8. Saint
Chapter 8
Saint
Luna's apartment building is a hovel. Crumbling concrete, graffiti-covered walls, and a stench of garbage and piss hits us the moment we step inside the lobby. The elevator's got an "Out of Order" sign that's collected enough dust to suggest it's been there for months, maybe years.
I insist on walking her to her door—five fucking flights up—and she’s too tired to protest, even though it looks as though she wants to.
Exhaustion is etched into every line of her body. The dim hallway lights cast shadows beneath her eyes.
When we finally reach the fifth floor, she pauses outside a flimsy door that looks like it would give way with one solid kick. Not exactly the fortress of security I want for my woman. I make a mental note to upgrade her locks—and possibly her entire living situation—ASAP
Before she can insert her key, harsh, wet coughing erupts from inside the apartment. It’s alarming—deep and rattling. I’m no doctor, but a cough like that speaks of something serious—fluid in the lungs, maybe. Or infection. Luna's face drains of color, and she fumbles with her keys, panic evident in her shaky movements.
"Abuela?" she calls, pushing the door open.
I follow her inside, taking in the tiny apartment with one quick tactical sweep. It's spotlessly clean but desperately poor—mismatched furniture worn thin with use, walls patched in multiple places, a small table with two rickety chairs. The kitchen cabinets hang slightly crooked, and water stains mark the ceiling in one corner. A shrine to La Virgen de Guadalupe occupies one corner, votive candles flickering beneath a well-worn statue, surrounded by photographs I can't make out from here. The place is meticulously maintained despite its obvious decay. Luna clearly does her best with what little she has.
The coughing leads us to a small bedroom where an elderly woman sits propped against pillows. She's tiny—can't weigh more than ninety pounds. Her silver hair is pulled back in a tight bun. Deep lines that speak of a lifetime of hardship are etched into her brown skin. Despite her obviously weakened state, her dark eyes are sharp and alert as they land on me, instantly filled with suspicion.
"Who is this man?" she demands, her voice hoarse but stronger than I would have expected after her recent coughing fit. Luna rushes to her side, speaking rapidly in Spanish, her hands moving expressively as she explains to her grandmother that I'm a friend who helped her. The old woman isn't buying it. Her gaze travels over my cut, the visible tattoos on my arms, the inherent danger she clearly senses in my presence.
"They call me Saint," I offer in Spanish, stepping forward with more confidence than I feel. I've faced down rival MCs, corrupt cops, and hardened killers without blinking, but something about this frail old woman's piercing gaze makes me feel like I'm being X-rayed, every sin and transgression laid bare.
Her eyes widen, and she makes the sign of the cross, muttering what sounds suspiciously like a prayer for protection. "?Santo? No hay nada santo en ti." There's nothing saintly about you .
Can't argue with that.
"Abuela, por favor," Luna pleads, shooting me an apologetic glance.
"I know men like him," the old woman continues loudly in accented English, clearly wanting me to hear and understand every word. "I have seen them in Mexico. Dangerous men who think they own the world. They bring only misery and death." Her frail hand grips Luna's arm with surprising strength. "No quiero que estés cerca de él." I don't want you near him.
Her words are more than a plea, more than a warning, They’re a command. I recognize the fear in her eyes. It's the same fear I've seen in mothers when rival clubs roll into town, in shopkeepers when violence erupts nearby. The fear of becoming collateral damage in someone else's war. And if I'm honest with myself, she's not entirely wrong to be afraid.
Before Luna can respond, a blur of tan fur launches into the room, yipping excitedly. Paco rushes toward me, his tiny body wiggling with enthusiasm. Unlike his mistress, the dog apparently considers me a friend.
I crouch down, letting him sniff my hand before scratching behind his ears. "Hey there, little warrior. How's the breathing?"
Paco responds by jumping up, front paws on my knee, tail wagging so hard his entire body shakes. There's no trace of the labored breathing he displayed at the clinic—the medication must be working well.
"Traidor," Abuela mutters to the dog. Betrayer.
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. "Dogs are excellent judges of character," I announce to the room, enjoying the way her eyes narrow further.
Luna alternates between sending pleading looks to her grandmother and throwing me worried glances. She touches Abuela's forehead, frowning at the heat she finds there. "Your fever's worse," she murmurs, reaching for a glass of water on the nightstand. "And you didn't eat your soup."
I notice the congealed bowl on the bedside table, barely touched. Not a good sign.
The old woman waves her hand in the air dismissively, her gaze never leaving me. "Why is he still here? ?Por qué este criminal está en nuestra casa?" Why is this criminal in our house?
"He's not a criminal." The lie is sweet on her lips, even if we both know it's not true. "And he helped me, Abuela," Luna explains again, her voice tight with stress.
Abuela's reaction is immediate and vehement. "No! We don't want your help.” She sits up straighter, assessing me with the wisdom of someone who's seen too much. "Men like you never give something for nothing. There is always a price."
Luna shoots me an apologetic look. "Abuela, please, let's talk about this tomorrow when you're feeling better."
"There's nothing to discuss," the old woman insists, her righteous anger seemingly giving her strength. "Men like him always want something in return. Always." A coughing fit interrupts her tirade, her frail body shaking with the force of it.
