and the minute they open, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes envelop me, along with the loud music and click of shoes on the parquet.

People lose themselves on the dance floor, rubbing against each other, and some even engage in heavy make-out sessions that could easily transform into fucking in a corner.

Not that we give a fuck, as long as they pay the hefty price to come here. Chaos and gore are two things we thrive on, so how can we judge others who engage in it?

They know the rules and follow them; otherwise, they’re dead.

We don’t give second chances.

Out of habit, I scan the place, making sure everything is running smoothly and doesn’t require our interference, because our meeting will take a while. Our club is considered one of the most luxurious establishments in the country, with guests begging to get onto our waiting list that’s a mile long, much less inside.

Not one person slipped in here by chance; the list of guests is always reviewed carefully so we know who we are dealing with and what they can offer us should we come to collect.

What’s the point of owning the club if you can’t blackmail some people with their actions in it?

Although we do pick beautiful women from time to time to have fresh blood for all those willing to play, usually Samantha finds those.

The more mysterious the place, the more demand it has among the society that makes it profitable even if for us it’s nothing but a toy and cover.

We couldn’t care less about this fucking club despite the huge profits; it’s pocket change for the likes of us.

The place is decorated with silver, red, and black colors representing the riders, a nice touch courtesy of Florian.

The bar is located in the back, right corner with four bartenders busily preparing drinks for everyone while the rest of the staff easily navigate through the club to booths and tables in the left corner. They deliver orders of steaming food on porcelain dishes picked out by Remi.

Each one of them wears black pants and white button-up shirts.

While picking a furniture design, we settled on round, leather couches comfortable enough to sit in, along with round tables and lamps on them should anyone need to speak privately. The VIPs are on the second floor, which has several soundproof rooms with surveillance cameras in case trouble arises and someone might need our help.

Four cages hang from the ceiling with dancers inside wearing provocative clothes, showcasing their skills and flexibility to the awe of everyone watching. The crystals on the chandeliers shift in the breeze from the AC, brightening up the entire space with colorful lights.

Pushing through the bodies, I zero my gaze on the dark corridor behind the bar leading to the elevator, which will take us downstairs. The floor below holds our meeting room and individual fuck pads always available if the mood strikes us.

We don’t bring women home—too many complications. Next thing you know, they’ll start planning a future with you, and I almost bark a laugh at this.

Pressing the button for the elevator, I slip inside and turn around to see the guys joining me, staying silent as we ride downstairs, tension rising among us all. Finally, we get out, going to the spacious meeting room, which has a huge round table with four chairs, a TV hanging on the wall, laptops, and four tablets.

And a golden bowl right in the middle of the table.

Octavius locks the door behind us, and we all sit on our chairs, all three men looking at me while I take out a cigarette from my pocket and wave the pack at everyone else.

Florian raises his hand, and I throw it to him and do the same with the lighter after lighting up.

“Start talking,” Octavius barks, and the cigarette pauses midway to my mouth while anger spikes my blood.

“You are not the leader, Octavius, so back off.” Even though in our circle we lead them to believe he is, so he can handle all the negotiations among the different territories with serial killers. We aren’t some motorcycle club with presidents and enforcers.

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