The Butcher (Fifth Republic Series Book 1)

I sat in the back of the SUV across the street, smoking my cigar with the window cracked, waiting for the show to start.

A black Hummer came around the corner, going over sixty kilometers per hour, and crashed straight into the iron gate, making one door break off the hinges while the other swung inward and knocked over the guards positioned outside. Some of them looked injured, others dead, and the others who weren’t either were smart enough to take off.

“That’s my cue, boys.” I hopped out of the car, crossed the street, strode past where the gates had been, and walked right up to the front door. It was also made of iron, the doors thirteen feet tall and pretentiously grand. Before I motioned to my guys to break it down, one of the staff was dumb enough to open the door.

“Thanks.” I shoved him aside as I made my way inside. “Adrien!” I stormed into his house like it was my own, walked through the entryway that Fleur must have walked in hundreds of times during the years she lived here. “Get your pussy-ass down here, bitch.”

In a rush, he appeared at the top of the stairs on the next floor. “Jesus fucking Christ, are you insane?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” The cigar was still in the corner of my mouth, the smoke drifting to where he stood at the top of the stairs. “Now get your ass down here, or I’ll blow these goddamn stairs and watch you break your neck.” I pulled the grenade from my pocket, the pin still intact—for now.

He looked like a deer in the headlights, about to lose his lunch from the sheer panic. But he made the right decision and came down the stairs with haste before he faced me. “What the fuck⁠—”

I punched him in the face, and he fell back and hit his head on the bottom step.

“Get up.”

He winced as he raised his head and checked the wound with his palm, getting blood on the skin. “You could have killed me.”

“I know.” I kicked him. “Get up.”

He growled before he got to his feet and faced me, blood dripping down his neck and into his shirt.

“You didn’t tell her.”

He actually had the audacity to look angry when he realized she’d come back to me the second he was gone. “She’s still my wife, asshole.”

There were so many fucking things I wanted to say. So many ways I could prove that she was mine and she wanted to be mine—in no uncertain terms. But I respected the hell out of that woman. Would rather let him win the argument than betray her privacy and dignity. “I warned you what would happen if you didn’t tell her.”

“I was going to when she agreed to work on the relationship, but now that she’s out, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does fucking matter,” I snapped. “Be a man and tell her—or I will.”

“Why would I hurt her?”

“So she knows she made the right choice—and she never has to look back and wonder. So she knows that her marriage failed because her husband was a piece of shit cockroach, not because she wasn’t enough. So she knows she deserves a hell of a lot better than a punk-ass bitch like you. That’s why you’re going to tell her.”

He continued to bleed, continued to stand there and look angry—like I was in the wrong.

“You think I won’t kill you?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Because I will.”

“I didn’t betray the code.”

“The law is always up for interpretation—and I’m the sole interpreter. Causing undue harm can have a lot of different meanings. And I’d say you’ve caused Fleur a lot of unnecessary harm. These are your two options. You can tell her what you did, not on the phone, but straight to her goddamn face—or I’ll tell her and hand you over to the boys in the catacombs so they can make you their next satanic sacrifice.”

“You’re fucking crazy⁠—”

“You have no idea, asshole.” I pulled the cigar out of my mouth and tossed it on his rug, where it continued to burn. A smirk stretched across my face. “You have a week to grow a new set of balls.”

I knew she was at work, so I stopped by Silencio after getting shit done. Her tits were perky as hell in her little top, and she had long hair in a high ponytail that gave her an oomph of attitude that was hot as fuck.

A guy seated at the bar had eyes for her too, because when she turned around to grab a bottle from a high shelf, he stared straight at her ass.

I would have done the same if I were him, but she was my woman as far as I was concerned.

She came back to where he sat and poured him his drink. “Can I get you anything else?”

“A phone number would be nice.”

She chuckled—actually chuckled like it was fucking ridiculous—and her brush-off was so ice-cold I didn’t even need to do anything.

His face went pale. I could see it in the mirror. He shut up and drank from his glass, his face red from his bruised ego.

I took a seat a few chairs down.

After she handed him his tab, she spotted me, and a smile brighter than the lights of Paris hit me like the spotlight from the Eiffel Tower. She sauntered over with her hourglass frame, her eyes catlike because she’d done her makeup differently. She made my drink, a scotch on the rocks, a double. “This one’s on the house—just because you’re fucking hot.” She winked at me, so sexy when she was confident in who she was, and then moved down to the next customer. It was a busy night, so she didn’t have as much time to chat as she normally did.