She's not entirely wrong. I do want something. But not like the old woman thinks.
"My intentions toward your granddaughter are honorable," I find myself saying, struggling to find the right words. "I respect her."
Abuela scoffs, the sound transforming into another wet cough. When she recovers, her eyes are watery but fierce. "Respect? You think I was born yesterday?" She turns to Luna, switching back to rapid Spanish. "I see how he looks at you, nina. Like a wolf eyeing a lamb. These men—they take what they want and leave destruction in their wake. Just like what happened to your parents."
Luna flinches at the mention of her parents, and I feel a surge of protectiveness. This old woman may be sick, she may be looking out for her granddaughter, but I don't like seeing Luna hurt by her words.
"Abuela, that's not fair," Luna says softly.
The old woman's eyes narrow on me with unsettling hatred as she reaches down beside the bed and retrieves...a shoe? Yes, it’s a shoe. A worn leather sandal that she brandishes like it's a deadly weapon. For a moment, I'm too stunned to react. Is she actually planning to?—
Yes. Yes, she is.
The sandal flies through the air with surprising accuracy for someone in her weakened state, connecting solidly with my shoulder.
"Out!" she commands, already reaching for the other shoe. "Out of my home, criminal!"
Luna looks mortified, caught between respect for her grandmother and embarrassment at the situation. "Abuela, stop!"
"It's okay," I tell Luna, backing toward the door as the old woman hurls the other shoe through the air. I duck just in time to avoid taking a sandal to the face. Getting chased out by an old woman with a shoe wasn't exactly how I pictured this night ending, but I've been through worse. "We can talk tomorrow when everyone's calmer."
"There will be no tomorrow!" Abuela declares dramatically, her eyes scanning the room, probably looking for something else to throw. "My granddaughter is a good girl. A decent girl. She doesn't need someone like you in her life.”
I hold up my hands in surrender, not wanting to upset Luna further by arguing. "Buenas noches, senora," I say politely. "I hope you feel better soon." I mean it, despite her hostility. The old woman is clearly very ill.
A box of tissues barely misses me, thudding against the door frame as I duck out into the main room. Luna follows me, her face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and concern.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers once we're out of her grandmother's earshot. "She's been through a lot. She thinks all men with...with your look are like the cartel members who killed my parents."
Her parents were murdered by a cartel? That statement hits me like a punch to the gut. "Luna..."
"It's okay." She shakes her head, not meeting my eyes. "It was a long time ago. I was seven. Papá refused to pay protection money to the local cartel. They killed him and my mother as a message to others." Her voice is flat, as if reciting facts from a distant history book rather than the defining tragedy of her life. "Abuela took me and ran north. She never got over it. That's why we came here, to get away from the violence."
The bitter irony isn't lost on me. She fled violence in Mexico only to land in my arms—the arms of a man whose life is defined by controlled violence. The Sergeant at Arms of an outlaw MC isn't exactly the safe harbor her grandmother had in mind.
“The Shadow Reapers aren't like those cartel thugs. We have a code, honor among brothers. We don't target innocents.” As I say it, I realize the distinction might be lost on a woman who's seen her family destroyed by men who use violence to terrorize.
I want to pull Luna into my arms, to promise her that I'm nothing like the men who murdered her parents, that I'd kill anyone who tried to hurt her. But as another wracking coughing fit comes from there bedroom, I know now’s not the time.
"Get some rest," I tell her softly. "It's been a long night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
A small smile curves her lips, tentative but real. "If you're brave enough to face Abuela again."
"For you? Absolutely.” I brush my lips against her forehead, inhaling the scent of her hair. "Lock the door behind me."
I wait in the hall until I hear the deadbolt slide into place and the chain rattle secure. It's a flimsy barrier against the world, but it's something.
Outside, I position myself on my bike across the street, finding a shadowed doorway with a clear view of her building. I don't trust those Los Lobos punks, and now that Luna's on my radar, she's staying there. I've got nowhere better to be than standing guard.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—Ghost checking in.
"Status?" I answer without preamble.
"Operation complete. Building's toast. We've got Popov at the compound for questioning. He's being surprisingly talkative already."
"Good." The thought of what that Russian bastard did to Luna makes my blood boil. "Any sign of Kovalev?"
"Negative, but chatter suggests he already knows it was us. We're expecting retaliation. Might need to go into lockdown."
Lockdown means all members on club property, no one in or out without direct approval from Ghost. It means dangerous times ahead.
"Understood."
"Your woman safe?”
"For now." I scan the street, hyperaware of potential threats lurking in shadows. "But I'm not taking chances."
Ghost is silent for a moment. "Brother, be careful. Kovalev's going to be looking for payback. Anyone connected to us is a potential target."
The implication is clear—if word of my interest in Luna gets out, it might paint a bullseye on her back.
“Yeah. I’ll hang here for a while and keep an eye out,” I say, my eyes fixed on Luna's darkened window.
Ghost sighs, knowing better than to argue. We both know exactly what my words mean—that I intend to protect what’s mine. And heaven help anyone who tries to come between us—be it a Russian gangster, a street gang, or a tiny, fierce grandmother with a deadly aim.