Broken Songbird (Vicious Games #2)

17. Chapter 17

E ach step away from her is by sheer will. If I turn around, I’m skipping church, slinging Scar over my shoulder, taking her to my room, and convincing her to be mine.

I enter the club room, shut the door behind me firmly, and round to the seat at the head of the table. It’s a custom-made fourteen-seater made from thick dark walnut wood which had an angel wing cut out of the centre and filled with black epoxy resin, mirroring the patch we all have sewn into the right side of our cut.

As I sit, Two-Shot goes around with a lockbox, which only I have the combination for, collecting everyone’s phones, including mine. He closes the lid and heads for the door. Once he’s patched into Savage, he’ll be able to sit in on church.

“Prospect,” I call as Two-Shot reaches the door.

He stops and turns, dark eyes regarding me evenly, as he waits for instruction. Better than the fear that would fill him every time I called his name when he first started. He’s done well in the last year.

“If you hit on Scarlett, you’re going to the farm,” I say with every ounce of menacing authority I possess. “Got it?”

That old fear comes flooding back, his tanned face paling as he nods vehemently. “Yes, Pres.”

He scurries out of the room fast , and the brothers around the table break out in thunderous laughter.

“Jesus, Creed, I think he almost shit himself,” Bull says as the sound quietens again.

I eye every man around the table. “That goes for all you fuckers, too. Scarlett is not on the roster. Ever. ”

“You’re just worried I’ll win her over,” Heartbreaker says with irritating ease as he sits back with a shit-eating grin.

“Remember what I said about bleeding you out,” I warn.

“She your old lady?” Darwin asks.

He and Bull are the oldest in our club, both already senior patched members when I was a prospect. Despite both of them declining the presidency of the club the night of the raid, we all still rely on their years in the club when making any decisions.

“Not yet,” I declare. Those two simple words hit the brothers more than my threats of death or dismemberment, and they all give me a nod of understanding. Scarlett is mine.

“Two-Shot,” I say, moving on with this meeting. “Patch?” I ask and raise my hand.

Every man around the table raises their hand almost immediately.

“Excellent, I want to do it soon. Bull, Flash, can you ask your lovely wives when the best time will be for them for a patch party?”

Both men chuckle and nod. Chrome, our last President, ran a very traditional hierarchy in the club—the brothers handled club business, and the women handled the men and clubhouse.

Some brothers definitely took advantage of their place; that pissed me off more times that I can count. I ended up in a few fist fights over their poor treatment of the women, which didn’t make me many friends in the brothers.

When I took on president, I was hellbent on wiping out that whole hierarchy, but the brothers and the women that were left after the raid were used to the life, so I compromised.

Respect everyone in the club. Their words were gospel. Any mistreatment of anyone would mean exile or a trip to the farm.

Besides, Rita had been handling the clubhouse and wing-riders for forty-some years; she was ready to throw hands if I took that status away from her. And now that role is slowly transitioning to Maya, who has the same tenacity to keep wing-riders and the brothers in line.

“How did disposal go?” I direct toward Hawk and Phantom.

Hawk rolls his shoulders. “Old Man Fred is happy with the cash boost. His pigs were happy with their feed.”

Old Man Fred owns a pig farm three hours out of the city in the middle of nowhere, Victoria. None of us are really sure on whether he used to be a Savage, but he and his father have been the club’s preferred disposal system since a group of brothers from the mother chapter came to settle in Melbourne in the seventies.

We give him some cash, and he lets us feed our trash to his pigs.

“This is why I don’t eat pork,” Heartbreaker comments under his breath as he types on his laptop. That laptop’s been fortified by Enzo’s man, Trojan, and the only device allowed at church.

“Speaking of,” I direct at him. “How’s the Piggy Bank?”

Heartbreaker sighs. “Cash-wise, we’re fine for a long while. But that’s about to take a massive hit with the bar and shop refurb. It’ll then balance out when the insurance pays us, but we’re stagnant for profit.”

I turn to Hammer and Darwin. They run point with the network of dealers and spend a lot of time over at the warehouses.

“The concern is keeping the clientele and our dealers,” Hammer says. “We need a new shipment of good product in the next month, maybe six weeks, but that’s a stretch, or clients will move on, and the dealers will find another supplier.”

I knew this was going to happen at some point. We aren’t the only network that’s affected. Adrian fucked up most of Melbourne’s drug trade, but most other networks aren’t selective about where they get their product, as long as they have something to sell.

Herrington and Dragone have always been intentional in the way they run business. That’s why they’re the most successful, and that makes this a precarious situation. If they lose their spot on top, the empire crumbles, and they’ll be targeted by people wanting to be at the top of the food chain.

Honestly, I admire them—our club has seen what happens when you make a shitty deal with other syndicates, and we paid for it with blood.

I won’t let that happen again.

“What about Rambo’s suppliers?” Heartbreaker asks.

My eyes inadvertently drift to Phantom at the mention of his old Pres. He’s gone deathly still. Hawk and Ink glance at him as well, but the other brothers are looking at me.

“Rambo deals mostly crank and weed,” I say. “If he has access to coke, it’ll be shittier quality than what we got recently.”

“True,” Heartbreaker says.

“Herrington has something in the works,” I say to the brothers. “But you know what he’s like. He won’t confirm shit until it’s already in motion.”

“I’m still surprised he didn’t kill Dragone,” Bull says.

I nod. He almost did; it took me, Father Michael, and Del to talk him down.

“To dump Dragone is to make a huge crime syndicate your enemy,” I say. “That’s worse for business. And I’m pretty sure Dragone felt Herrington’s wrath when he demanded another profit cut from him.”

A round of winces and agreement circles the table. We don’t want the mob after us.

“Do we have any more news about the Navarro assholes?” I ask the table.

“Trojan called to confirm the two from tonight were on the harbour,” Ink states. “Looks like they were staking out the place before deciding to play stalker.”

“Anything from the phones?”

“Not yet,” Ink says. “Trojan said something about having to rewrite his code to analyse Spanish.”

“So, give him another hour?” I ask sarcastically.

Ink doesn’t smile, but he nods.

“Until we have something we can actively action, I want to keep the club on lockdown.”

The brothers all nod in agreement.

“Your kids, Bull?”

“Are all taking the grandkids on a trip to Perth to see their uncle,” he tells us. His brother is the VP of the Savage Wings’ Perth chapter.

“Good. Is there anything else that needs attention before we all pass out?”

“We still need another establishment to wash income,” Heartbreaker tells me, again .

“That has to go on a backburner until we fix the bike shop. But if anyone has ideas, pitch them at any time.”

The brothers grumble their approval. Now that everything's been addressed, that means I can get back to Scar. Anticipation heats my chest; having her here for the next week at least is my opportunity to work out the pretty puzzle that is Scarlett Sakura.

Biting back a grin, I stand and stretch. “Alright, hit the hay before AJ forces you to play video games with him all night.”