Page 33 of Inflict

As a young lad, he’d called those women his father brought in and out of their home “maids.” Because that was all he had been told—that’s what he believed they truly were at the time. He was too young, and far too foolish, to understand the difference.

No woman willingly came to live with Sean.

No woman wanted what Sean provided.

Connor had learned over time that speaking out against the slaves his father used and abused would get him nowhere, except for a bloody mouth, or a gun to his head. Sean’s best business, his greatest work, was all done in the trade of skin, of forgotten souls. He had his hands in drugs, weapons, and the like, because that kept men in the streets and gangs acting as crews under his Lieutenants, but that wasn’t where he made his real money.

And that was entirely why Connor didn’t get closer than he had to where Sean and the organization were concerned.

Sean patted the woman’s head, though her eyes never left the floor. At least today, she was dressed in something more than white knickers, and the bruises around her throat were all but gone. “Two drinks, lass.”

“One,” Connor murmured. “I’m not staying long enough for that.”

Sean’s gaze cut to Connor, but then he nodded. “All right, one. Go.”

The woman skittered from the room without a sound, never once making eye contact with Connor before she disappeared. She was no more than nineteen years old, at the most. She was not the youngest his father had toted around, but she was one of the longest Sean had kept alive.

He didn’t know why she had made it this long—two years—but she was still there.

“You make her nervous,” Sean said.

Connor’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“It—the girl, you make her nervous when you’re around. She gets skittish, like a feckin’ deer.”

“I don’t even look at her.”

Or speak to her.

It was better if he didn’t.

Connor couldn’t help her.

He hadn’t been able to help any of them.

“Exactly,” Sean said. “You act as though she doesn’t exist. Everyone else at least acknowledges that she’s here. She doesn’t know what to make of you, I suspect.”

“Probably the same way she saw you when you brought her here, right?”

Sean didn’t answer that one.

Not that Connor expected him to.

“Since you’re not interested in staying for a drink, let’s get this over with,” Sean said, pushing up from his chair. Connor didn’t move from his spot, even as his father reached over and plucked a cigar from a box. “I thought to clean up your mess with the Russians, show face, be polite, and all that rubbish.”

“Oh?”

“Fat lot of feckin’ good it did me.”

“I stayed out of sight, kept quiet. There wasn’t much else I could do.”

“Whatever, it did us no good. Not surprisingly, the Russian isn’t happy his son found his way into an alley after being beaten to death. I won’t have problems with them, but you can fix it easily enough.”

Connor’s instincts suddenly went on high alert. “First, I didn’t beat him to death. I crushed his goddamn throat, and that was how he died. He survived the beating.”

“Details. You know how I feel about those.”

He didn’t trust his father, and he didn’t entirely know why, but his suspicion was perked for one simple reason. Sean had said he made an attempt to be polite with the Russians. That was some nonsense if Connor had ever heard it—Sean didn’t make nice with nobody.