Broken Songbird (Vicious Games #2)

27. Chapter 27

L ucas picks me up from my apartment on the way to get Del from school. He makes me drive, and I’m pretty sure Del’s brain does a full reboot seeing me in the driver’s seat.

Lucas acknowledges someone sitting in a car, a henchman, I presume, as I pull out of the school parking lot and head toward our destination.

Our family friend Bastille demanded we visit a small wedding boutique in one of Melbourne’s eclectic inner northern suburbs. Surprisingly, Del didn’t protest at the last-minute excursion.

Despite the several attempts of disruption to our lives, me, Del, and the event manager Stacey, have been planning a beautiful wedding, and I think Del might actually be looking forward to it. At least a fraction.

She’s finally worked out she has full control over the entire event, and that’s opened her up to the possibility of enjoying the celebration.

But what she doesn’t have control of right now is this car.

“I never thought I’d see the day Scarlett Sakura would do a hook-turn,” she comments from the backseat.

“She does it better than you,” Lucas says in such a casual tone that I take a second before bursting out laughing.

We’re going to a boutique called BLC , run by a fabulous woman named Dahlia. She’s booked out for years and going to Europe for Paris fashion week in two days, but she squeezed us in on Bastille’s request. It also helps that it’s for the Herrington wedding, which is the event everyone wants to be involved with.

The place is a two-storey, red brick building in a small laneway with ivy growing up the walls, and a shiny, blue door. It takes a few times around the block to find parking, but I find a spot a short walk one lane over from the store.

We’re greeted by a pretty, petite blonde with a cute smile at the door. She leads us through a modern, bright store with a courtyard in the middle of the building and soft furnishings. We walk past rows of dresses, up the stairs, and down a narrow hall into a lavish bridal suite in the back.

“Dahlia will be with you momentarily,” she says as she pours me and Del each a flute of pink champagne and then leaves, passing Lucas by the door in the hallway.

Del takes a liberal sip of her drink as she slowly tracks around the room, looking at the glittering hair accessories and shoes in glass cabinets by the large mirrors.

“Why are you nervous?” I ask, perching on one of the two black loveseats in front of the small podium.

She stops, turning quickly to me. “I’m not nervous.”

“You’re pacing, babe,” I point out and then tap the spot next to me.

She sighs and crosses over, sitting down with a huff. “I don’t like it.”

“What ‘it’ exactly?”

Her nose crinkles as she gestures around. “The finery.”

I snort into my glass. “You’re marrying a Herrington, Del. It was inevitable.”

She frowns. “I don’t think I want a wedding.”

I regard her. When something lavish comes up in this wedding process, Del’s immediate reaction is to balk at the idea, but we usually give her a moment or a day to come to terms with it, and then she’s good. But something about the way she reaches for her neck as if to worry a necklace makes right now feel differently.

“Have you told Enzo that?” I ask.

Her eyes dart down to her bubbling pink drink. “I don’t want him to think I don’t want to marry him. Because I do, but…”

I reach over and take her hand, twining our fingers, giving them a soft squeeze.

She looks up at me, her clear, green eyes brimming with so much sadness. “He’ll be alone up there,” she whispers. “It doesn’t feel right without Matteo by his side.”

My eyes sting with unshed tears, my ribs squeezing a little. “I know, babe. I know.”

We sit there in silence for a few moments as Teo’s absence tries to shadow this moment that should be filled with light. He would hate that.

I inhale a calming breath, take a sip of my drink, and turn to my best friend. “He would have insisted he came today, flirted with that cute blonde at the front, then made you try on the sluttiest dress he could find.”

Del’s eyes soften as she smiles. “He would have definitely made sure I was one wrong breath away from my nipples saying hello.”

We giggle together and clink glasses, taking a sip of our drinks as a tall, statuesque woman dressed in black glides into the suite.

Del and I stand, and the woman reaches for Del’s free hand, cradling it in both of hers. “You must be Delphine, the future Mrs. Herrington. I’m Dahlia.”

“Just Del. You have a lovely store.”

Dahlia leans forward and presses her cheek to each of Del’s, kissing the air as to not get her red lipstick on Del. “Thank you, my darling.” She releases Del and turns to me. “And you must be Miss Scarlett Sakura.”

I nod with a smile. “That’s me.”

