Inflict

by Bethany-Kris

  The wind blew in from the open door, filling the house with the usual scent of winter, cold air, and … something else.

  Connor sniffed, trying to figure out where he had smelled that strange, heady scent before. It was right on the tip of his tongue—a memory wanting out, but something else snagged his attention. The conversation happening on the doorstep.

  “It was destroyed in minutes—the department didn’t have a lot to save once they got there,” the officer explained.

  Sean’s hand clenched against the door, as though he was considering shutting it. “Unfortunate.”

  “You’re telling me that you didn’t hear a thing, Mr. O’Neil? None of the sirens, nothing?”

  “I live a block away. There are patches of trees big enough for the kids around here to make trails. No, I didn’t hear anything.”

  The officer nodded. “You are the only known family member.”

  “Our father died a decade ago.”

  “My condolences.” Sean didn’t look like he cared, and so the officer continued on with, “Identification won’t be needed, but we do have another question.”

  “About what?” Sean asked.

  “Part of the house that wasn’t entirely destroyed housed the bedrooms in the bungalow. We understand your brother’s wife died—”

  “Almost five years ago. Ovarian cancer that was misdiagnosed. What does this have anything to do with what happened last night?”

  “There were no children for the couple on record—no births, none entered into the school system. None on record as having visited the family doctor your brother was known to use.”

  Now, Connor’s father was not as blank and cold as he had been before. Now, his knuckles were turning white from the pressure of squeezing the door with all his damn might.

  “There is a bedroom in that house,” the officer said, staring Sean straight in the face, “and while some of it was destroyed, there was more than enough for the men to discern toys, dresses, pink sheets, stuffed animals, and even some children’s nail polish, hidden under a charred pillow.”

  Charred.

  As soon as Connor heard that word, he sniffed the air again.

  There it was …

  That memory …

  The sulfur and burnt wood smell every time he’d hit the match head against the rough strip on the side of the cardboard package. He’d found the matches, half empty, in the junk drawer one afternoon when it was raining outside. He’d burned so many matches that his entire room smelled of smoke, ash, and burnt wood.

  “My brother and I—” Sean started to say, only to be stopped by the officer holding up a hand.

  “The bigger problem at the moment, Mr. O’Neil, is that only one body was recovered.”

  Connor let go of the memory. He had to listen to this instead. Somehow, he knew it was important, and it was probably going to hurt, but he needed to hear.

  “We know there was a child in that house—a girl—but she isn’t in there now,” the officer said. “Neighbors confirmed it. Evelyn, they said her name was. She didn’t leave the property very often, they assumed she was homeschooled by the nanny that came and went every day, and some reported they had seen the little girl playing with your son.”

  Connor stiffened, his natural urge to run beginning to settle in deep inside his gut.

  “The house is all but leveled, you said it yourself,” Sean replied.

  “Not all. Almost.”

  “Same difference. I can’t help you, but if there was a girl in that house, who’s to say she isn’t still there, under the debris somewhere?”

  “She should have been sleeping in her bed,” the officer said.

  Sean shrugged. “Children do strange things.”

  “Especially children that don’t exist.” The officer smiled, but it didn’t come off as friendly. “Blunt force trauma killed your brother, Mr. O’Neil, and he was damn close to the front door where he was found. Evidence of accelerant has been found. This is nothing like what it looks like on the outside. We’re aware of your family’s control, regarding the mob here in Jersey.”

  Sean still didn’t appear to be bothered by the information. “I don’t have anything to tell you about that, either.”

  “I bet you don’t.”

  “Get off of my steps, now.” Sean stepped back, already closing the door.

  “We’ll be back to talk again,” the officer said, his voice muffled.

  Sean let the door close before he muttered to himself, “Should have stayed in feckin’ bed.”

  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 t
he 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.

  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.”

  Sean waved a hand high. “He’s always in a mood.”

  “Only on Tuesdays,” Connor replied dryly.

  With a heavy sigh, his father leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “My apologies. Does my interest in your life affect your doodling time?”

  Connor bristled. He didn’t give his father the response Sean was probably looking for either, when he said, “Warm this morning, isn’t it?”

  “Better warm than cold. Do you want an inch of feckin’ snow on the ground or what?”

  Deflection done, Connor mused.

  “Rain would be nice,” Lachlan said.

  “Cac,” Sean barked. “Rain makes my bones hurt.”

  “My head is starting to hurt,” Connor put in before he could think better of it.

  Sean grunted, passing his son a sharp look that used to terrify him when he was a young lad, but did nothing now that he was an adult. “Don’t irritate me today. I have things to do later, and I don’t want to be in a mood because of your nonsense.”

