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

by J Bree

  When none of the men take the hot drinks I offer, I move over to the cabinet that my mother keeps all of her good glassware in, what little of it has survived the constant moving, and start handing out glasses of wine and spirits instead.

  Martin nods approvingly at me as I hand him a glass and I hope this act of obedient daughter is enough to stop him from helping my father punish me later.

  "And you don't think it is too high a price to pay? This is your legacy we are talking of here." He says as I move away, and his words slowly filter into my head. Legacy? My father has nothing, his addiction has bled our family dry.

  My father huffs under his breath and downs the whiskey in his glass in a single mouthful. "Girls are not legacies. If I had a son, that would be my legacy. This is an exchange of property.”

  It takes a moment for his words to sink in. And then I realize, the price my father has paid is me.

  Betrayal is a cruel first love.

  I thought I had known true love but the butterflies in my stomach and the lust in my veins was nothing but an infatuation, a veiled deceit, a lie.

  I had decided to wait until my father’s friends had left the cottage before confronting him but before I had the chance, my long-time, very secret, boyfriend had arrived and asked to escort me to the airport… a nine hour drive through the countryside of France. For a fleeting second I thought he was whisking me away, saving me from this transaction.

  I was wrong.

  I look over at the man who has broken every part of my trust as though my eyes could flay him alive; Louis Caron. He is the son of one of my father’s associates, a refined gentleman and everything I have ever wanted in a man. He looks perfect in his suit, even with the grimace stretched over his face.

  I could slap it off, just smack him until all of the rage is slated but I don’t think it will ever burn out.

  “Odette, do not look at me like that. I have already told you there is nothing I can do to stop this and the tears in your eyes are killing me.” He mutters, and looks out the window at the passing colors of Paris. I hate the big city. I only ever come here in passing and it’s as though the freedom and bustle of life is just too out of reach for me. I refuse to look out at the city. I refuse to be mocked by it all.

  “If you were a real man you would find a way.” I reply with a sniff, refusing to cry the angry tears because I feel so helpless.

  Not one person had tried to stand up for me. Not my drunk of a mother, not the men and women I had thought of as aunts and uncles, not even my boyfriend. No one. And while there may not be a gun pressed against my temple right now I know there is still one aimed at my head somewhere. I know Louis would shoot me if my father asked him to, he’s made that very clear to me.

  I fix my eyes on him and wish there was some way for my gaze to hurt him. I am so furious at this gutless man that if I had a gun, I think I’d shoot him and feel nothing but a bone-deep satisfaction.

  Yesterday I was so content sketching children playing in the ocean and now I’m plotting futile attempts at murder.

  “I must do as your father says. He has promised you to another man, my hands are tied. I spoke to him and he assured me that you will be taken care of. A girl like you should not be hidden away in little backwards towns. You should be draped in jewels and on the arm of a rich man. I wish very much that man could be me, but it is not.”

  He says this as though it is nothing but an arranged marriage, as if money has not exchanged hands over me. I flick my wrist at him dismissively, a way I know sets him off in a rage but I’d rather he hit me than sit through this without fighting back. “I don’t think you wish that at all. I think you got what you wanted out of me and now you’re glad to see me go. Pathetic.”

  He shrugs at me, completely unrepentant, and it only makes my anger burn brighter. Fear of what is happening hasn’t set in yet, the anger still thrumming through my blood and I snap, “Maybe I should tell my father, hm? Maybe I should tell him you deflowered his precious daughter and the marriage he’s arranged for me is built on a lie? I assume I went for a higher price for my supposed untouched status?”

  Louis’s head snaps back around and his eyes are like saucers. “Odette, you cannot tell them! You would get us both killed if you do. Your father is not a good man, he won’t think twice before killing you.”

  I snort at him, completely unlike the refined lady I’m supposed to be, the one my father insists on me being without ever training me to be. Maybe that’s why the fear hasn’t set in yet. Maybe I’m so used to my father’s ridiculous expectations that this is just the next avenue for his crazy to rear its head.