I felt a stare on the side of my face, so I turned to look.

The guy she’d turned down just looked at me.

“She’s my girl,” I explained, granting him a bit of mercy.

Thoroughly embarrassed by his failed shot, he just left, leaving his full drink there along with his paid tab.

Fleur continued to help everyone else who wanted a drink, managing to work the room without appearing stressed about it.

I didn’t need her attention. I was perfectly content drinking my scotch and watching her work, her tits unbelievable in that top and her ass ready for a bite in that skirt. Sometimes she would pass and give me the eye.

A woman took a seat at the bar beside me, an attractive blonde in a little cocktail dress. “Whatcha drinking?”

It took me a second to realize she was talking to me. “Scotch.”

“I like a man who enjoys a stiff drink.”

I ignored her and turned back to Fleur, her back to me as she grabbed new bottles from the cabinet.

“I’m Denise⁠—”

“I’ve got a woman.” My eyes followed Fleur as I brought the glass to my lips and took a drink, the scotch already halfway gone.

The blonde continued to sit there like she’d never been rejected in her life and didn’t know what to do.

Fleur walked over to help her. “What can I get you, girl?”

She hesitated before she answered. “Vodka cranberry.”

Fleur pulled out a glass and threw the drink together before she slid the full glass to her. “Anything else?”

The blonde shook her head.

Fleur brought the transaction machine to her, showed her the bill on the screen, and processed her payment. The blonde returned to the table where she sat with her friends. Fleur gave no indication she knew what had transpired between the blonde and me and continued with her shift.

I finished my glass then tapped it against the counter. “Sweetheart.”

Her eyes lit up when she looked at me, and she made me another drink, holding my gaze while her hands moved, a fucking pro. Then she walked off and continued to help everyone else who squeezed into the bar, either wanting a drink or just to get close to her.

It took an hour for the bar to quiet down.

“I’m gonna have to cut you off, sir.” She came to where I sat at the bar and leaned forward, her elbows on the edge of the bar, her tits practically falling out of her top.

I looked down and stared—purposely and intently. “Because of my disorderly conduct of staring at your tits and ass all night?” My eyes lifted to hers again, my glass empty in front of me, the ice cubes still fully formed at the bottom of the glass.

“Because I’m going home with you—and we close in ten minutes.”

The smile she pulled from me was out of my control. She was a magician, saying the magic words to make me do her bidding. “Get me the bill, sweetheart.”

She moved to the register and printed out the bill before she set it in front of me.

I slipped a wad of bills inside and watched her close up for the night. I was pleased she wanted to come to my place because I didn’t care for her apartment. The loft was not suitable for someone like me, who had to duck to navigate the sloping walls in every room. And not to be a dick, but I was used to the finer things in life, and her apartment was simply below my standards.

She finished her cleanup and closed the registers before she walked out. There were other workers there finishing up in the kitchen, so they would lock the doors after they turned off the lights.

We stepped into the cold night, and I texted my driver to get us. I slid my arm around the small of her back, and I pulled her into me as we stood on the curb, keeping her warm against me. She’d put on her coat, but the bumps on her chest told me she was cold.

She melted into me like a piece of chocolate, her cheek against my chest, her arms around my waist like a little girl with her teddy bear.

I looked down the street and saw the SUV turn the corner and approach us where we stood on the sidewalk. The driver didn’t open the door for me since I’d specifically told him not to because I could open my own fucking door. I got her in the back seat, and then we headed to my place in the 7th arrondissement.

She looked out the back window, her coat tight around her to keep warm.

I reached for the heater in the center and cranked it up for her.

When she saw what I did, a little smile moved over her face and she gave me this look…like she appreciated the small things.

I wondered if Adrien was ever as thoughtful. Probably not.

Fifteen minutes later, we entered the gates of my property and walked into the house.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” She walked beside me as we headed to the stairs. “It’s late.”

I texted my butler and asked him to prepare dinner. “It’s not late—at least not for me.” We entered my bedroom, the lights low on the dimmer, a fire roaring in the fireplace because I’d told my butler to prepare it before I arrived.

She looked around the room, taking it in like she’d never seen it before, but she didn’t issue a comment. She seemed to be warm before she took off her coat and purse and set them over one of the armchairs in the sitting room. “You have a beautiful home. I don’t think I said that before.”

