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Book One in The Saints' Brotherhood Series
DEVIL
He was a Saint. He was the Devil. But even the Devil has a weakness.
Frank Bellinor, codename Devil.
Ruthless, merciless, and anything but nice.
He was a man haunted by his demons, by his past. Being the Saints Brotherhood’s personal Devil, he used it to his advantage.
Nothing has been able to quiet the screams in his head, until he met her.
* * *
She became a Saint. She was an Angel. But even an Angel can fall.
Charlie Malatesta.
Affectionate, fearless, and anything but evil.
She was a woman running from her past, from her trauma. Being the sister of the leader to a motorcycle club came in handy when her life depended on it.
Nothing has been able to make her feel safe, until she met him.
* * *
They came from two different worlds, with demons haunting their every corner.
He’s forced to allow someone into his sanctuary, and she’s forced herself to be worthy.
No one could’ve prepared them for the saving they’d do for each other.
No one could’ve prepared them for the betrayal and fight they’d endure for each other.
Will the Devil overcome his demons and allow himself happiness? Will an Angel find her wings again and fight for who she loves? Or will they allow their pasts to consume them?
A slow-burn, opposites attract romance.
PROLOGUE
EAGLE
I watched everything happen right before my eyes, completely paralyzed. A black SUV came hauling around the corner, screeching to a stop right in front of me, in front of my bike. Mustang’s—my loves—hands hugged around my torso tightly, clutching my leather jacket like her life depended on it, and it did. The backseat window of that car rolled down and a gun came pointing out. I didn’t have time to think or react, my feet stuck and frozen in place, my entire life, my life with her, flashing before my eyes. The gun fired multiple shots at me and the love of my life, Mustang. One of them hit me in the shoulder, the rest hit her. I was in shock, and the bike was falling over, and I tried desperately to see who was in the car, to see something, but I couldn’t.
The ringing in my ear stopped and I began shouting, realizing the situation, and moving with haste. “Mustang!” I shouted, lifting the bike, but she remained on the pavement. I jumped off quickly, my bike falling over in the opposite direction, but I was too focused on her and the blood pooling around her, like a red snow-angel. I knelt down quickly, grabbing her gently, my body rigid and shaking from the panic that rose within.
“No, no, no, no,” I begged over and over again, looking at the two gunshot wounds in her side and the one right in her thigh. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I can fix this. You’re okay, just look at me! Keep your eyes open!” I said quickly, trying to apply pressure to her wounds. My hands were shaking, trembling too much to be useful, and I knew, I knew just from the sight of her wounds that I couldn’t save her.
She knew that too, god, she knew. She grabbed my hands, slowly but surely, holding them in hers, stopping me from doing anything more.
The blood was gushing out from three different gunshot wounds, I couldn’t apply pressure to all of them, I knew, and the more I tried the more blood came gushing out, pooling around my hands.
“It’s okay,” she said, smiling at me. “I’m glad it was you.” I searched in her eyes, trying to figure out why, why. “It’s okay,” she continued, and the tears came gushing out of me, pouring down my face one after another. “Not even the great Doctor Eagle can fix this,” she said, her voice fading. “Take care of Ryan, my weeping man.”
The memory of that day was forever burned into my brain. The events always unfolding on nights I couldn’t sleep, consuming every thought and every moment of silence I had. Days had blended together for months after that. I attended her funeral with our son, Ryan, the young boy we adopted together, raised together, realizing just how much my life was going to change.
I remembered staring down at her headstone, the words carved into marble; Mustang Malatesta-Deasun. A free-spirit, one with the wind. Loving wife and mother.
We had barely spent any time together, barely dipping into the forever we had promised each other. I couldn’t be strong like she was, I couldn’t raise our son on our own, I couldn’t breathe without her. Ryan grieved but he had the support of the new era of Saints, all of whom were very close to him in age, to help keep him going.
I lost myself. I felt as if I died with Mustang that night. The pain had pushed me away from my son. I was broken and tethered, barely hanging onto anything, my shattered heart fragile, more pieces falling off as I tried to get by. I was ready to leave this place and join her, wherever she was, so we could continue forever, so I could be with her, hold her, tell her how much I love her.
I almost did it, too. I was ready, walking to the beach with my gun fully loaded in my pocket, the moon shining and the breeze calm, just like that night. However, on my walk to my own-decided death, that was when I found him.
