by J Bree
The plane hasn’t even taken off yet.
I take in a deep, gulping breath, ready to scream and fight them off, when a large hand covers my mouth. It stinks of tobacco and sweat and his fingers bite into my skin as he squeezes my jaw like he’s trying to break it. I choke on my scream as I try to move away from him but the pain only gets worse until I stop fighting.
The men don’t move any further, they just hold me against the seat like a pinned butterfly, all splayed beauty and death.
The only sound is the harshness of my breathing and then my new husband speaks.
"No quiero pinchis sobras y no confío en su padre. Revísala."
I have no idea what he’s said but both of the other men laugh and then the one holding my legs rips my blouse out from where it was neatly tucked in and he slips his hands into the waist of my pants, his fingers searching for the buttons.
A scream bursts out of my throat only to be muffled by the hand, tears leaking out of my eyes, as the button pops off of my pants when he finally gives up trying to open them, instead just destroying them to get them down my legs.
I try to rip my hands out of the sweaty hands of the man holding me but he only chuckles and tugs my wrists further up until I think my back might snap under the pressure. My eyes fly back to my new husband as he stands behind his men, the cigar dangling from his lips as he murmurs in low tones to them, none of the words making any sense to me.
Rough fingers pry my thighs apart and I scream again, my thighs tensing as I try to snap my legs shut but I'm not strong enough. Panic sets in and I can't catch my breath, the sobs stealing any chances I might have had at being rational. I attempt to kick my legs out but the fabric of my pants traps my ankles.
I hear a man spit and then two fingers thrust roughly inside me with no other warning.
My sobs turn into a wail as I try to get away from the assault, every fibre of my being violated by this treatment. I was wrong back on the plane, my father's wrath was better than this. I would relive every moment of his abuse to get away from this.
I know deep down this is only the beginning.
"Definidamente no es virgen. No tiene sello."
The sobs just keep coming.
"Vadim Archambault estará muerto antes de que aterrice su avión."
The fingers finally disappear and my legs are shoved closed. The hands around my wrists also drop away, only to be replaced by a fist curling in my hair, pulling me until I'm slumped onto the floor. Doors slam shut around me and the fist in my hair jerks my head back until I'm staring through my tears at one of the men.
He speaks in broken English, the words garbled and hard for me to understand. "Senor Mecedo does not want another man's leftovers. You should not have lied to us."
He slams my head into the seat in front of me, the sickening crunch of my nose breaking vibrating through my skull, and then he finally lets me go, slamming the door behind him.
They're going to kill me.
Bile creeps up my throat and I swallow it down, the metallic tang of the blood pouring out of my nose overwhelming me entirely. One of the men hops into the driver's seat and starts the car, cheerful Latin music playing loudly through the speakers like some sort of cosmic joke.
My eyes swim with tears and the pounding in my head only gets worse with the motion of the car until all I know is darkness and I pass out in a pool of my own blood.
Chapter Four
Illi
The docks are a stinking pile of rotten wood, dilapidated buildings, and homeless people sheltering in rickety old boats who see fucking everything and nothing all at once. The warehouses and boat sheds that house the parties and business rooms of the Twelve are nearby but the spot I've chosen for the meetup is away from D'Ardo's security cams and hired muscle. No doubt he's paying one of the bums to keep watch but they're far enough away that he won't know exactly what my business down here has been for, only that I was here.
I trust that man like a brother, but sometimes he oversteps and forgets I'm not one of his little flunkies.
I lean against my car, looking out over the sludge pile of seaweed and trash that makes up the shore down here. The water beyond is calm and still, the moon reflecting perfectly against the gentle ripple of the tide. It could be beautiful down here. If the Bay wasn't hell on Earth, if someone gave a shit about the place at all, it would be a fucking amazing city.
Instead it's overrun with gangs, crime, bikers, drugs, and murder.
That had always been perfect to me but fuck... something is wrong in my head right now. I still crave the blood and the burn of my work but something is missing and fuck me if I can think of what it is.
