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Broken Songbird (Vicious Games #2) 30. Chapter 30 70%
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30. Chapter 30

I flex my hand, revelling in the pain radiating through it as I admire the damage my fist has caused this guy’s face.

I don’t even remember why I started wailing on him, but it felt good to feel something other than sharp panicked agony.

She’s been gone for twenty-six hours, and we’re not any closer to finding her.

Fury burns in my chest—I remember who this piece of shit is. He’s a Navarro lackey, refusing to cooperate. I home in on him strapped to the chair in front of me and close my fist, ready to deliver more ‘encouragement’, but a loud cracking sound ricochets through the room and he’s suddenly dead.

I turn to my right, sneering at Enzo, who’s holstering his gun.

“Take a kill from me again, and I will end your miserable existence,” I promise.

Fury blazes in his blue eyes as he pulls out his gun again. I palm my own—I’m not dumb enough to think fists will win in a gunfight.

Father Michael is by his side in a blink, grabbing his arm. “Enough.”

We glare at each other for a few more seconds before we both back down, holstering our weapons.

After he trashed the poker table yesterday, Enzo has been on a rampage ever since. He interrogated the Belluccis, making more of an enemy of Salvatore, who took it as a grave insult, and then added more to their precarious relationship by promising a wrath they’ve never seen if they didn’t get the fuck out of Melbourne immediately.

I’d had the same thought about the Belluccis as well since their timing was mighty convenient, but Phantom recognised the Navarro’s favoured murder method of throat-slitting on Lucas.

Rage bursts through my body again. Scarlett was subjected to that violence, had to see her friend lose his life, and her sister be dragged away by thugs. She’s also gone.

“Someone get this piece of shit out of my sight,” Enzo barks as he paces the room.

We both went from Luxuria directly to Dragone’s half-built new restaurant. We’re in the same clothes as yesterday, running on no food, micro-sleep, and fury.

All three organisations—Dragone, Herrington, and Savage Wings—are working to find the women, but despite the bodies piling up, we aren’t any closer to locating them.

Before I think too much about that and start lashing out, I focus back on what’s going on around me.

Michael has been here since we have, coordinating Herrington’s men, ‘henchmen’ as Scarlett calls them, since Enzo is trigger-happy with anyone who doesn’t give him the answer he wants. The answer we all want: a location of our women.

Two of Enzo’s men handle the body on Michael’s command and then he turns his attention back to Enzo.

It’s an odd sensation seeing Michael dress in anything other than his priest garb. He’s in a black T-shirt, showcasing way more muscle than I thought he had, and the burn scarring I’ve seen peeking out from his collar extends more than I thought, going down one arm, stopping just before his elbow.

The khaki cargo pants and black combat boots remind me of the army veteran that he is. I’ve found out in the last twenty-four hours that he and Lucas go back to their army days. Lucas had been Michael’s superior in whatever secret team they were in together.

“We need them to talk before you kill them,” Michael says to Enzo.

“He knew nothing,” Enzo spits, continuing to pace.

Michael folds his arms across his chest. “You don’t know—”

“He knew nothing ,” Enzo barks. “He was useless.”

“You need to get a hold of yourself,” Michael admonishes. “We won’t get anywhere if you—”

Enzo stops abruptly, pivoting sharply to Michael. Wrath and the promise of endless violence pour off him with such intensity that I wince, and I’m not even in his warpath. Michael, the crazy bastard, doesn’t even blink.

“The smallest bit of information will get us somewhere,” Michael says calmly. “You know this.”

“Not good enough,” Enzo declares.

“We won’t find Del—”

Enzo launches at Michael, his fist cracking across his face. He doesn’t go down; instead, he blocks the next blow and returns his own. I let them have at it, but then Enzo pulls a knife, which triggers me, Hawk, two of Enzo’s men, and two of Dragone’s to jump in and pull them apart.

The two henchmen, along with Hawk and his impressive size, hold back Enzo, who’s still trying to charge at Michael knife-first, as I eventually wrestle the weapon from his hand, and take his gun while I’m at it.

He’s feral—shirt ripped, blood pouring out of his nose and from the split in his lip, and blue eyes raging with the promise of death.

I slap him across the face. “Hey!”

He pulls out of the rage-hole enough to move his attention from Michael to me.

“I get it,” I say. “But killing the priest won’t get us closer to our women.”

“I will kill everyone until I get her back,” he growls.

“Yeah, and then Del is going to be pissed that you’ve offed half the city in a temper-tantrum,” I counter.

That seems to switch some of his systems back online. He visibly relaxes, and the henchmen tentatively pull away. After another beat, Hawk releases Enzo from his hold and steps back.

Enzo takes a breath, smoothing down the front of his shirt, the rage in his eyes dialling down to a simmer.

Then he clocks me in the face.

I laugh, pain radiating through my cheek. “Asshole.”

“My weapons,” he demands.

“Are you going—” I dart out of the way of another fist, laughing harder. I give the guy his weapons back.

I turn to see if Michael is good, but he’s already directing henchmen again, as he wipes blood from the cut through his brow.

The door from the kitchen suddenly bursts open, and everyone in the room pulls weapons.

Trojan, Enzo’s tech guy, has a laptop in one hand and a gun in the other. Trojan reminds me of Phantom in a lot of ways—he’s tall, lithe but clearly works out, wears wire-frame glasses and is deceptively lethal.

But where Phantom looks like a blonde scholarly type, Trojan has shaggy jet-black hair, the tips of the longer length dyed bright purple, and he has geometrical tattoos covering what skin I can see from the neck down to his fingertips. Instead of always having a book like Phantom, Trojan has headphones wrapped around his neck at all times.

“Jesus Christ,” he huffs, swinging his gun around the room, not knowing where to aim. He stalls at Michael. “Oh, sorry, Father.”

“You better be here for a reason,” Enzo barks.

Trojan turns his weapon and attention to his boss. “I found Scarlett.”

I drop my arm and charge toward Trojan. “Show me.”

He lowers his gun, everyone else doing the same in my periphery, and he winces, clutching his laptop closer to his chest. “It’s…not good.”

“Show me,” I bark.

He spins the device toward me.

For a second, I’m relieved to see a video of Scar—she’s breathing, alive , but then everything else crashes in almost immediately.

She’s covered in blood and filth, injuries all over her body. She’s standing against a wall, arms behind her back, probably bound, and she’s favouring one leg, the one that doesn’t have a soiled, makeshift bandage around the thigh made from rags and duct tape. She’s crying, shaking, terrified .

Then the website’s intention registers.

A countdown with twenty-eight minutes remaining.

A monetary amount beneath the time tallies up rapidly.

‘Lot number 42177.”

It’s an auction.

A live auction.

For my woman.

My whole body bursts with heat, the barely contained fury coursing through my veins with such a ferocity that I’m shaking.

“Do you have a location?” I hazily hear someone ask behind me.

“It’s on your phones,” Trojan says.

I turn sharply and head for my bike. The image of Scar burned into my brain.

The depth of Enzo’s wrath is nothing compared to the absolute carnage this city is about to feel.

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