We exchange air kisses and then she waves an elegant hand at the door behind her, triggering three women to push in racks of clothes. “Bastille has told me all about the both of you, so I have pulled a collection that would suit your styles.”

The next two hours fly by with champagne, laughter and a mountain of clothes. We discover ‘BLC’ is not just a witty play on Black Dahlia, but also stands for ‘Bridal, Lingerie, and Couture,’ and Dahlia had an abundance of options on all three for the both of us.

Del never once stopped smiling, enjoying being doted on, even so far as to invite Dahlia to the wedding. Watching the beautifully composed Dahlia trip over her words at the honour of being invited to a Herrington soiree was incredible.

Del and I both have compiled a collection of options we liked but didn’t feel like we found ‘the one’, so we confirm plans with Dahlia to meet again after her trip to Europe, from which she promises a selection directly from the runway.

The sun has gone down as we leave, stumbling out of BLC arm-in-arm, a little buzzed and giddy, with Lucas trailing behind us as we make our way back toward the car.

“So…” Del draws out the word, and I know what she’s about to ask. “How is everything with Creed?”

I give her a sideways glance. “Really?”

“You’re always so vague. Must be serious.”

“When have I ever been vague in my life?”

Del smirks. “Exactly.”

“It’s… He has my name tattooed on him.”

Del stops us immediately, her black and magenta hair smacking me in the face as she whips around to face me. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” is all I can say.

“Since when?” she presses.

“Since… Matteo’s funeral.”

Del’s mouth hangs open in shock.

“He also gave me his patch,” I confess. “At the gala last Friday.”

I don’t think Del’s eyes could be wider. “Scarlett…”

I drop my head back and groan. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to do anything, he’s already claimed you,” she points out. “Permanently.”

“That’s crazy behaviour, is it not?” I ask, looking back at her. “I should be running, right?”

“Do you want to?” she asks.

“No, but…”

“What’s giving you pause?”

I twirl the end of my plait around my finger. “It’s so complicated. He was close to Teo. I was close to Teo. I’m sure we would have been something by now.”

Del frowns. “And…Creed holds that against you?”

“No. Never .”

She arches a brow. “Let me get this straight. You two fuck like rabbits—"

I smack her arm. “We have company .”

Del barks out a laugh. “Lucas has heard way worse.”

“She’s not wrong,” he mutters behind us.

“He’s old enough to be our father. Did you know he has a daughter?”

Del turns to Lucas. “You have a kid?”

“She’s distracting you, so she doesn’t have to talk about herself anymore,” Lucas points out.

“You’re right,” Del says, turning back to me, hooking her arm in mine. “So, the banging is good, and you accepted his patch, which you told me was a very significant thing to bikies. Plus, he makes soft-eyes at you when you’re not looking, so he’s definitely feeling things.”

“Soft-eyes?” I ask dryly.

“Enzo does it to Del all the time,” Lucas comments, making both of us look at him. I never thought I’d ever see the man bashful .

“Soft-eyes doesn’t mean feelings,” I say to the both of them.

Lucas tilts his head, his eyes narrowing like that’s bullshit and Del pats my forearm like I’m someone who just doesn’t get it.

I shove her, making her laugh, and then smack Lucas on the forearm. Del slings her arm across my shoulders. “You’re hopeless, Angel Face.”

“And violent,” Lucas adds.

“Yeah, so you both better watch it,” I sneer as I cross my arms over my chest.

Del kisses my cheek and steers me back toward the direction of the car. “Just admit that you’re into the man.”

I grind my teeth for a moment and then sigh. “Okay. Fine. I do.”

“That wasn’t hard, was it?” Del beams.

“Like pulling teeth,” Lucas comments behind us.

“You guys are the worst,” I laugh.

We turn the corner and walk halfway up the next street when I’m shoved sideways. I’m about to eat concrete, but strong arms wrap around me, and it’s all wrong .

The pungent, cloying cologne. The heavy breathing.

I start screaming, struggling in the iron grip around my arms and chest. The guy holding me grunts, spitting foreign words out as I kick wildly.

Tight, too tight. Trapped. I can’t breathe .

No, no I can. I take one breath, then another.

An inkling of Creed’s self-defence training kicks in—disorientation. I throw my head back as hard as I can while shoving my elbow back into his chest.