Maybe I am losing my fucking edge.
Lights hit me and snap me out of my shitty, reflective mood. I shake myself off and roll my shoulders back. Gotta get my head back in the game before I get taken the fuck out.
The car is fucking nice, a ‘67 mustang Shelby Sportsroof, that would look fucking perfect in my garage. Fuck, maybe I'll ask for that as payment for my next job. A smirk stretches over my lips at the thought of taking it, knowing just how fucking hard to come by they really are.
Two thugs get out and tip their heads at me with respect which I ignore entirely and then their ugly-ass boss steps out, adjusting one of the rings on his scarred hands as he looks around, not entirely trusting that we're alone and unwatched out here.
The Viper is my biggest client.
I don't trust the greedy fuck but from my time in the cage he knows exactly what I'm capable of and usually treats me with enough respect that I don't feel the need to peel his fingernails off with toothpicks. His crew are all dumbass meatheads, not worth the air they consume, and this means I make a lot of money out of this member of the Twelve.
He drops my payment at my feet without ceremony, the set of his jaw pissed off and on edge. I smirk back at him. "Bad day at the office? Having trouble finding fresh meat?"
"Someday you'll have to let me induct you, Illium. You'll be backed into a fucking corner and have no choice." He grunts out. I get the feeling he's still pissed at the hike in my prices. I deserve more, after every fight and every job I raise my rates a little, just enough that they all know I'm not some chump for hire. If you want me, gimme the fucking cash.
At this point, only the Devil out prices me and no one here is dumb enough to call him.
I light the cigarette between my lips and smirk at him. "Not fucking likely. Maybe you should find a different gene pool to skim, your new blood is kind of pathetic."
The guy I'd pulverized the previous night had apparently been the brother of one of the Viper's most trusted men. Fucking pathetic, the lot of them.
He gives me a look as he sets the leather bags down at my feet. A thrill runs up my spine. I fucking love cold, hard cash. Nothing safer than green packed into the walls of my warehouse, there's not a man, woman, or child in the Bay braindead enough to come steal from the Butcher.
Banks aren't so fucking trustworthy.
"I need the guy alive, y'hear me? No more accidents. If the Chaos Demons find out I'm looking around their business then it'll bring a whole new war to the Bay and I've been enjoying the peace." He mutters, leaning in as he slips me the paper so his men don't hear what he's saying. Huh. So he's completely fucking aware he's recruited mouthy trash who can't keep their mouths shut to fucking save themselves and yet he still keeps taking on more of the dickheads. Nice.
D'Ardo might be a merciless, evil fucker but at least his men know the score.
"Yeah, yeah. The last guy had a heart problem or something, he croaked too fucking easy. When I took him apart I found it looked a bit... fucked."
The Viper snorts out a laugh. "Of course you played fucking doctor on him. Did you package up his meat too? How much do dismembered corpses go for these days?"
I smirk at him, all teeth, and enjoy the disgusted looks of his eavesdropping men. "I've got some rich cannibals on my speed dial. They pay by the pound."
/> They were sick fucks too, but that's beside the point. Green is green and I plan on dying a rich man. So fucking rich there isn't a fucking man in the Bay who I couldn't buy, just for shits and giggles because a man without a plan is just fucking... bleak.
"I need to know about the supply tracks, Illium. I need it now so even though you're having a fucking laugh at my expense right now... I'll double the fees if you get me the information. I'll even get you some fresh meat for the cage, someone to really push your limits."
Hmm. That's fucking tempting but I won't tell this fuck that. "I'll get it done on my own time."
He nods and drops the butt of his own cigarette, crushing it beneath his heel. "You always do."
I take one last drag of my own smoke and then flick it towards the stinking water, blowing the smoke out in one deep exhale. "Anything else or can I go back to my business?"
The Viper rubs his hands together, his rings catching and making a small tinkling noise that sounds fucking weird as hell coming from him. "Just remember Butcher; the higher the man, the greater the fall. Someday you'll need me and when you do, I'll have your fucking loyalty. Every fucking penny I've paid you will come back to me eventually."
