by Bethany-Kris
The Russian raised the knife again, but Connor was already reacting, having chosen what he was about to do with the few seconds he had. Ivan wasn’t going to give him a choice in the matter, not if he’d brought a knife into the zone with intentions to kill.
That just meant Connor would have to kill him first.
As Ivan’s knife raised, Connor’s fist slammed into the man’s right side, the one he knew would get the most reaction. Ivan’s roar of pain was punctuated by another swipe with the knife, and it happened to catch Connor just below his jaw.
He was already moving onto his next move, not able to think on the weapon for too long, before he hit Ivan again, hard enough to send him to his knees. That was exactly where Connor wanted him. There, he was weak. There, he had no openings. There, he was already dead.
Ivan looked up at the same time Connor’s bloodied fist, soaked from the cut leaking in his arm, smashed into his face. He probably could have left it at that, and walked from the cage with Ivan sprawled out on his back, damn near knocked out.
Maybe he should have.
Mercy, after all.
He didn’t think for even a moment that it would make a difference to the Russian, once the man woke up and got his bearings again. He’d been bested—twice. Humiliated in front of some of his people, likely.
A damn shame …
Before anyone could even climb into the cage to declare the winner, or stop Connor from going further, he finished it entirely. His bare foot came down on Ivan’s windpipe, crushing the man’s airway instantly.
There would be no time to help him.
Not before he suffocated.
Connor thought—as he climbed from the cage—that he might have to answer for taking the Russian’s life, simply because of the man’s last name and his affiliations, but he figured this had been a gift of sorts.
One only the dead Russian might understand.
“Shite, mate,” Danny said, his arms full of Connor’s belongings as he came up beside him. Connor’s feet had just hit the floor again. “You’ve got some angry Russians in here now. Get out of here.”
Connor didn’t need to be told twice.
Looks like he wouldn’t be getting that payday.
Feckers.
• • •
The old brownstone in upper Brooklyn was one of the two places Connor liked to call home. That was, when he was able. A good seventy percent of his time was spent in New York doing business—as that’s where his business was located—but for the other thirty percent, he needed to be in New Jersey for his father.
It was, in addition to the tattoo shop he owned, a place so far removed from Sean and the rest of his father’s nonsense, that Connor felt almost … safe. The brownstone needed some outside work, but he didn’t care to get on it.
No, it was the inside where Connor put all his effort. Earthy tones and wide-open spaces. High ceilings and modern fixtures. Cherry oak floors, and enough windows to let all the natural light in. He had a space to think, another to work, and his bedroom to play.
The interior designer that had spent weeks pestering the feck out of him had been worth it, for how the brownstone turned out.
Connor padded down the hallway in nothing but boxer-briefs, heading toward the brownstone’s kitchen where he would find coffee to wake his arse up properly. His gaze drifted over the familiar artwork on the walls, most of which he had created and then carefully spent hours deciding exactly where each piece should be hung in the place.
It was both relaxing and bothersome to him, when he thought about drawing, painting, or anything of the sort. He never felt more in control than when he had a piece of paper under his hand, and a pencil in the other. And yet at the same time, he was reminded of a pretty green-eyed, blonde girl that had been his reason for picking up a pencil one cold winter afternoon.
Connor hadn’t been nearly as good, when he’d first started drawing, as he remembered wee Evelyn to be. At least, not like his childhood memories highlighted her talent. Actually, he’d been downright terrible at it, but with practice, he’d come out a pretty decent artist.
Somehow.
Connor focused on his task in the kitchen. His gaze skipped over the new bruises and cuts on his knuckles as he fished a cup out of the cupboard. He felt the pain from the fight the night before a hell of a lot more today. Especially after he had downed a couple of shots of whiskey before he jumped into the shower and then fell into bed the night before.
He’d taken care of his cuts—the ones from the knife, anyway. Superglue, a lot of effin’ and blindin’, and he was wonderful. Grand, even. As long as he gave his arm a few days to rest, the cut would heal without issue.
Connor could do that.
He’d just lifted his coffee cup to take his first sip, when the screeching ring from his cell phone had him growling under his breath. He seriously considered ignoring the call, but headed that way, despite his irritation.
“Aye?” Connor asked the second he put the phone to his ear.
He probably should have checked the caller ID first.
“How’s ‘bout ye?”
Connor’s guard went up instantly.
“Sean,” Connor replied carefully.
He didn’t need to be told why his father was calling, he knew. The fight; the Russian he’d left for dead. All that talk had likely made its way around to the important people who would want to know, including Sean.
“I asked a question, didn’t I?” his father asked.
“Knackered, but other than that, shite’s grand.”
“Oh?”
“I suppose.”
Sean hummed on his end of the line. “I heard you got a busted mouth and eye from acting like a damn fool with those shower of savages in Brighton.”
Connor glanced upwards, wishing he had more patience. Except he didn’t. “My face is feckin’ grand. A wee nick under me jaw. That’s nothing. The bastard came at me with a knife. What did you want me to do?”
“If you want money—”
“I ain’t working for you, not like you want me to,” Connor said, sneering. “I do perfectly well on my own with cash, all right?”
“You gain unneeded attention with those fights, Connor.”