  I do know that there is no point in fighting them all now. As a child, I would often come home from school to find him washing blood from his hands. Good men do not often find themselves covered in blood. I have more chances of reaching my new husband and hoping he is a better man than my despicable father.

  The car slows and Louis turns in his seat to speak to the driver. I finally take notice of where we are once again and sigh. The airport. Another hellish flight. My father had said the deal was with a Señor. Was I heading to a Spanish speaking country? My English is barely passable but my Spanish is non-existent.

  If my new husband doesn’t speak at least a little French I am going to have a hell of a time.

  “How am I supposed to talk to this man? Or am I just supposed to spread my legs and open my womb to him without a word spoken between us?” I mumble, not really expecting Louis to answer but he heaves a sigh at me.

  “He is a very rich man, Odette. If you give him a male heir he might just leave you alone. You would be able to travel the world and do whatever you like without worrying about the trivial things in life. It's not a life you could have if you stayed here and you would finally be free of your father. Think of this as a new start.”

  A dry laugh bursts out of me. I long to worry about the trivial things in life. I want to get a job and pay my own bills and have a real family. He’s speaking to me again as if I am a pretty bird stuck in a cage to be admired and played with but never respected.

  His eyes finally look back at me and I see the lustful longing there. Ah. Of course. He’s not at all remorseful about letting me go, except for the beauty of my face and the pleasures of my body. It is disgusting and I strongly consider spitting in his face.

  Before I make my decision the door on my side opens and I look up to see my father standing with his hand extended to help me out. How he got here before us is a mystery until I spot the private jet. Of course, he stuck me in the car for hours and hours to wear me down while he’s been drinking and relaxing with his friends.

  His eyes narrow when I hesitate before taking his hand. You would assume he was doing this to be a gentleman, to help out his beloved daughter, but the look in his eyes tells me he's taking this last moment to insure my obedience. I have no choice but to slide my hand in his and get out of the car.

  I'm happy that my knees do not shake and my lip does not wobble, the tears dried up. There is no sign of how truly afraid I am underneath the burning rage I have. I have to hold onto my rage, grasp it tightly with both hands, to stop myself from falling apart.

  I will hold this anger to the very end.

  “A good daughter does as her father instructs without the tantrum, Odette.” he murmurs in my ear as he kisses my cheeks. The pilot is the only man watching us who hasn’t seen my father hit me before. This seems like such an act for someone who will look the other way anyway, the money is too good to intervene for some girl.

  I give him a tight, grimacing smile and nod my head, speaking lowly through my teeth as he steps away from me, “I hope you got a good price for me, enough to keep you high for many nights to come.”

  Knowing that it's going to happen doesn't lessen the sting of his hand cracking across my face. My vision whites out around the edges as I stumble back against the car. I wonder if my future husband will be as heavy handed.

  I smile though the
tears start forming in my eyes at the thought. This man will never lay a hand on me again. Though I don't know if my new husband will be any better, that thought gives me enough joy that I can turn on my heel and stride to the private jet. As tempting as it is to make them throw me over a shoulder kicking and screaming it's too ingrained in me to be a good girl so I walk, calm and steady, up the stairs and into the aircraft.

  Anywhere would be better than here.

  Chapter Two

  Illi

  Mounts Bay, California, is a fucking shit-hole.

  I’ve hated the place my whole life, from the second my pops left me in a safe-place so I’d end up in foster care, I knew this place was the worst hell on Earth.

  I have no fucking clue why I won’t leave.

  Probably because I’ve built a life here, a name, a reputation that precedes me and crowds part when I arrive anywhere. The money is also fucking good, I don’t really have to work anymore but I have a taste for the blood and pain now. I have easy access to all the pain I need because of my office hours.

  I guess being the Butcher has its perks.