I'd rather fucking die. I'd rather get beaten in the cage and be bled out on the fucking mats than devote my life and freedom to someone else.
Never going to happen.
No matter how much D'Ardo and this fuck want it.
I smirk and give him a mocking salute, one that he sneers back at. Not many people treat members of the Twelve with such little respect but I think they all know I could rule them all if I fucking wanted to. I just couldn't give a fuck about the entire institution. They're all only on top for now, only until change arrives and if my life has taught me nothing else it's that nothing ever stays the same.
I watch as the car rolls away, lighting up again and holding the smoke in my lungs to feel the burn. Fucking perfect to kill some biker trash.
I look down at the slip of paper in my hands and frown.
Chance Graves.
That's fucking familiar but I can't quite place it. It doesn't fucking matter, money is money and as long as it's not one of my many informants on the paper I don't give a fuck. With one last look over the docks I get back into my car and start it up, the engine purring like a fucking dream under me. Time to find Harbin and Roxas, get more info on this Graves and get this job done.
I hope the fight is worth it.
I park behind the Tittie bar and kill the engine, flicking out a text and waiting for the reply. It doesn't come, instead the back door opens and Roxas saunters out, the hitch in his step betraying just how fucking wasted he is.
Perfect to get the goods from him.
"Illi, my man! Tell me you're here for a drink? Juliet is here, the tits on that girl! Perfect to stick your cock between." The grin is wide and fucking dumb on his face.
I shake my head. "Maybe later, man. How much do you know about the Chaos Demons? I'm having some teething problems with them. None of them squeal right."
Roxas roars with laughter, lifting the beer in his hands up to salute me with. "You have a fucking way with words. I know way too fucking much about the Demons. They're enemy number one to the Unseen, man, where have you been?"
The door opens again and Harbin steps out. Never too far away from each other, these two. He's steadier on his feet even with a beer in his hands. "Twice in one week, Illi, what's the occasion?"
I shrug at him. "You tell me, man. Everything leads back to the MC clubs at the moment. Were you warning me away from D'Ardo because your Prez is planning something big?"
I can't stand the Boar, more than any other fucking member of the Twelve. He hates that I'm friends with half his crew and does what he can to fuck with me through them.
Roxas had learned that the hard way years ago. I'll never fucking trust that biker Prez again, not for anything.
"What's going on, man? If someone in our club is stirring shit up with you we'll deal with them." Harbin says. Fuck, he's a decent enough guy but he should know by now decent guys don't survive in our world.
"Why are you guys warring with the Demons? I've got a hit on one of them and I need to know if I'm crossing you guys before I go in there, so we can work it out like men." I say, my smirk only getting bigger.
Roxas shakes his head at us both and stalks off to take a leak on the bushes at the edge of the parking lot, facing the road so every car that drives past cops an eyeful of what he's packing. I roll my eyes but Harbin's attention doesn't waiver from me.
"Demons are bad news. Stay the hell away from them, the money ain't worth it." he mutters, taking one last swig of the beer and throwing the empty bottle so the glass shatters against the side of the building. Zero respect for shit around here.
"I've taken the job, it's set in stone. Anything in particular you wanna warn me about?"
Harbin shrugs. "Stay the fuck away from Grimm if you can, and his original crew. If it's one of the younger guys you need then just lure him out by his dick and make sure you leave nothing behind."
Grimm. Fuck, that's where the name is familiar. Grimm Graves has two sons in the MC; Colt and Chance. Fuck me, I have a hit on one of his fucking sons. "Right. And if it's impossible to get the guy without Grimm being aware of it? What's your advice then?"
Harbin eyes me like I'm testing him and I stare back, unrepentant and unfeeling. Just because he's decided we're friends, doesn't mean I'm changing my business for him. This is a point of pride now, I never fail at a job.
"You should know before you go there the Devil is stalking Grimm. The psycho likes to play with his food before he eats it. Don't get caught up in that shit, Illi. In and out."
Well, fuck.