I was drained and lifeless, barely moving my feet in the direction of the ocean, when I heard something from the alleyway just a few shops down from the club’s bar.
“Just ignore it,” I grumbled to myself. “Just a rat. We can’t be late meeting Mustang, we can’t.”
But then I heard whimpering, a very faint and quiet whimpering, sounding very much like a child. I fought with myself to continue walking, to head straight to the beach and finish what I was planning to do, but I couldn’t. “Eagle, you dumbass,” I snapped to myself. “It’s probably just some homeless man tryna trick a sorry muck like yourself into coming down a dark alleyway alone to mug ya.”
Maybe he’ll do me a favor and kill me, do the job for me.
Detouring, I turned down the alleyway, walking carefully, looking around dumpsters and piles of trash, searching for the source of the whimpering I’d heard. I continued walking, my hands in my pockets, looking high and low and finding absolutely nothing. Turning to leave, I heard another rustle and stopped dead in my tracks.
“Someone down there?” I called, using the single street light at the entrance into the alleyway as my only guidance, but it wasn’t enough for me to pinpoint where the noise was coming from. I heard more rustling and continued down the alleyway. “Hello?” I called a little louder this time.
That’s when I found him. A child curled into a ball in the smallest patch of light, shivering and covering their head. I looked around, blinking a few times, completely shocked to find an actual child alone and not that far from the clubhouse. I looked down at him, squinting my eyes in the dim lighting, however, my eyes quickly widened at the sight before me. The child had tattoos covering both arms and legs, the tops of his bare feet, and every other part of him that wasn’t covered by clothes.
I knelt down, trying to look the child in the face but they were hiding under their dirt-covered, tattoo ridden arms. “Hey, where’s your parents?”
Nothing. Not a single noise.
“Hey,” I snapped. “Did you hear me? Where’s your family, kid?”
The child didn’t move, let alone speak.
I sighed. “If you’re alone, then you shouldn’t be sleeping in an alleyway. Not like a dog.”
“But I am! I am a filthy stupid mutt!” the child suddenly shouted, showing the oversized, cloth mask that covered his face, with a large hole for his eyes, eyebrows, and bridge of his nose to be revealed, the rest hidden with a red skull’s jaw painted over the mouth portion, and red painted horns starting at the top of the head and wrapping around the back, curving around the ears.
I blinked a few times in confusion, completely shocked by not only the sight of the mask but the child’s—now identified as a young boy—sudden outburst. “And why might you be a mutt?”
The child faltered. He was silent for the longest time, his head hanging low, sad, tormented eyes down-turned. “Because I’m a demon.”
“But you said you were a mutt.”
“I am!”
“Which is it, then? Are you a demon or a mutt?”
“I killed my uncle.”
I was shocked, yet again, my eyes widening. “And why did you kill him?”
He said no words, his head falling yet again.
“Did he do this to you?” I said, touching his arm.
The boy jerked his arm away and pushed himself further into the brick wall out of fear. However, I remained calm, looking at him through the hole of the boy’s mask where his dark, devastating eyes were. “I won’t hurt you,” I said. “Did your uncle do this to you? Is that why you killed him?”
The boy gave the faintest of nods and I could feel my heart shatter even more than it already was. How could anyone do such a thing to a child? How could a child have been put through all of this and forced to kill his own uncle?
“How old are you, boy?”
“Twelve.”
My head fell back, and I silently asked God why, why did a child this young have to be put through something like this? Why did my love have to be taken from me? Why was he sending such a broken child my way? Why now?
But I knew. I knew I found this child for a reason. “Stand up boy,” I told him, standing to my full height, and holding my hand out for the boy to grab. He was hesitant, looking from his face to his hand, unsure and frightened. I sighed and knelt once again. “Let me tell you something boy,” I began, looking at him straight on. “My wife died not too long ago. I’ve been nothing but a mess this entire time and now I find you. A broken, tattooed-covered, twelve-year-old boy sitting in an empty alleyway, covered in dirt and grime and with the blood of his own uncle on his hands. Where I’m from, they’ll accept you. We’ve all got blood on our hands. We all have a past we’ve run from. You can live here. Safe. Free. Trust me, boy. What else have you got to lose?”
The boy sat there, deeply considering my words and, finally, took my hand and followed me back to the clubhouse.