  But that’s all besides the point. The reasons I stuck around don’t matter, all that counts is that I stayed in the worst fucking city in the country. That’s where I met my heart and had it ripped right the fuck out of my chest then had it parading around, as if it wouldn’t fucking kill me to have her hurt. And she did get hurt, fucking brutalized, and I played a part in it.

  I’m getting ahead of myself here.

  The day I made the biggest fucking regret of my life thanks to my life in the Bay starts like every other day. I wake up, eat a balanced meal, workout for a few hours, then head down to the basement to check on the guy I’m torturing in the lowest level of my warehouse. I’d bought the place because of these basements. No one can hear you scream ten feet below ground in a room with cement walls a foot thick.

  Great place to work.

  I’d built an apartment in the upper levels so I could look out over the amazing views of the Bay. Psh. The docks aren’t exactly a great view but the water beyond them is nice enough. Sometimes, after a long day of cutting people to pieces, I stare out at that water and wonder why the ever-loving-fuck I’m still living in the Bay.

  So I’m standing there staring at the guy, well, the fucking corpse because the piece of shit went and died on me like a pussy overnight, when my security alarms tell me someone has tripped the sensors on the far side of my property. I have zero patience for houseguests when they haven’t called ahead so I seriously fucking consider setting off a flash bomb or something to get them to fuck off, only the glimpse of the two motorcycles stop me.

  I know these two assholes.

  I know them well enough to give them a free pass because I'm a nice fucking guy, as nice as a sharp knife to your throat in the dark.

  So instead I unlock the front door remotely and wait until I hear them cross the threshold before yelling out, “I’m in the fridge!”

  Then I get to work hacking the dead guy to pieces. Nice, easily digestible pieces to ship off to a contact who enjoys using them as bait in his arctic fishing expeditions. Weird guy but he pays good green and the cops aren’t exactly trolling the arctic nets for missing perps.

  It’s basically recycling.

  I’m a fucking humanitarian, an eco fucking warrior.

  That’s enough to have me cracking a smile as I work, the knife feeling like an extension of my arm as I slice through the meat of his legs. I can get down to the bone with brute strength but it'll take the bone saw to get the limb off of him. He must have died shortly before I got down here because his blood hasn't pooled or started to congeal yet. Makes for a messier job but easier to get it done.

  Footsteps break through the quiet of my haven signalling the bikers have made it down to me finally.

  "What the fuck is this place?"

  Harbin's voice echoes through the refrigerated room like a gunshot and I turn to face them both, the cooled blood still dripping down my face.

  "This is where the meat comes to be processed. What the hell are you two doing here? Don't you know this is my sanctuary?"

  Harbin smirks and walks in with the confident air of a man who's spilled a lot of blood and his best friend Roxas saunters in like he's the reason it's always spilled, like he's the center of the world and everyone should weep at his fucking feet.

  He's an absolute asshole, but he's also the kind of guy you want having your back in a fight.

  "What's this guy in for? Is he a job or personal?" Harbin says, leaning down to inspect the hanging man's lax, dead face. His eyes are nothing but bloody sockets and his mouth is open in a grotesque silent scream.

  Thank fuck. I swear my ears are still ringing from the real screams he was letting out last night while I played with him for the information I needed. He took the torture like a little bitch, squealing and sobbing like a pathetic piece of shit. I've seen little girls survive with more dignity.

  "I don't do personal. Life's easier without any of that bullshit, you guys should know better." I say, washing my cleaver under the water at the utility sink.

  Harbin chuckles under his breath and walks further into the room, his eyes on the wall of knives, saws, electric cattle prods, and all the other tools of my trade. Irritation creeps down my spine. I hate having people in here. It's my fucking happy place and I don't need people ruining it with their emotions and shit. I just need to get my work done and get my money.

  He's not a bad sort of guy and I know he's not here for any sort of ulterior motive, despite his road name. He really is a Harbinger of the biblical sense; shit turns to fucking chaos when he arrives. The Unseen only call on Harbin to wade into a fight when they're pulling the big guns so having him here, in my space and poking around in my shit, means something's fucking happening.

