Page 25 of Inflict

“Hmm,” Sean said under his breath.

“It’s too far gone. It’s not going to get turned around. They know it, no one wants to say it.” Connor chuckled, adding, “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Anything else?”

“Other than the Calabrese boss over in the city trying to slide his slimy arse into some of the auctions, no,” Connor replied.

“Carl Calabrese isn’t my concern,” Sean said. “Bottom-feeding bastard is all he is. Is that all?”

Connor nodded.

“Well, get out, then.”

Connor’s head perked up from the tip of his pocketknife that’d he’d pulled from his slacks while spilling the information he knew. A new slice bled at the tip of his digit, and he didn’t feel a thing as the crimson liquid began trickling down the underside of his thumb.

The look on Sean’s face was one that told Connor not to question his father’s demand, but rather, do exactly as he said. His demand had been spoken in monotone, which was a sign his father had taken just about as much of Connor’s presence as he could handle for the morning, which rarely seemed to be much lately.

The most obvious sign of his father’s lost patience was the monotone he took on. Sean could speak with amusement, rage, or even sarcasm whenever he wanted, but the lilt of those tones still held a falsehood underneath the range of his words. As though he had needed to learn how to speak with emotion, even if it did ring as false.

Sean was most dangerous when he dropped his façade. That was probably the most important lesson Connor had learned over the course of his life. Connor figured it didn’t matter. No need to analyze why his father was probably considering killing him right then, he just knew from experience that he was.

Connor was up out of his chair and disappearing from the office without so much as a goodbye, a wave, or a look over his shoulder. The moment the door clicked behind him, the invisible pressure that had been building inside his chest finally released.

What people said about Sean O’Neil was not even close to a lie. If anything, most people thought the stories about the Irish mob boss were greatly exaggerated, but they weren’t. Not at all. A man only needed to look at Sean to see and feel it. Nothing lived inside that man. He was dead underneath the layer of what seemed like life.

Connor—like most others—put as much effort into staying away from Sean as they did trying to keep the man pleased, even if they too died a wee bit inside for it.

Some monsters needed to stay sleeping.

Sean was one of those.

• • •

The cute girl behind the cash register had just pushed Connor’s black coffee and wrapped bagel across the counter when his phone rang in his pocket, temporarily distracting him from inviting the girl to the back alley. Relationships weren’t Connor’s thing, but a fast, dirty, forgettable ride was always something he made time for, if he could help it.

He’d done all sorts of things that were dangerous, things that truly made him feel out of control, but nothing was quite as good or gave the best kind of high, like sex did.

Especially, when he didn’t know the woman’s name.

Unfortunately, today was not going to be one of those days, if the incoming text on his phone were any indication. Connor read over the message twice as he took a bite of the bagel and balanced his phone between his hand and coffee at the same time.

Brighton. Warehouse 4. 12 AM.

Three simple, vague sentences. Not even a proper address was added on. But frankly, those who received the messages knew exactly what they were for, where they needed to go, and what they would find when they got there.

Personally, he wasn’t a fan of the warehouses in Brighton, if only because the Russians from the Sokolov Bratva organization owned the properties used for the … events. There were all kinds of underground events that happened all over New York, some that his father’s men had a hand in, and others that he’d made his way into, simply by his affiliation to different people.

But the Russian events?

They brought in the dregs. They enticed people with the darkest sorts of interests that even Connor had no desire to witness. A lot like his father, actually.

Maybe that was why he disliked them, but he wasn’t willing to say it out loud. Not if he could earn himself a couple of hundred thousand in a cage by bashing somebody’s head in and walking out a bit richer. Money was the root of all evil—according to some—but to Connor? Money was one of the only things that made him happy.

Connor checked the time on his phone, noting it was still a couple of hours before noon, and he had all day before the event. Maybe he did have time for that back-alley ride, after all.

Turning on his heel, Connor found that pretty cashier was still watching him. He smirked, and tipped his coffee up for a drink.

“When’s your next break?”