“Thank you.” She hadn’t asked me about my wealth or mentioned it at all. She was either too classy or she really didn’t care. “The building used to have several different apartments, but I renovated it into a single home.”

She gave a slight nod. “That’s an ambitious endeavor.”

“I’m an ambitious man.” My butler had left a silver platter on the table, a bottle of wine and two glasses. I uncorked it and filled both glasses before I took a seat in front of the fire. Then I looked at her and patted the spot beside me.

She smiled before she walked over to me in that little skirt with her tight shirt tucked in, showing all the right curves in all the right places, a woman with hips and tits and an ass I could grab on to. She took the spot beside me and crossed her legs, her hand moving to my thigh in my jeans, her face close to my chest.

I moved my arm over her shoulders and scooped her into me, keeping her close, her hair brushing my lips.

She snuggled into me and looked at the fire. “This is nice.”

I’d be all over her right now, but dinner was on the way and I didn’t want her naked on my couch when Gerard came to the door. So I held her, glancing down her top even though I already knew how her tits looked because I’d sucked on her nipples until they were raw. “How was work?”

“Shit,” she said. “Until you walked in. I need to find something else.”

“What kind of experience do you have?”

“Not much. I was at university when I met Adrien, but I never finished,” she said. “Stupid on my part.”

“Why is that stupid?”

“Because I believed him when he said he would take care of me—like a fucking idiot.”

“That’s not stupid.”

She released a sheathed chuckle. “Never trust a man to take care of you.”

“That’s not the lesson,” I said. “Never trust the wrong man to take care of you. And you are entitled to the community assets of your marriage in the divorce.”

“Sure, but I don’t want that.”

“Why?” Most women would want to bleed their husbands dry as punishment for their infidelity. Would want to hurt him where it hurt most—his bank account.

“Because I loved him for him, not his money, and one day when he realizes women only want him because of the fancy dinners and the nice cars and the big house…he’ll realize he threw away a woman who actually gave a damn about him.”

I wanted her to take some kind of compensation, even a small sum to have a decent apartment, but I admired her principles.

“So, he can keep the money—and shove it up his ass.”

A quiet knock sounded on the door. My butler didn’t wait for me to answer it before he opened the door and wheeled in the cart, just like room service at a hotel. He didn’t look at us on the couch before he approached the dining table near the terrace and set up our dinner, putting down the white tablecloth and placing the dishes there along with the butter and the basket of bread. Then he wheeled the cart out again and disappeared.

We sat together at the dining table and ate our dinner, a soup and salad for her and a rare steak with potatoes for me.

She seemed to like it because she was focused on her food the entire time, like she’d been hungry all night but didn’t have time to eat. Last time I saw her at Au Pied de Cochon, she barely touched her burrata. She was either that hungry or in better spirits altogether.

I stared at her across from me, seeing the way she dragged the bottom of her spoon over the edge of her bowl, trying to cut off the cheese from her French onion soup. She dipped a piece of bread into it before she took a bite. That was when she noticed my stare, and she stilled when she realized she had my attention. “What?”

“I like watching you eat.”

“Why?” She dipped the bread into the soup again and soaked it before she finished the second half of the bread slice.

I chose not to give an answer, because I really didn’t have one. “You said you lost your friends and family in the separation. What of your parents?”

“They’re gone.” She continued to eat like the loss didn’t bother her.

As it didn’t seem to cause her pain, I didn’t say I was sorry for her loss. I wanted to know more, but since she didn’t elaborate on her own, I didn’t want to pry. But I could tell there was more to the situation by how closed off she was. “No siblings?”

“No.” Abrupt and cold, there was definitely more there. “What about you?”

“I never knew my father. My mother is still around.”

Her coldness evaporated when the attention had been shifted to me. “Does she live in Paris?”

“Yes—Champs-Elysees.”

“That’s a nice area.”

“It is.” I’d bought her a house so she could have something that no one could take from her. She had a butler in case she needed anything, like groceries or someone to pick up her medications.

“Are you close with her?”

“I talk to her once every couple of weeks.” It was a lot of the same conversations over and over, superficial bullshit like the weather and politics and her nosy neighbors next door. Nothing substantial. Nothing real.

Fleur seemed to have the same kind of awareness I did, to know when the conversation had gone as far as I was willing for it to go. “Do you have any siblings?”