That's almost enough to keep me home.
Because my night hasn't been busy enough, I get a call from yet another member of the Twelve. I miss the days of dealing with mobsters and drug dealers, I swear it was fucking easier.
"If it isn't my favorite meat packer. I have a job I require your... expertise for."
My jaw clenches at the sound of the slimy bastard's voice. "How about you try that again before I tell you to crawl back into the hole you came from, Vulture."
He chuckles down the phone, his mouth way too fucking close so I can hear every little wheeze of his breath. Fucking disgusting. "Come on now, I'm offering a lot of money for the job I have for you. Let's just cut the bullshit niceties and talk numbers. I have a package I need picked up from the airport and delivered to the docks. Big client, big fucking package. There's more money in this than any other business transaction I've ever taken before so I knew exactly who to call to get the job done. I'll give you ten percent of my cut."
My eyebrows hit my fucking hairline. The Vulture is the richest, cheapest bastard out there. Skin sells for a pretty penny and yet he hoards his wealth like he's going out of business. Ten percent... that would be in the millions.
"When does the package get here? I'm on another job."
He laughs, his breath coming out in hacking gulps like a fucking hyena. "The package is already on its way, you'll need to be at the airport by four am. The package will be handed over to you by the seller."
I check my watch. Two hours, I'll have to shelf the Viper's job for tonight. "What security do I have to get past? Give me the rest of the details and I'll see what I can do."
I get off the phone twenty minutes later feeling creeped the fuck out but less apprehensive about the work. Security has been taken care of already, private jet, a long drive back to the docks. Probably the easiest money I'll ever fucking make. The Vulture is worried about the men who were outbid coming for the package and a larger detail would be an easier target for them but who else is there who could deliver the damn thing without needing at least a second person?
No one.
So I head home to my warehouse, change cars to my BMW with bulletproof glass and load up with a heap of more weapons. Knives and my beloved cleavers
aren't great defense when you're also the delivery driver. Once I'm sure I have enough lead to sink a fucking ship I head out, irritated at the smooth handling of the luxury car.
Gimme a roaring engine any day of the week.
Parking is a nightmare as I try to find something close to the terminal with cover in case I need to take cover, but I find something tucked behind the building. I keep a close eye on my surroundings, nothing jumping out as suspicious except maybe the fact that none of the security look me in the eyes as I pass. I'm a big guy, covered in tattoos and clearly packing an arsenal. You'd think there would be someone the Vulture hadn't gotten to in the building, some lower level dickhead prancing around thinking no one was above the rules but nope, zero eye contact.
Guess it makes the job even fucking sweeter.
Waiting at the boarding gates isn't pleasant. The security staff may not eye ball me but the civilians all think I'm putting on a fucking show for them, especially when I get through to the First Class lounge. Fuck me, I've never looked so out of place in my life as I do in the plush lounge. Businessmen and their wives all stare at me with something close to horror on their faces, clutching at their bags and covering their rolexes like I'm a common thug. Pfft, I'm probably earning more right now than they're ever put on their tax returns.
Once the novelty wears off and I've got a little more privacy, I check my phone to see if there's any word from my out of state contacts about Chance. Nothing. God-fucking-dammit. I need to know more about this drug pipeline the Viper is trying to tap into before I hunt the biker fuck down. No use going in blind and finding myself in the middle of some turf war, especially not if the Devil is involved. Look, I'm a big enough guy to know when I'm outclassed and there's only one guy on this planet I'm not ever going against, and that's the Devil himself.
I shove my phone in my pocket just in time for the gate to open and the security to rush around as the private jet lands. I stand up straight and roll my shoulders back, expecting a high class hooker. The men who buy from the Vulture want very specific types of girls and for this one to break the record in price she's going to be either a virgin or a pro. I'm expecting her to be primped and waxed and painted to the point of not really knowing what fucking age she is, probably for the best because knowing the sick fucks who frequent the skin auctions she's probably underage. I stand there and make a thousand different assumptions about who is getting off that flight and not a single fucking one of them is right.