  I don't like it.

  "Shit's going down, man. There's a whole lot of bad juju going on in the Bay and it all leads back to your boy.” Roxas drawls, the Southern accent he just can't fully shake slipping out even though he's been here in Cali for-fucking-ever.

  I give him a hard look and he shrugs, nonchalantly. “The Jackal is a fucking dickhead and I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire, but you're a good man, Illium. Can't have you going down with him, can I?"

  "If you think I'm a good man you need your fucking head checked, dude. What exactly do you need? If you're just here about the Jackal then you can walk your asses back out. My circle is small but tight." I grunt out, pissed they'd even fucking try to talk me into betraying D'Ardo.

  Some things are a given and my loyalty is one of them.

  I'd met little Matteo D'Ardo in the shittiest group home in all of the Bay, right in the middle of the fucking slums, and the kid had a strong stomach, pain tolerance like no other, and a nihilistic view on life that rivalled my own. True, I wish he was a little less ambitious and would stop recruiting dickheads to his little fucking gang, but that's his own business.

  I'm not going to tell him how to own his shit.

  Roxas stops beside me and leans his hip on my workbench. I quirk an eyebrow at him until he rolls his eyes and straightens up. "Look, we owe you for saving our asses in that shootout last month and cleaning it up with the pigs. I can't let this go on, not with all the shit I'm hearing, without saying something to you. He's fucking crazy man. He's building a fucking bomb! That's like homeland security, feds, national crisis levels of fucked up. Is being the Kingpin of drugs and firearms not enough for him?"

  Clearly not. "He's obsessed with being the biggest player on the board, just pretend it's not happening because he'll never actually get the bomb built and even if he does, and that's a big fucking if, he's not going to fuck his business up by blowing us all up. He's not really suicidal, just a bit fucking unhinged."

  Roxas stares me down, the silver-rimmed charcoal eyes of his are serious for once, all the sarcasm and shit-stirring gone. "Johnny, I'm saying this as your friend. Get the fuck out befor
e he takes you down too."

  They just don't get it.

  All or nothing.

  Ride or die.

  With the Unseen's warning still ringing in my head I get the body shipped off to its watery tomb and then get my shit together for tonight's big fight. I haven't been in the cage for over a week and the frenetic energy buzzing under my skin tells me I've left it too fucking long.

  I need to kill someone with my bare fists. I need to end them with brute force and grim determination.

  And I need to do it now.

  I flick a text to D'Ardo to meet me there for a drink after I'm done with the fight. If the Unseen are getting worried about what the hell is going on with him then I need to look into it myself. Last thing we fucking need is the Boar sniffing around in our shit.

  He doesn't need to find out we took out the Hawk.

  I shove my fight bag into my '69 Mustang Boss 429, a true classic and better than all the flashy suped-up bullshit overrunning the streets, and then pile in, letting the engine roar to life and the thrill of the horsepower under my control giving me the first taste of adrenaline for the night. That's the only real drug I need, the high of controlling something so fucking powerful it could kill me in an instant but owning it instead.

  I'm almost pissed off that I make it to the Dive so quickly and I consider doing a lap of the entire block just to keep driving but the call of the fight lures me in. I know I'll be put against some cocky, ex-marine or some hardened ex-con and they'll think they'll be the first to take me down. Fuck, that sort of shit almost gets me hard thinking about taking them out. What can I say, I'm a complicated sort of guy.

  I park behind the building, right next to the Viper where I know there's security cams watching my car, and then I head in, clapping the guard on the shoulder as I pass. He's the type that will survive this place, sees nothing and can move a body without breaking a sweat.

  The place is overcrowded, clearly word has gotten out I'm fighting here tonight and I'm up against someone running their fucking mouth. I move to the bar, the private one, only to find a little lost girl sipping away at a glass of whiskey like a fucking pro.