It was a simple question but a hard one. A question that made me pause for several seconds as I tried to decide how I wanted to answer it.

Her salad plate was clean and her soup bowl was empty, but she continued to soak up the remains with the bread. “Was that blonde hitting on you?” When her piece of bread had soaked up as much soup as it could, she placed it in her mouth to chew. She either changed the subject when she understood my unease, or she simply grew impatient—but I suspected it was the former.

“Yes.” Most people chose to mold the truth into the version they wanted it to be, but I’d never tampered with it. Being brutally honest and accepting the consequences of that was far easier to me.

She held my stare for a second before she dipped her bread into the bowl again, doing her best to get whatever drops remained. She asked no follow-up questions to my answer. It was unclear if she was jealous about that—or if she cared at all.

This woman was something else.

“You said you kill people. Can I ask you more about that?”

“Go ahead, sweetheart.”

When she realized the soup was all gone, she gave me her full attention. “Does that mean you’re a hit man? Someone people hire to kill the people they hate?”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed in confusion, but she didn’t ask me to elaborate.

“Have you ever heard of the Fifth Republic Conspiracy?”

She considered the question before she shook her head. “No.”

“Well, it’s not a conspiracy—it’s the truth,” I said. “There are two levels of the Senate, the Senate and the National Assembly. But there’s actually a third level—the French Emperors. I’m the first of five. It’s a secret society, essentially.”

She was still as she listened, giving no reaction to what I said like she needed more time to process that information. She might not follow politics at all, might just know President Martin was the current president and nothing else.

“In the last few decades, crime has become rampant in France, particularly Paris. Trafficking, organized crime, drug operations and possession, sacrificial cults out in the wilds—all that shit has become a problem. It used to be a safe place for travelers, but now it’s become a higher-risk area, particularly for the vulnerable, especially women. Rather than vanquish all those organizations, I police them.”

She hadn’t blinked since I’d started talking, completely enraptured by this information.

“They continue their operations—but under the rules of the Fifth Republic. In exchange for their cooperation, they’re allowed to continue their criminal activities without fear of apprehension. And the Fifth Republic is compensated through taxes and tariffs.”

She didn’t ask any questions, either because she was in shock or she didn’t want further information.

I drank my wine as I watched her process all this information with a preternatural calmness.

“How are you compensated?”

“I claim a percentage of the taxes and tariffs.”

“How do you do this all by yourself?”

“I don’t.” I had men on my payroll everywhere, had snitches in the midst of the organizations I policed, had my own headquarters and my own men to do my bidding, and also had the police force if I needed it. “There’s a president of the Senate, there’s a president of France, and there’s a president of the French Emperors—which is me.”

If her husband weren’t a criminal, she probably wouldn’t have believed any of that and would have bolted out of there as fast as possible. And maybe she remembered the night we met, when I’d handled those idiots as they’d tried to rob the bar with machetes. That was just a slow night for me.

“Homines ex codice.” She said the same words to me that I’d said to others. “I remember you said that at the bar to those guys…like they were supposed to know what that meant.”

“Man of the code,” I said. “Roughly translated from Latin.”

“And what is the code?”

“Not to harm innocents. And not to endanger women. They can conduct their clandestine affairs all they want, as long as they do those things and pay their taxes. Seems like a simple ask, but there was pushback. About fifteen years ago, there was a drug operation outside of France that used trafficked women as free labor. It caught on, and more men started to do it. We had so many missing persons reports that the United Nations classified us as an unsafe country for travelers. Tourism suffered, and the economy hit an all-time low—other than during the Second World War. The third level of the Senate was formed, and I was elected to the position, and the other Four Emperors aid me in this duty. I consider myself a patriot of this country, a distant relative of Napoleon Bonaparte, so I felt compelled to do it.”

She was quiet for a very long time. Probably minutes. “And why did they choose you?”

“I was well-connected in the criminal underworld in my previous profession.”

“Which was?”

I smiled slightly. “A hit man.”

She continued to stare at me with that steel-like gaze, her thoughts a mystery.

I was afraid that she would leave and never come back. That she would realize I was dangerous by association and she should avoid me at all costs. But I wouldn’t lie to her—not even to keep her.

“You need not fear me, sweetheart.”

Her eyes had wandered elsewhere in her thoughts. It took her a moment to look at me again. “I don’t.”

“Good.”

“I probably should, but I don’t.”

I watched her green eyes, saw the way she argued with herself on the inside, the way she tried to understand the severity of her predicament.

