Page 147 of Inflict

Connor took a minute to clear the emotion lodging in his throat, and handed a handkerchief in his jacket pocket over to Ciara so she could wipe her silent tears away. For a good while, he had suspected that Ciara’s issues stemmed from abandonment, if only because as a child, he had understood what it felt like to wonder if your mother just didn’t care, or rather, not enough to stay around. It was a difficult struggle.

It was even worse when you were just a child.

“Aye, she sent you away and kept you away because she had no choice—you know all of these things, because Evelyn has told you,” Connor said, “but I suppose it doesn’t help, when you’re just seven years old and nothing feels very permanent, right?”

Ciara nodded. “I guess.”

“You’ve told her you hated her. You’ve thrown things at her. You’ve ignored her. You’ve screamed, slammed doors, fought, and broken every rule she’s tried to make for you that were only for your safety, just because you could. Because you know she feels guilty, and you can manipulate that to get what you want, Ciara. And I’ve let it go on, because I hoped your mammy would see what you were doing to her, and stop allowing it herself. But the sad thing is, it won’t stop, because she does love you. She loves you too much—she will always love you, even when you hate her.”

Ciara’s gaze dropped to the ground. “I’m sorry.”

Connor stood up. “I am not the person you should be saying that to, you know.”

He allowed the minute or so he knew it would take for his words to sink in, brushed off his pant legs, and turned back to look at the house. He wondered if Evelyn was looking out one of the windows, staying hidden by shadows, but he decided it didn’t matter much either way. She would never do this, never hurt her daughter to make her understand how her behavior was affecting them all, but he certainly would.

“You can keep behaving as though you don’t belong to us, as though you aren’t ours and we don’t truly love you all you want,” Connor said, glancing back at Ciara, “but you know that simply isn’t true. We will love you regardless, today, tomorrow, and forever. It would be grand if you would make an effort to love us, too.”

“I said I do.”

And he believed her.

“Then you should act like it, lass,” Connor said. “Those who love one another don’t hurt one another, and we certainly don’t send them away.”

Ciara looked up from her hands. “All right.”

Connor nodded. “Your mammy is waiting, I think she said your cake was coming soon.”

The girl pushed up from the ground, grabbing her book and heading for the brownstone. As she passed Connor by, she stopped just long enough to hug him around his waist. She didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need her to.

They only wanted to love her.

He couldn’t force her to love them back, though.

• • •

Two years later …

Connor damn near stumbled over his own two feet as he tried to lock the door to his New Jersey home. He swore no matter how long he owned this damn house, it would never be as familiar to him as the brownstone had been. He’d needed to be closer to his men, more accessible for them, and so a move had been in order, though he hated uprooting his wife and daughter.

Tonight, he’d hated the New Jersey house even more because of a simple feckin’ phone call that had come in, a frantic voice telling him a problem had come up in a Queen’s whorehouse, and that he needed to get there ASAP. Which meant an hour and a half drive there, a feckin’ shite show when he arrived, and a hellish drive back. All for a whorehouse that he had already tried to rid his organization of at least a dozen feckin’ times!

Feck.

Feckin’ feck.

Feck!

Connor didn’t realize it until his own voice echoed back to him in the quiet house, but he’d been shouting his curses as loud as he could manage. That just made him curse more, albeit quieter, hoping he hadn’t woken up Evelyn or Ciara.

Ciara had school in the morning, a private establishment that catered to her talent in dancing, while feeding her mind at the same time.

Evelyn had a lunch date with a curator for an art gallery, a talk to decide which of her pieces would be placed in the business.

Connor glanced up at the ceiling, and sighed. He was about to feck all those plans up right and proper for his wife and daughter with what happened tonight. Ciara might still be able to get to school, but Evelyn certainly wouldn’t be able to take her, and Connor would need to leave to head back to that feckin’ whorehouse to clean up the mess he’d left behind.

“Feck,” he mumbled, tipping his head down and squeezing his eyes shut. “Stupid fool.”

“Connor?”