The Butcher of the Bay: Part I (Mounts Bay Saga Book 1)

by J Bree

  The Butcher of the Bay

  Part I

  J Bree

  Copyright © 2020 by J Bree

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To the monsters we all have hiding inside us.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Also by J Bree

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CONTINUE READING FOR AN EXCEPT FROM

  Also by J Bree

  Prologue

  Prologue

  Illi

  There are many places I’d rather be at 2am on a Saturday morning than the shitty forest at the edge of Mounts Bay.

  There’s more skeletons in this place than all the fucking cemeteries in the state combined, easily. There isn’t a cop in the Bay that would set foot in this place without a gun pressed against the back of their skull. That should make it my kind of place but the posturing bullshit that comes with the Twelve means I fucking loathe it.

  There’s a crunching noise, the kind where there’s no coming back from, and my eyes drift back to the clearing as the jeering and shouts die down.

  Well fuck.

  I was kinda hoping the kid would have a little less backbone but there she is. Her hands are still dripping in blood and the rock she used to bash the other guy’s head in is laying at her feet, glistening with his blood and brain matter.

  The shift in their minds is like a tangible thing as an uneasy sort of respect ripples through the crowd. She isn’t one of them anymore. Nah, she’s something else entirely now.

  I watch as D’Ardo speaks to the little girl, all formal and shit as if he isn’t some little street urchin who grew up and stole a black crown of his own. When she tips her head back and claims herself to be the Wolf a savage grin spreads across my face. She sure has some fucking fire in her, how the hell her skinny little bones can contain it, is beyond me and shit, I hope that backbone is enough to get her through this life. If D’Ardo has anything to do with it, she'll be bound and broken in his bed in the next five years.

  I try not to think about my best friends' perversions and apparent enjoyment of young girls, reasoning with myself that he hasn't touched her and claims he won't until she's ready. But what the fuck does ready even mean? What girl in her right mind would be ready to deal with that man?

  Then again, I can't judge. I am the Butcher of the Bay.

  The crowd starts to move away and I wait in the shadows for D’Ardo. He slings an arm over the girl and leads her towards me, whispering in her ear and completely ignoring how fucking uncomfortable she looks. Once he's out of the company of the rest of the Twelve, four of his loyal supporters flank him. The big blonde idiot grins and makes a joke at the little girl. She gives him a half-hearted smile but she's staring around with keen eyes. I've never seen a kid so miserable in my life, which is fucking saying something considering where I came from. D’Ardo doesn’t notice, of course. He only notices what he wants to about her, which is that she survives fucking anything.

  “We should go and get a drink to celebrate.” says D’Ardo, and I scoff at him holding my hand up to wave at the little girl.

  “Planning on getting her drunk and vulnerable already?” I say, and he shoots me a warning look. That shit doesn't work on me, I could pound that boy into the ground and we both know it. I don’t know why I’m trying to warn her, or maybe I just want to get a rise out of her, whatever it is, she doesn’t acknowledge I’ve spoken at all. Just looks out over the forest like she’s waiting for the ghosts to walk out and find her.

  D’Ardo keeps a hand clamped firmly on her shoulder as he rolls his own back. We head through the forest towards the cars and there is a hushed sort of reference that follows. Infamy is a weird thing but I can’t say I hate it. I like being known as the Butcher, I like everyone knowing who the fuck I am when I walk into a room because there's nothing better than the fear in people's eyes. I glance down at the little girl and wonder if she knows what she's in for.

  “Doesn't she have a family or some shit to go home to?” I say once again trying to get her the fuck out of this. I know exactly where she came from, our paths had crossed in the group home for all of a fucking month, but I’ll never forget the look on D’Ardo’s face when she showed up. I knew she was going to be around for the long haul.

  He smirks at me and turns his attention to the little girl. “The group home won't even notice she’s gone, why not have a celebratory drink?”

  The girl cuts us both a look and says, “If the two of you are going to talk like I'm not standing right here with you I'm going to go back and you can drink by yourselves. I'm not interested in playing this dick jerking game.”

  A surprise laugh bubbles out of my throat and although D’Ardo laughs with me the look he gives her is a challenge. I wonder again if she sees it, if she knows his plans for her.

  If I were a better man, I'd warn her.

  I keep my mouth shut.

  When we get to the car park, D’Ardo leads the kid to his car and stashes her carefully in the back. His organization is big enough now that he has a driver, the grinning blonde idiot that slides into the driver’s seat. Another of the thugs climbs into the front passenger seat, carrying enough weapons that he looks dangerous enough but I know for sure he's a shit shot. I quirk an eyebrow at D’Ardo and he waves me off casually.

