Page 34 of Inflict

“What can I do, then?” Connor asked.

“Get rid of the father.” Sean worked on lighting his cigar as the woman made her way back into the room, her head still down, and a pint of black stuff ready for her owner to take. Once she passed it over, she legged it out of the room again at a single nod from Sean. A silent order for her to go. “He’ll be the one to cause the fuss, to name names. I thought to make him happy with something—I know the man from way back, you see—but it didn’t work.”

“So you want me to—”

“Kill him, Connor. What else?”

“And you think getting rid of him will fix the rest,” Connor muttered.

“I know it will.”

But how?

That was why Connor didn’t trust his father.

There was more than one man in every organization. There were many men.

Sean pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, and read off an address. “No wife or other children live in the home, they’re long gone. The wife took the youngest a while back and ran.”

Connor’s jaw ached from clenching so hard. “All right.”

“But you still know the rules.”

“Yeah.”

“Connor.” Sean’s black gaze landed on him again. “What are the rules?”

Jesus.

He hated his father.

“Don’t kill souls you can sell,” Connor finally said, his voice flat and monotone.

Sean smiled, but it was false and cold. “It’s been a while since you’ve done a proper job for me, I had to make sure you remembered.”

How the feck was he supposed to forget?

“I’ll get it done.”

Sean nodded. “I could have handed this off to someone else, but I do know how much you enjoy these … things, lad.”

Connor had all he could do not to respond, because as much as he wanted to deny what his father said, Sean was right.

Connor did enjoy it.

Another reminder of just how much he’d taken from Sean.

“And don’t take too long to finish it out,” Sean called out to Connor’s back as he turned to leave, “I’ve waited long enough as it is.”

Connor nearly stopped to ask his father what he meant. He decided against it, but only because he was able to leave Sean’s presence, and he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there.

It was all he had ever wanted.

• • •

Mikhail Petrov didn’t live right in the heart of Brighton, as a good majority of the Russian Bratva chose to do. No, he lived on the outskirts, the wee, old suburbs between Brighton and lower Brooklyn, where brownstones littered blocks and gave the appearance of being beyond city limits.

There was no beyond, when it came to the city.