Inflict: A Novel

Chapter Four

He'd seen enough, and he knew far more than enough, to make that choice and feel it was the right one. Sean had a hand in just about everything from drugs, to guns, blackmail, and fraud. But his favorite thing, his pride and joy, was his trade in skin. Connor wasn't touching that—none of it.

He already did too much. His father already demanded too much—used his son's skills whenever he got the chance, and never even thanked him for it. None of that came as much of a surprise to Connor, though, as he was his father's son.

Sean had raised him like this.

"Connor," said one of the familiar men, sitting closer to the pub's entrance.

Connor nodded to the man as he passed, for respect and nothing more. It was the same show with the next few men he passed—all older, their faces withered and their hands weathered with life as they sipped from a glass or played with a stack of cards.

Old school mobsters.

Long past their prime.

Yet, the men still came into the pub at all hours of the day and night, drinking their whiskey or black stuff and keeping an eye on the place, too. That was why Connor nodded as he passed, why he gave them the respect they were due, because they had earned it.

For whatever reason, be it his last name, or the work he sometimes did, they figured he earned a nod and the occasional hello, too.

Connor hadn't even reached the bar before the bartender slid a shot of whiskey down the wood top and a fresh pint of Guinness, too. He wasn't the kind of man to drink first thing in the morning, but when it came to Tuesdays, and his father, drinking was the very least he did in order to be cordial.

Downing the shot in one go, Connor relished in the heady burn sliding down his throat. He took the liquor with him as he headed toward the back office where he knew Sean would be waiting with Lachlan, as he did every Tuesday.

Sean liked his routines.

Before Connor could even see the door of the back office, he'd downed half the bottle. He finished it entirely before he reached the door, tossing the pint into a rubbish bin. As was the rule made by Sean, Connor knocked once on the door, and waited to be called inside. His irritation bubbled the longer he was made to wait, especially when he heard the clinking of glasses and rumbling laughter coming from within the office.

Finally, Sean called out, "Come in, Connor."

He wasn't even surprised that his father called him out by name, as who the hell else would be waiting outside the office on a Tuesday morning at this early hour?

No one but Connor.

The familiar sight that waited for him inside the office did not give him that same comforting feeling of nostalgia as walking into the pub did. It was because of that—seeing his father waiting, glass in hand, familiar black eyes surveying—that he wished he didn't have to come to the pub at all; it was why his memories of the place were stained with the sense of filth.

"You're almost late," Sean noted.

Connor took his usual seat in the corner, not bothering to greet his father as all the man's underlings would with a proper handshake, or even a kiss to his hand. He didn't give a feck for those sorts of pleasantries, and he wasn't like all of his father's underlings, anyway.

"Almost isn't late, though, is it?" Connor asked.

Lachlan scoffed from his high back leather chair, positioned across from Sean's desk. "You're in a mood this morning."