Inflict: A Novel

Chapter Six

Connor stepped off his Harley, and hung his helmet on the handle bar. Running a hand through his hair to smooth back the strands, he eyed the two-level house he'd parked in front of. His father's house, actually.

He'd gotten home from the shop, only to find a note pinned to the front door of his brownstone. In no uncertain terms, Sean demanded Connor's presence before it got dark. He made the two-and-a-half hour drive on his Harley.

The slight movement of the front curtains caught Connor's attention, and he sighed. His arrival hadn't gone unnoticed, which just meant the longer he stayed outside, the more pissed off his father would likely be. He headed for the house.

Of all the things Connor hated most in life, this place was at the top of his list. This was the one place he tried to avoid more than anywhere else.

The longer he stayed inside, the more time he was forced to spend in his father's presence while he was here, and doing so made him think ... how similar was he to his father? How truly alike were they, when they stood side by side? How much of Sean—of his numbness, his coldness, and his evilness—had Connor taken with him as he grew up?

He didn't want the answers to those questions.

He didn't want to know.

The door was unlocked, and no one waited to greet him when he let himself in. Connor wasn't the least bit surprised, since Sean was home. Everyone in the cozy, safe suburb knew better than to go onto the O'Neil property, anyway. Not unless they wanted some kind of trouble to come their way.

"In the main room, lad," Sean called out, his voice carrying through the hall.

Connor didn't bother to remove his jacket or kick off his boots. That way, there was no impression he intended to stay for longer than was needed. He found his father waiting exactly where he had said, with the added addition of a quiet woman sitting on the floor at his side in a kneeling position.

The sight alone had Connor's blood pressure ticking up higher.

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.