  “Just meet me at the bar, idiot.”

  I've gotta say, I'm not a fan of being called an idiot. I narrow my eyes at him but D’Ardo just puffs out his chest as if that will make him look more dangerous. I'm not impressed.

  “I’ll buy you a bottle of whiskey, you grumpy fuck,” he says, and then he slides into the car.

  The kid looks over her shoulder at me through the window and I start to feel something close to guilt. It's stupid, it's none of my business, but it doesn't matter what I say to myself, the guilt still curls in my gut.

  Fuck it, I slide into my own mustang, vintage and the one true love of my life, and I wait a minute before flooring it after them. Nothing better than an open road, a gas pedal to the floor, and the smooth changing of gears. I pass them easily, the cheap thrill enough to burn away the bad feeling in my gut, if only for a minute.

  The bar D’Ardo picks is owned by one of his little friends amongst the Twelve. I'm not a fan of the guy, but he pays me well enough when he needs someone to disappear in a blood-soaked way and I enjoy the work.

  I don't really give a fuck why he wants them to disappear, Mounts Bay is not the place to live if you have a conscience.

  We find a booth in the back empty and waiting for us, and I smirk at the way the crowd parts. I can see Matteo's hackles begin to rise as he notices that the stench of terror is coming from those star
ing at me. He's not a fan of being the lesser evil in the room.

  He ushers the kid into the booth before sliding in after her. I take a seat on the other side and when the smiling blonde idiot attempts to sit next to me I pin him with a look and snap, “Not fucking likely, dickhead.”

  He stands by the table instead.

  As soon as a bottle of whiskey and three glasses are delivered to the table, Matteo pours out shots and hands out the glasses until we’re each holding one.

  “A toast; to power.”

  The kid snorts at him and downs the shot like a pro. “To whiskey, for being the only good in the world.”

  My eyebrows shoot up at her. There might be a bit more fire in this kid than I thought.

  “To bashing some dickhead’s skull in with a fucking rock.” I say, just to see how she will react but there's not a grimace or a flinch in sight. She’s smart. Too fucking smart to be getting herself involved in D’Ardo’s personal brand of fucked up. I don’t fucking trust her, not one fucking bit.

  And to think, someday, a few years from now, I would wake up every damn day thanking a God I didn’t believe in for putting that little girl through some of the worst depths of hell and sending her to me.

  I’m kind of a son-of-a-bitch like that.

  Chapter One

  Odie

  My father is a drug addict.

  I think it started as a secret, something he didn't want me or my mother to know about, just like he'd kept his business a secret. You see, my father broke the number one, most important rule of being a high-profile drug dealer; never sample your product.

  I grew up in small towns all across France, never staying in one place for more than two years. It made for a miserable, lonely sort of childhood because every time I started to make friends my father would pack us up and move us in the dark depths of the night.

  We always moved at night.

  We have been living in Villefranche-sur-Mer for almost two years and my feet have begun to itch. I know it's coming. Maybe it's just my body having gotten used to the idea of always being on the move so now I crave it. I love the town, I love being so close to the ocean and all of the scenery I can sketch and paint when my father is out of town, but I know our time here is coming to an end.

  I don't realize it is only my time that is up.

  I round the corner at the beach to find Martin, one of father's men and someone I always considered an uncle figure, waiting for me with an armful of flowers. My birthday is still a week away but he always remembers. A grin bursts over my face.

  "What are you doing here at this time of the day? Do you not have more important things to do than a beach romp?"

  He laughs as I bat my eyelashes at him, and hands over the flowers. "I have some news for you today, sweet Odette. Your father has arrived and is looking for you."

  My stomach drops. I hate the man, loathe him really, and this time away from him with only my mother has been like a dream.

  "And what is he here for today, hm? Does he need something from my mother? I don't think she has any jewels left to sell for him."

  Martin gives me a stern look, like he still sees the small child I once was and not the nineteen year old woman I really am. "Your father is a good man, respected in his business. You need to learn to hold your tongue before it gets you into trouble, sweet girl."

  I grit my teeth so I don't roll my eyes. Martin is not such a ruffian that he would strike me in public but once we get back to the cottage I share with my mother his slap will certainly sting. I tuck my sketch pad more firmly under my arm and nod, casting my eyes back to the ground in an act of obedience. It doesn't sit well with me but better to play the part to get through this little visit quickly. Once I arrive wherever my father intends on abandoning us this time I will find my voice again.

  Martin takes my free arm and walks me along the narrow streets, bustling with tourists and beachgoers and life. It's easier to pretend to be happy and fulfilled this way, the aching emptiness in my gut much quieter around all of this noise.