  So be it …

  Connor knew better than to poke at the monster his father was hiding, but the bit that didn’t give a shite about Sean’s predilections to violence, found the challenge in his father’s words.

  That was probably half the problem with Connor.

  He just didn’t know when to quit.

  “Why do you bother calling me down here every week, anyway?” Connor asked. “I know it isn’t because you like seeing my face.”

  Sean’s features blanked. “Can’t a father depend on a visit from his son?”

  Not this father.

  And certainly not this father’s son.

  “This isn’t a visit, it’s a requirement. One I don’t care for.”

  Lachlan cleared his throat, and resituated himself on the chair. “Come on, now, Connor. Be nice.”

  Sean waved a hand. “Quiet, Lachlan. Connor is just … being Connor.”

  Right.

  Connor smirked.

  The only emotion Connor had ever been able to count on where Sean was concerned, was irritation. Other than that, he was sure the man felt absolutely nothing. He was a living, walking, breathing chunk of feckin’ ice that never melted, not even in the dead heat of the summer.

  He’d taken beating after beating from his father, and never once saw more than a sneer cross the man’s lips while he did it—certainly not anger, or even disappointment. He’d seen his father bury men he thought Sean might consider to be close friends, and not show an ounce of sadness for the loss. And on that vein, he’d watched Sean put bullets between the eyes of men he’d commended or praised one day, and then discarded the next, without a moment’s worth of hesitation.

  Sean felt nothing.

  He cared for no one.

  His father had only wanted one thing where Connor was concerned, and that was for his son to be, act, behave, react, and see life around them in the same way Sean did.

  Perhaps in some ways, Sean had succeeded in those goals. Connor was more like his father than he was willing to admit. He had that same taste for blood. He was prone to violence just as easily, and as viciously as his father. Not for the same reasons Sean liked it, though. Connor knew how simple it was to get what he wanted, when he could make someone else hurt for it.

  And while Connor shared his father’s general disinterest, distrust, and uncaring attitude for people and life, he knew the truth was clear. There were more than enough differences between he and his father to keep them distant from one another.

  Sean didn’t feel. Connor did, even if his father had conditioned the natural reactions of emotions out of him, for the most part.

  Sean sighed, appearing almost bored with the entire conversation. “We can’t have even one pleasant conversation, can we, lad?”

  Connor shrugged. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  His father reached for the tumbler of whiskey on the side of his desk, taking a hearty swig before resting back in his chair once more. “All right, let’s get this over with, then, since you’re so determined to work every nerve I have this morning. What do you have for me?”

  “Nothing of much interest. Same cac, different day.”

  “I doubt that, lad. You always have something.”

  More than anything, Connor just wanted to get the hell out of that office, and a
s far away from his father as he could possibly be. He hated being a spy of sorts for Sean—acting as a friend or comrade to his father’s men, or even the associates the O’Neil family had between Jersey and New York.

  Most times, he was just a spy, reporting back to Sean on deals going down between other gangs or organizations in their areas. Or even gossip, if the talk was interesting enough. Sean liked it all, because he used it all.

  Connor didn’t care for any of it. He didn’t want any part of it.

  Sean didn’t give him a choice.

  “I do have until noon,” Sean mused, almost smiling.

  Connor didn’t have much to tell, honestly, but he had to give his father something that would be to Sean’s interest, or he’d be locked there in a staring contest until lunch. “That whorehouse in Queens …”

  “What about it?” Lachlan asked.

  “Might as well take the loss; it’s a glorified crackhouse, now,” Connor said, his attention turning to his father. “David got too interested in keeping the women compliant. The only customers they’re getting up in there aren’t paying enough to keep the power on, what with the money he spends on drugs they’re using.”

  “Does—”

  “Tim knows,” Connor interrupted Lachlan before the man could jump in to try and defend the Lieutenant. “It’s been a happening for a while, apparently.”

  Connor had only tacked that bit on at the end to keep his father from thinking he had hid the information. He had, but he didn’t need Sean knowing that.

  Sometimes, saving something for a rainy day was best.

  “Hmm,” Sean said under his breath.

  “It’s too far gone. It’s not going to get turned around. They know it, no one wants to say it.” Connor chuckled, adding, “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Other than the Calabrese boss over in the city trying to slide his slimy arse into some of the auctions, no,” Connor replied.

  “Carl Calabrese isn’t my concern,” Sean said. “Bottom-feeding bastard is all he is. Is that all?”

  Connor nodded.

  “Well, get out, then.”

  Connor’s head perked up from the tip of his pocketknife that’d he’d pulled from his slacks while spilling the information he knew. A new slice bled at the tip of his digit, and he didn’t feel a thing as the crimson liquid began trickling down the underside of his thumb.