Page 29 of Inflict

Mercy, after all.

He didn’t think for even a moment that it would make a difference to the Russian, once the man woke up and got his bearings again. He’d been bested—twice. Humiliated in front of some of his people, likely.

A damn shame …

Before anyone could even climb into the cage to declare the winner, or stop Connor from going further, he finished it entirely. His bare foot came down on Ivan’s windpipe, crushing the man’s airway instantly.

There would be no time to help him.

Not before he suffocated.

Connor thought—as he climbed from the cage—that he might have to answer for taking the Russian’s life, simply because of the man’s last name and his affiliations, but he figured this had been a gift of sorts.

One only the dead Russian might understand.

“Shite, mate,” Danny said, his arms full of Connor’s belongings as he came up beside him. Connor’s feet had just hit the floor again. “You’ve got some angry Russians in here now. Get out of here.”

Connor didn’t need to be told twice.

Looks like he wouldn’t be getting that payday.

Feckers.

• • •

The old brownstone in upper Brooklyn was one of the two places Connor liked to call home. That was, when he was able. A good seventy percent of his time was spent in New York doing business—as that’s where his business was located—but for the other thirty percent, he needed to be in New Jersey for his father.

It was, in addition to the tattoo shop he owned, a place so far removed from Sean and the rest of his father’s nonsense, that Connor felt almost … safe. The brownstone needed some outside work, but he didn’t care to get on it.

No, it was the inside where Connor put all his effort. Earthy tones and wide-open spaces. High ceilings and modern fixtures. Cherry oak floors, and enough windows to let all the natural light in. He had a space to think, another to work, and his bedroom to play.

The interior designer that had spent weeks pestering the feck out of him had been worth it, for how the brownstone turned out.

Connor padded down the hallway in nothing but boxer-briefs, heading toward the brownstone’s kitchen where he would find coffee to wake his arse up properly. His gaze drifted over the familiar artwork on the walls, most of which he had created and then carefully spent hours deciding exactly where each piece should be hung in the place.

It was both relaxing and bothersome to him, when he thought about drawing, painting, or anything of the sort. He never felt more in control than when he had a piece of paper under his hand, and a pencil in the other. And yet at the same time, he was reminded of a pretty green-eyed, blonde girl that had been his reason for picking up a pencil one cold winter afternoon.

Connor hadn’t been nearly as good, when he’d first started drawing, as he remembered wee Evelyn to be. At least, not like his childhood memories highlighted her talent. Actually, he’d been downright terrible at it, but with practice, he’d come out a pretty decent artist.

Somehow.

Connor focused on his task in the kitchen. His gaze skipped over the new bruises and cuts on his knuckles as he fished a cup out of the cupboard. He felt the pain from the fight the night before a hell of a lot more today. Especially after he had downed a couple of shots of whiskey before he jumped into the shower and then fell into bed the night before.

He’d taken care of his cuts—the ones from the knife, anyway. Superglue, a lot of effin’ and blindin’, and he was wonderful. Grand, even. As long as he gave his arm a few days to rest, the cut would heal without issue.

Connor could do that.

He’d just lifted his coffee cup to take his first sip, when the screeching ring from his cell phone had him growling under his breath. He seriously considered ignoring the call, but headed that way, despite his irritation.

“Aye?” Connor asked the second he put the phone to his ear.

He probably should have checked the caller ID first.

“How’s ‘bout ye?”

Connor’s guard went up instantly.

“Sean,” Connor replied carefully.