  "How has your mother been? She looks tired." Martin murmurs, a smile on his face at those around us but his arm is tense in mine.

  Drunk. Distant. Broken by my father. "She's been better but I think the sea air has been good for her, and the sunshine. The summer has been a warm one and I think it's made a difference."

  The dutiful daughter, lying through her teeth to save her mother's reputation. I love her and I know, deep down, she loves me too. She just loves my father more.

  I think I'm going to take her home for some time. She needs to be back with her real friends. I will ask if your father will allow you to come too."

  Allow me, I'm an adult! I wait until I know the bite will be out of my tone before I speak. "I can choose to go, Martin. I can make that decision by myself. I would like to go to one of the Universities there. I will get a job if my father does not want to pay for it."

  Martin's arm tenses even more in my arm and I hide my grimace. I will definitely pay for these words back at the house. He huffs before he says, "This is the way of our world, Odette. If your father does not want you to return to Paris then you will obey him. That is what good girls do."

  I do not want to be a good girl. I want to be a free girl, a girl who owns her own life, a girl who belongs to no one. I don't ever want to be good but I'm also a trapped girl, chained to the life I was born into, so I shut my mouth, carve it into a pretty smile, and nod as if it isn't killing me to agree.

  The streets grow quieter as we get closer to the cottage, the atmosphere darker as if the stones and bricks in the buildings around us know just how deeply I dread facing my parents together again.

  "Why are you slowing down? Your father is excited to see you again! He has missed being around his most beautiful jewel." Martin says, and I start to think maybe this is all a trap. Maybe my father sent his favorite friend after me to try to gain my trust and complacency. Mercy, am I about to be murdered for taking up painting? For going on a walk?

  Dread pools deep in my gut, replacing the emptiness with that acidic bubbling. Maybe he found out about Louis and I'm going to be murdered for daring to take a lover.

  "Calm down, sweet girl. Your father is excited to see you. Some of our friends are here today too." Martin murmurs, and it doesn't help one bit.

  When we take the corner down the alley I see my father's car and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to frown or show some other sign of hating the fact that he's here. Martin smiles at me again, opening the door like a gentleman and I take a deep breath before walking in, ignoring the pile of summery jackets hanging by the door, all of them expensive designers that must belong to the wives of my father's business friends. He would never allow my mother or I to own such things, not unless we were in the city with him and he wanted to show us off for the night. No, all of the beautiful and expensive things my mother once owed have long since been sold off to fund the steady decline my parents are spiralling in.

  I take a deep breath as I move to the small kitchen area, my shoes silent on the old and worn rug I'd found at the local markets to warm the place up a bit last winter.

  The cottage was definitely not the type of place my father would ever lower himself to live in but he didn't care about abandoning my mother and I here. The look of disdain on his face as his eyes trace the cracked tiles on the floor and the thin film of grime on the kitchen cupboards, that no amount of scrubbing had been able to remove, makes it clear that despite his addiction he sets himself to a very different standard.

  I, however, love this house with a deep sense of kinship.

  I see myself in all of the cracks in the walls and the worn kitchen floor. It doesn't matter that the outside of me is considered beautiful. I know how much the men my father spends his time with lust after me and have done long before I was a decent age. All that matters is that inside, I am broken.

  My mother pours cups of coffee and tea for each of the men and their wives who have jo
ined us today, as if these dirty businessmen would ever sit around with hot drinks. Really, she's just trying to hide her own addictions. Her hands have a fine tremble, but she is not nervous, the tremble is there from withdrawals.

  I swallow my sigh and give her a sweet smile as I take over, gesturing at her to sit. I look like an obedient daughter, and the approving look my father shoots me tells me he has taken it that way, when really I'm too nervous to stay still. There is nothing my father hates more than fidgeting so I taught myself to find productive and useful ways to not sit still during these little meetings to try to stop him from finding a reason to beat me. He never really needed an excuse but if I did find some way to displease him he tended to make them more severe.

  He always avoided my precious face.

  No one else acknowledges that I’ve arrived, the mood in the room somber and tense, and the conversation resumes once Martin takes a seat. When I was younger I didn't understand that my father's business was not legitimate, no child ever thinks their father is really a monster, but now I can listen to them talk about taking care of the rival drug lords without flinching at the body count.

  I move around the room silently, unaffected, handing out drinks to those who will take them. No one will meet my eye.

  “All that matters here is that Signor Mecedo is happy with the offer." My father says, waving away the teacup and gesturing at the bottle of whiskey my mother has left out.