I had looked back at the ocean, seeing the small, calm waves even from here, and shook my head, looking back down at the doy who was clutching my hand like his life depended on it, with that mask covering his face. This boy had saved him and he didn’t even know it. It was the push he needed to pick himself up and remember who he was. The Saint’s Brotherhood needed him, Ryan needed him, and now, this child needed him. Little did he know that boy would become the most lethal member the club would ever see.
Devil.
CHAPTER I
FRANK
Screams.
Slash!
The screams were endless.
“No!”
Slash!
Shrieking. Screeching.
“Frank! No!”
Slash!
“P-Please!”
So loud. So relentless.
“I’ll tell you anything!”
Bang!
It never ended.
“I beg you!”
Bang!
The same painful memories replayed every second of every day.
“Hang on, son!”
My mind was in constant chatter, screams echoing endlessly, filling my skull.
“Have mercy!”
Bang! Bang!
Screams of my past. Screams of the present. Screams of my demons.
“You’re a demon! The Devil!”
Slash! Bang!
Like the ringing in my ear but so loud, so overwhelming.
“D-Devil! Devil!”
Bang! Bang! Slash!
“Please, please! We told you everything!”
Bang!
Always the same chatter, the same voices.
“I love you, Frank…”
Slash! Slash!
Nothing seemed to quiet my mind anymore but, then again, there was nothing that ever could. The shouts and screams of agony, the screeching of torment and despair were so normal, like background noise, but always the same agonizing track stuck on repeat.
“D-D-Devil…I’ve told the Saints everything! Does Fury want money? Supplies? Anything?” the man before me begged, pleading with the Devil himself.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you…” I began, watching as he laid on the floor, staring at me with such fear in his eyes. “...not to make a deal…” his eyes were only getting wider, his entire body shaking with pure terror. I leaned down, closer to the mans’ face, my mask coming into full view. The man trembled even more, sweat pooling at his forehead, dripping down into his brow and unkempt facial hair. “...with the Devil.”
Every fiber of the man’s being, every ounce of him, trembled and shook as he watched me—watched the Devil—with eyes wide and filled with horror. My mask. He stared in my mask, into my death stare. The face of the Devil over the face of a man but I might as well have been the Devil.
“W-W-What do y-y-you wa-ant?” he sputtered, his voice quivering with the rest of his body. “What d-does Fury want?” he repeated, trying to find any hidden strength left within him, but to no avail. His body continued to shake and he continued to stare up at the Devil, horrified and afraid.
“An alliance.”
His eyes widened. “B-But…you’ve killed all my men! There’s no alliance to have!” he shouted, his face going extremely pale, sweat dripping off his nose and down his neck.
I stood to my full, towering height. The man’s breath hitched, getting caught in his throat as he fought the urge to gasp as how tall I was, how large I was. As if my height and physique wasn’t frightening enough, watching me slaughter all his men in a heartbeat and then having me stand right before him, prolonging the inevitability of his death, was.
“Then the Saints have no use for you,” I spoke, my voice deep, the threat reverberating off the emptiness of the warehouse and through his rib cage. As if he could shake anymore, he began sputtering silent begs, scooting away on the damp, blood-stained concrete floor. “And neither do I.”
“No! Devil!” was all the man screamed before I took one step back into the shadows, disappearing completely from sight.
I watched as he had stopped moving, the entire room going deathly silent with only the sound of his shallow, panting breaths. His eyes darted around the room, around the darkness, desperately searching, trying to find where I had disappeared to but I remained, standing right in front of him. I waited and I watched.
Watched as his face went from terror to relief, believing for a moment that I had spared him, leaving him there with what remained of his gang. Dead bodies, puddles of blood, and weapons that clattered to the ground without even being shot, equipment destroyed and in ruins. The slight scuff of my boot, however, had caused the fear to reenter his expression, and his eyes darted to where I emerged from the shadows, my mask the only thing peeking from the darkness.
“Consider this your retirement, Warren Anderson,” I began, my voice low and deep, like a demon coming from the depths of Hell, like Satan himself coming to do the punishing. “And the end of the Phantom Reapers MC.”
Warren Anderson’s soul-crushing fear returned, etched into his face, as he watched me lift my hand, throwing my long, thick hunting knife right at him. Stabbing him straight through the heart, piercing through bone and cartilage. Warren Anderson choked on his last breath, blood spewing out of his mouth, his nose. The last thing he saw was me, the Devil, approaching him and ripping the knife that caved into his chest, his heart, and turning away. Disappearing into the shadow just as I came.