“I just don’t really care…about anything.”

She straddled my hips, her skirt still on and bunched around her hips, her thong on the rug in front of the fire. She pulled her shirt off over her head, her hair catching the fabric and being pulled until it came free.

Before the shirt was gone, I had already unclasped her bra and set her tits free. Her perky, perfect tits. I moaned when I saw them then sealed my mouth over one nipple and sucked hard enough to make her wince.

I squeezed her ass under her skirt then gave her a hard smack before I squeezed it again. “Fuck, sweetheart.” I kissed her collarbone then her neck, digging my hand into her hair and yanking her head back to expose more of her throat. “You turn me the fuck on.” I spanked her ass again before I lifted her to get my dick inside, so eager to feel that snug channel that would come all over me. I guided her on top of me then gripped her hip as I pulled her onto me, moaning when I felt that tight little pussy seal me like an airlock.

She took a deep breath when she felt me fill her, and then she moaned, moaned like it was the best dick she’d ever had, rolled her head back and closed her eyes like the sexiest little thing ever.

She planted her hands against my chest, and she arched her back farther than I thought was possible. Her stomach was tight because she flexed, her perfect tits in my face, and she started to ride me nice and slow, taking her time, looking into my eyes with her lips slightly parted, taking my dick like it was a fucking honor.

“You like that dick, sweetheart?”

Her answer was breathless. “Yes.”

I gripped her hips, my thumbs over her belly, and I pushed my hips up to meet her when she came down, the two of us fucking better than we breathed. My hands stretched over her ass where it poked out from her skirt, and I squeezed hard, loving the feel of that meat in my grip.

She started to bounce faster, rolling her hips when she reached my base and coming back up again, her tits shifting with her movements. The fire was in the hearth behind her, her beautiful skin aglow from the flames, and soon, I saw a sheen of sweat over her fair skin. “I fucking love this dick.”

I spanked her ass hard. “Attagirl.”

We were moving hard and fast together, and like any man, I was at the mercy of my dick, this fine piece of woman bringing me to my knees. She hadn’t reached her peak, while I was right at the finish line, so I did what I had to do.

I slipped my hand under her skirt and rubbed that clit like my life depended on it.

She moaned louder than before, her nails slicing my chest, her nipples hardening at the touch.

I licked my thumb before I rubbed her hard, making her hips convulse like she’d lost her motor functions. She panted and moaned, and then she grabbed on to my shoulder and lifted herself onto the balls of her feet, holding the weight of her body on her thighs, and bounced on my dick harder. “Jesus fucking Christ.” It was like she did it on purpose, tried to beat me at some sick game. She raised herself to the top of my dick then dropped down all the way to the base before she did it again, her cream building up and dripping over my balls, her slickness a mess on the couch.

So fucking hot.

But I won the game—and she came all over me. She fell into my chest and locked her arms around my neck as she convulsed, moaning in my ear, her tears catching on the skin of my neck.

I spanked her again and again, making her cry out as she finished, making that beautiful ass red and welted from my handprint. Because she’d done all the work up to this point, I rolled her over and pinned her in the corner of the couch, bending her so I could pound into her, my ass on display to the fire, my dick balls deep in that slick paradise. I pounded into her so hard I made the couch shift over on the rug.

Her cries were muffled because of how she was folded, her hands grabbing on to my arm and shoulder, whatever she could latch on to as she took the pounding of a lifetime. Then she took the bomb out of the cannon, the mound of come I’d been wanting to give her since the last load.

“You love my come, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” She hooked her legs around me and squeezed, locking her ankles together at the top of my waist so I couldn’t leave. “I want more.”

My dick was still hard even though I’d found my release. That didn’t happen a lot, but with her, it seemed to happen almost every time, like my dick didn’t get the memo that the fire was over. “Then beg for it.” I started to grind into her, but moved slowly, feeling our slickness slide past each other.

“Please…” She cupped the back of my neck and brought me close, kissing me hard on the mouth. “Bastien, please make me come again.” She didn’t shy away from my commands—like she wanted to beg. Like she loved all this dirty talk. Like she wanted me to spank her until she couldn’t sit.

I started to rock into her again, moving fast, burrowing her into the corner of the couch.

She stroked my jawline before she caressed my bottom lip with her thumb, touching me like she wanted every part of me but couldn’t have it all at the same time. “Yes…like that.”