Pain bursts through my head as it connects with my assailant’s face; his grip loosens, and I fight the dizziness and pain to throw myself forward and I’m finally free. I fall hard on the pavement, scraping the skin on my arms and thigh as I roll away, trying to orient myself. The sound around me bursts—Del is screaming, struggling in the hold of two men, looking down at…

I choke on a sob.

Lucas.

He’s still. Too still.

Even in this low light, I can see the slow-growing pool of blood from the slash across his throat.

No. Not Lucas.

Henriette.

Her name repeats over and over in my head as more shouts in a foreign tongue draw my attention. I look up at a guy with blood pouring out of his nose and rage in his dark eyes. Before I can scramble away, he reaches down and grips my upper arm hard, then backhands me across the face.

White spots dance in my vision as the man wrenches my arms behind me. He tapes my wrists together with thick tape as I try to blink the tears out of my eyes and ignore the throbbing pain in the side of my face.

“… teléfono ?” one of the others says as my vision clears.

I feel a hand grabbing at my ass, my hip, sliding further down—I scream. A hand clamps over my mouth, and I bite it, gagging at the acrid, salty taste.

“Puta,” he growls into my ear as his hand tightens over my mouth, blocking my nose. Now I actually can’t breathe.

My lungs scream for oxygen as he pulls me backwards. I see Del’s thrashing shape being dragged along by two other men in my rapidly hazy vision. I lose my footing, dangerously close to passing out, but my assailant takes all my weight and continues to drag me.

A sob gets lodged in my throat—I’m about to pass out, and I can’t stop it.

As I feel unconsciousness pulling me in, the world tilts and I land hard on my back on cold metal. The shock of the pain and temperature jolts me into a hacking cough as I take in lungfuls of air. My brain registers I’m in the back of a van when hands grab at my thighs, and I kick but get nowhere as someone holds my legs down and feels around until they pull out my phone from my jean shorts pocket.

I hear the clatter of my phone on pavement before Del is tossed into the van next to me with a hard thunk , and then the three men climb in beside us and close the back doors. Two of them sit by our feet between us and the doors, and another disappears out of my sight behind me as the van lurches and pulls onto the street.

Kidnapped.

Del and I are being fucking kidnapped .

I turn my head to Del; as her angry green eyes glare at the two men at our feet, I do a visual assessment. She has a small cut in her eyebrow, her T-shirt is filthy, and her jeans are ripped at the knee, but she’s otherwise unharmed.

I take a catalogue of myself—my arms hurt from the tape, and I have minor gravel rash on my legs, but they aren’t bleeding that much.

The blood brings back vivid images of Lucas lying on the sidewalk, and I let out a quiet sob.

“Scar,” Del whispers.

“Lucas?” I whisper back.

Her lip trembles, and she nods, understanding my unspoken question.

Lucas is dead.

Tears stream down my face, but I hold back the full sobbing burning in my chest, not wanting to draw any further attention from our assailants.

I peek at them, rage mixing in with the sorrow. These assholes killed Lucas and took us off the street. Why?

The two men are speaking low to each other, in a language I don’t know, but if I had to guess, it’s Spanish. The only person who would be bold enough and stupid enough to do this would be Adrian. My eyes flick back to Del, and from the rage emanating off her I think she’s come to the same conclusion.

Enzo is going to raze this city to the ground.

My heart stammers as honey-brown eyes and dimples flash in my mind. Creed is going to lose it. This is the first outing I’ve had without him since the incident on Matteo’s birthday. Come to think of it, it’s the first outing me and Del have been on without a secondary escort.

Creed would take me to school every day, leaving Heartbreaker or Phantom on campus until I was done, and I know Del had the same with Enzo or Lucas and another henchman.

They’ve been watching us.

I turn to Del again, trying to think of a way to communicate with her, when one of the men steps toward us. Instinctually, I kick out, getting him in the shin.

“Puta madre,” he growls, then backhands me again hard across the face.

I taste iron as my vision swims, then everything goes dark. My chest squeezes and I blink desperately. It’s just from the hit, my vision will come back.

I breathe harder, finally registering the rough fabric rubbing against my face. Fibres are getting in my mouth, and I cough.

Can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

Too dark. I need light.

I’m trapped.

I need help.

I can’t. Fucking. Breathe .

Out.

Out.

Someone let me out.

“Scar,” I hear faintly, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. “Scar!”

Someone is screaming.

Other people are shouting.

And I still can’t breathe.

Something hard crashes into my side, pain bursting through my ribs.

Then, I’m lost.