Page 31 of Inflict

Sean’s roar was so loud, Connor had to hold the phone away from his ear.

Feck.

Maybe this was more serious than he had thought. Connor only knew the basics of the Russians in Brighton and their organization, because he didn’t want to be too involved with anyone. He gave the same respect to the Italians in New York, the ones in Chicago, Vegas, Canada, and the cartels his father worked with in Mexico for his business.

“You’re going to fix this,” Sean said. “I’m not sure how yet, but once I figure it out, your stupid arse will be the first to know.”

Connor scowled. “Grand.”

“Oh, and, Connor?”

“What?”

“Stay in Brooklyn for a while—maybe you’re not as ignorant as I thought, since you knew to stay where you are. If I have to see your face, I might skin it clean off.”

The phone call disconnected.

That was that.

• • •

The Ink Shoppe, the sign read above his head. Or, the Shoppe, as Connor would call the business at times.

The lights inside were on, and the door was unlocked, so Connor knew at least one of his artists were inside, prepping for their first client of the day. Once he was inside, Connor shrugged off his leather jacket and hung it up on the hook along the wall, his gaze scanning the business. Clean floors, bright lights, and colorful walls stared back at him. The familiar sterile smell in the air reminded him of a hospital, but it was also comforting in a way that hospitals couldn’t provide.

This was his second home.

Like his brownstone, his tattoo shop was untouchable.

It was his.

The main floor of the business was used for the girl who worked the front desk, for customers to sit in the common area, or to look over the many designs on the walls and decide what they wanted. But for tattoos and piercings? All that happened in the back, a section of the business that was hidden from view from the main floor, with several rooms sectioned off for the three artists and one piercer that worked the place.

“Aye, who’s in the back?” Connor called out.

The answering buzz of a tattoo machine rang out. “George, man.”

Connor almost smiled. George had been the first artist Connor hired three years ago, when he opened the place, and quickly discovered he had more clients than he could handle in a week. Strolling toward the back, Connor found George in his work space, cleaning his machine and getting his area prepped for an early client.

“Where have you been the last couple of weeks, boss?” George asked.

The man didn’t even look up from his chair as he wiped it down with alcohol. Anyone who looked at the artist probably wouldn’t know what to make of him—God knew Connor hadn’t, when the guy walked in, saying he would take the job. George dressed, talked, and behaved like he had walked out of a hand-me-down riches family, and even his bowtie never left his neck. Slacks, blazers, and never a hair out of place.

Connor had never even seen a single tattoo on the guy, but he was a great artist, and he had clients who swore by him. Even Connor had more than enough of George’s work on his own body to know it was all true.

“Busy,” Connor said, lying through his teeth.

Two weeks ago, he’d killed the damn Russian in the fight. He decided to follow his father’s words, and keep as low of a profile as he could at the brownstone for a while. Sean hadn’t bothered to call him again, not even to bitch about Connor missing their weekly meet twice.

He figured it all must have blown over.

It’d been long enough.

“Client today?” George asked.

Connor shrugged, leaning in the doorway. “No, I just figured I’d be here if we had a walk-in.”

“Summer won’t be in until noon.”