Inflict: A Novel

Chapter Four

Twenty years later...

The Morning Glory Pub.

Connor O'Neil gave the pub's sign a smack of his palm as he walked into the enclave beneath it that lead to the dark entrance of the business. It was habit now, and nothing more. As a kid, the men he grew up around used to tap the sign and joke to him that it was for good luck of some sort. They made a big feckin' deal that he was too damn short to reach it himself, but once he had been able to, he'd never stopped.

He took the four steps, two at a time, reaching for the ancient-looking copper handle that was for decoration and nothing else. The pub didn't even have locks on the doors, for Christ's sake. He had been visiting the place since he was four—allowed inside since he was eight—and never once in all his nearly twenty-seven years of life, did he remember a lock ever being on the inside of the door. And the piece of twisted, useless metal that was on the handle meant to be used as a lock? He fully believed that was too old and too rusted to even be turned, now.

Connor stepped inside the pub, and inhaled what could only be described as the scent of nostalgia. Old, cracked leather. Worn, wood floors. A bar that still shined, and lights that were dim enough to make a man feel like he wasn't drinking at eight o'clock in the morning.

The pub needed a new coat of paint, and for the walls to be stripped of that awful decorative paper. The floor could use a wax, and new booths and stools wouldn't hurt, either. The paintings on the wall were far outdated for their time, a lot like the old bartender wiping down liquor bottles behind his bar.

Yet, nothing changed.

Sometimes, in the midst of the chaos just one door and four steps away, it was nice to have a place that was still stuck in time. Even if the only reason the pub was still open was because of the generation of men who weren't willing to let an older time go.

Speak of the devil ... or rather, devils.

Scattered about the pub, were several familiar faces that Connor recognized. The same faces haunted the pub, and had for years.

Although, Connor figured now it was more about being present and in a familiar place, than the meeting grounds they had used it for back in their prime. The pub was still a hub for meets, as far as that went, but only when Sean wanted someone to come to him.

Connor scowled at the thought of his father, his happy moment gone as fast as it had come. He never visited the pub anymore, unless his presence was demanded. It took all of the few joys and memories he had of the place, and stained them with something far more distasteful.

He would much rather be crawling out of bed, instead of feeding to the whims of a man that had too many others to use for the same purpose. Yet, Connor's deep bred respect got him up, dressed, and down to the pub before eight-thirty rolled around. Sean didn't like to wait, and Connor didn't like to hear about it later.

He'd get this over with, and maybe down a few shots while he was at it. Then he could go about his business for another week, before his father called him back in for another round of tattle-tale.

Because that's all he was to Sean.

A feckin' spy.

Of course, Sean wanted more from his son—the bastard always wanted more—but Connor wasn't willing to hand over his life, soul, and every breathing second of his days to his father. As it were, he gave too much to Sean.

So was the way for the son of an Irish mob boss.

The organization was the only thing that mattered to Sean at the end of the day. His bottom line, the profits, were the details that Sean cared to make an effort on. None of those things had anything to do with Connor, because no matter how hard his father tried, he refused to stick his hands in the mess.