Leaving the large warehouse building, I threw myself onto my matte-black Harley Davidson cruiser chopper, sheathing my knife back into its holster strapped around my thigh. I rolled my shoulders before roaring my bike to life, listening as it purred before speeding off, leaving nothing but a trail of dust and dead bodies in my wake.
It was just another mission. Just another task I was sent on by the President of the club I worked for, the club I was a part of, the club that was my life. Fury sent me on the mission, telling me precisely to, “Dispose of the trash up north. They’ve made themselves very comfortable on their little pedestal.” And I did. I went, I traveled the hour and a half long drive all the way to the Phantom Reapers MC headquarters and slaughtered every single one of them, not letting a single soul escape my wrath, my rage. It was a simple mission, just like every other one I’d been sent on. Now, I was traveling back to the club, blood thick on my hands and only dripping with each new mission, each soul I collected.
The drive was easy, weaving in and out of traffic, I made it back in less than an hour and a half and pulled up to the club’s bar. It was the club I worked for, killed for, and it was this club and the people in it that I owed my life to, for it was this club which saved my life when I was young and lost. The Saints Brotherhood. I was a Saint. I was the Devil.
The buildings the club owned were right next to each other on the main street of their little town, one of them had the bar on the first floor and small apartments on the levels above for many of the members to stay and live and the large building beside it was the Garage. The club’s personal auto-shop, my auto-shop and home.
I removed myself from my bike, standing to my full, mountainous height, many pedestrians picking up their pace or staring at me with pure, utter terror. I took the few short steps and entered the bar, the room going silent as the Devil had emerged. They watched me, watched their brother, with careful eyes. It wasn’t that they feared me, they’d been around me long enough to get used to my intimidating presence, but they always watched me, my movements, searched my body for wounds or injuries to tell if I succeeded or not. However, even if I did walk through those doors covered in wounds and gushing blood, they would still Know I succeeded. They watched me as I moved, the way I walked, searching for anything that wasn’t normal for the Devil—as much as they didn’t want to see me covered in wounds—they were more fearful of me returning from a mission…upset.
Crossing the bar, I gave a single nod towards the Irish Bartender—Ryan—one of the few men I grew up with in the club. He gave me a curt nod back, offering me a small smirk. “Got a drink waitin’ for ye when ye done, sir Frankie,” he called, a grunt escaping past my lips—muffled by my mask—at the nickname he gave me, the same one he always called me, ever since we were young.
“Where’s Fury.”
Ryan nodded to the left of me, his eyes staring in the direction of the small office that was down the hall of the bar where Fury, their President, did all of his work. “He’s been on phone calls all day, since ye left. Ain’t been out-a-once.” I let out a deep exhale and turned away from the bar, Ryan stopping me before I could disappear. “Did ye have to wipe ‘em out?”
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, nodding my head.
“I mean, did it even have to end that way? They were ann ally—”
“Ah! Frank!” called Fury, emerging from his office and approaching him with quick steps. “Just the man I was hoping to see tonight before I turned in,” he said, clapping his hands together once. He smiled triumphantly, proudly, at me like a coach approaching his star quarterback son who made the greatest play of his entire life. Compared to me, Fury was much slimmer, half the size of me in mass, and nearly a foot shorter. He was always clad in dark blue jeans, thick, steel toed boots on his feet, and always a black, tightly-fitted t-shirt. He had long, dirty blonde hair that was slicked back with grease in a low ponytail, his beard fully blonde and nearly blending into the tan on his face, and his deep, dark brown eyes almost always seemed lifeless, soulless. “Just as always, you return without a single scratch on ya. I gotta say, I still don’t know how you do it,” Fury started, placing a hand on my shoulder.
He pulled me away from the bar, lowering his voice as he spoke to me. “I’m going to assume—if I know you well enough by now—the mission is done?”
Again, I only gave a nod.
Another smile spread over Fury’s face, like he was the Cheshire Cat. He patted my shoulder happily. “Good, good. Never had any doubts, man.”
Fury and I also grew up together. When I showed up at the club at the age of twelve, Fury, Ryan and Cobra were all there and around my age, and it was these three who welcomed me the most into the club, showing me the ropes for everything. The first friends I ever had and the only childhood friends I’d ever count.
“I can only imagine the mess you left behind,” Fury said, placing his hands on his hips, looking up into my mask, not at my eyes. “You never fail me.”
I said nothing. I stood there, staring down at the man I followed, the man I took orders from, the man I called my best friend.
“What ‘tya been on calls for all day, hm? You got a hot date with someone?” Ryan called, cleaning one of the whiskey glasses with a rag, looking at the two of us as we both turned towards him.
Fury smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been on the phone with my sister.”
Ryan’s eyes widened slightly, his brows shooting upward. “Sister?”
“Since when did you have a sister, boy?” Your mama ain’t never mentioned nothin’ bout a daughter,” said the Vice President, Eagle. He was the last of the previous generation of Saints, and he was Ryan’s adoptive father.
I admired Eagle more than anyone else, but it was an admiration I kept between only me and the man himself, because it was him who brought me here, who gave me the life I had today. I reached a hand out, Eagle and I grabbing each other’s forearms, his other hand reaching up and patting my arm warmly, smiling at me. “You always come back from those missions like you didn’t do a damn thing, boy,” he said, the two of us dropping our handshake, Eagle still smiling at me. “Glad to see you back, son.”
“To answer your question—” Fury chimed in, clearing his throat. “Yes, I do have a sister. Long-lost, I’d say. She’s managed to find me, she’s coming to join the club.”
“Now, Fury. We witness before newcomers just enter the club. What’s all this about your sister coming to just join without a witness?” Eagle asked, his brows furrowed.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Eagle. I don’t have time for any of that. This is my sister we’re talking about. My sister,” Fury snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“These are rules Saints follow, sacred laws. They ain’t just thrown out like nothin’,” Eagle challenged, his brows now downturned and arched, anger and annoyance spreading his features.
“What are you assholes fussing about over here?” spoke Cobra, the missing piece left in the original group. He was a tall, burly man as well, his skin golden tanned and his hair black and slightly long, with a thick, black mustache atop his lip. He grabbed the glass of whiskey that had been poured for me and threw it back, sighing loudly at the burn. “Always such a pleasure to be around you guys. What’s the argument about this time?”
“Fury has a sister,” Ryan said.
I crossed my thick, muscled arms over my broad chest, making my entire appearance seem even larger than it already was.
Cobra’s brows shot up.
“And apparently, she’s going to join the club without a witness first,” Eagle chimed in.
Cobra’s eyes widened now, his attention turning to Fury, the biggest grin stretching his face. “Is your sister as dazzling and pretty as you are, Fury?”
Fury shot him a warning glare.
“More importantly, Fury—” Eagle cut off, stopping him before he could say a snarky comment back to Cobra. “We witness first.”
“She’s my sister,” Fury snapped again, taking a step towards Eagle.
My hand shot out, grabbing a hold of Fury’s shoulder tightly, pushing him back and away from Eagle, giving him a warning glare, my eyes speaking volumes. “We witness first,” I snapped, letting go of Fury’s shoulder aggressively.
Fury glared at me but stepped down. “Fine. We will witness tomorrow. She won’t be here for a few more days,” he said, dusting his shoulder off where I grabbed him. “Oh, and one more thing, Frank,” he started before turning away. “She’s gonna be working in the Garage.”
Fury turned and walked away, not seeing as my vision had turned red and I tried to lunge for him, both Eagle and Cobra grabbing an arm each, stopping me from going after him.
“It’s alright, Frank. It ain’t worth it,” Eagle said, both of the men slowly slacking their grip on me until they fully let go.
“Yeah, Frankie. It’s all good. It might even do ya some good to have a woman close by,” Cobra commented, raising a mischievous brow at him, flashing him a smirk.
“No, it won’t,” I snapped, my voice deepening, the Saints Devil emerging, resurfacing. The two men backed away from me and I let out a quiet growl before stalking out of the bar and going next door to the Garage. I entered through the garage doors as they were rolled up, four cars sitting inside, each at different stages in their repairing process.
I walked all the way to the back of the room where the large wall of tools and supplies were as well as toolboxes, cages with tires, and other shelves with car parts, and went to the staircare in the back corner of which led up to my home on the second floor.
“Frank! Hey, man! I didn’t know you were back,” Drake, one of the youngest members in the club and the only one that I allowed to work in the Garage, said. “What happened? You look pissed. Did the mission end badly?”
“No, it didn’t,” was all I said as I marched up the metal stairs and disappeared completely.