“I also gain information you like to know, Sean.”
His father spat out a disgusted noise.
“I want you to come down to the house today,” Sean finally said.
“Not going to happen.”
“And why the hell not?”
“Because I’m in Brooklyn. I’m not making that trip to Jersey today.”
“You’re working my good nature, lad,” Sean muttered heavily.
Connor didn’t have a care to give; he was more interested in tracing the new cut on his arm. “Shame, ain’t it?”
“Damn ignorant. That’s what you are—gobshite.”
And arrogant.
A petty prick.
Nasty most mornings.
Bitchy when he was hungry.
What did it matter?
“I didn’t get this way on my own, though, did I?” Connor asked. “You need a better insult if you mean to hurt me, Sean.”
Connor knew better than to poke at his father’s wee bit of patience, especially when he was quite aware Sean already had a feckin’ bone to pick with him.
“All right, then, since you want to make funny this morning,” his father snapped, “then we’ll be feckin’ funny. You caused a problem last night, one I didn’t need. That Russian you killed—his father’s got a close hand in with the Pakhan for the Bratva. You think they’re going to let that go without some kind of retribution?”
Sean barked out a laugh. “No, Connor. They won’t.”
Connor sighed. “What do you want me to do about it? I could have let the guy kill me, I suppose.”
“I’m starting to think I should have done that ages ago!”
Sean’s roar was so loud, Connor had to hold the phone away from his ear.
Fec
k.
Maybe this was more serious than he had thought. Connor only knew the basics of the Russians in Brighton and their organization, because he didn’t want to be too involved with anyone. He gave the same respect to the Italians in New York, the ones in Chicago, Vegas, Canada, and the cartels his father worked with in Mexico for his business.
“You’re going to fix this,” Sean said. “I’m not sure how yet, but once I figure it out, your stupid arse will be the first to know.”
Connor scowled. “Grand.”
“Oh, and, Connor?”
“What?”
“Stay in Brooklyn for a while—maybe you’re not as ignorant as I thought, since you knew to stay where you are. If I have to see your face, I might skin it clean off.”
The phone call disconnected.
That was that.
• • •
The Ink Shoppe, the sign read above his head. Or, the Shoppe, as Connor would call the business at times.
The lights inside were on, and the door was unlocked, so Connor knew at least one of his artists were inside, prepping for their first client of the day. Once he was inside, Connor shrugged off his leather jacket and hung it up on the hook along the wall, his gaze scanning the business. Clean floors, bright lights, and colorful walls stared back at him. The familiar sterile smell in the air reminded him of a hospital, but it was also comforting in a way that hospitals couldn’t provide.
This was his second home.
Like his brownstone, his tattoo shop was untouchable.
It was his.
The main floor of the business was used for the girl who worked the front desk, for customers to sit in the common area, or to look over the many designs on the walls and decide what they wanted. But for tattoos and piercings? All that happened in the back, a section of the business that was hidden from view from the main floor, with several rooms sectioned off for the three artists and one piercer that worked the place.
“Aye, who’s in the back?” Connor called out.
The answering buzz of a tattoo machine rang out. “George, man.”
Connor almost smiled. George had been the first artist Connor hired three years ago, when he opened the place, and quickly discovered he had more clients than he could handle in a week. Strolling toward the back, Connor found George in his work space, cleaning his machine and getting his area prepped for an early client.
“Where have you been the last couple of weeks, boss?” George asked.
The man didn’t even look up from his chair as he wiped it down with alcohol. Anyone who looked at the artist probably wouldn’t know what to make of him—God knew Connor hadn’t, when the guy walked in, saying he would take the job. George dressed, talked, and behaved like he had walked out of a hand-me-down riches family, and even his bowtie never left his neck. Slacks, blazers, and never a hair out of place.
Connor had never even seen a single tattoo on the guy, but he was a great artist, and he had clients who swore by him. Even Connor had more than enough of George’s work on his own body to know it was all true.
“Busy,” Connor said, lying through his teeth.
Two weeks ago, he’d killed the damn Russian in the fight. He decided to follow his father’s words, and keep as low of a profile as he could at the brownstone for a while. Sean hadn’t bothered to call him again, not even to bitch about Connor missing their weekly meet twice.
He figured it all must have blown over.
It’d been long enough.
“Client today?” George asked.
Connor shrugged, leaning in the doorway. “No, I just figured I’d be here if we had a walk-in.”
“Summer won’t be in until noon.”
The girl who did all the piercings for clients.
“And Killian?” Connor asked.
George glanced up at his boss. “I don’t know about him.”
Connor cocked a brow. “Pardon?”
“He’s been in and out. I figured you would know more about him, since he only uses this place as a rest stop, anyway.”
That was true, to an extent.
Killian was a … friend. Of sorts. He also ran a crew for Connor’s father, which took up a great deal of his time. Connor didn’t ask a lot about it, because he didn’t care to know, and Killian didn’t offer information. He did use the shop as a getaway of sorts, when he needed to clear his head.
Connor understood that need.
“I’m just saying that you could probably open up the room for a full-time artist, if this isn’t what Killian wants to be doing on a regular basis,” George said.
George basically ran the place since Connor had to come and go sometimes. He understood where the artist was coming from. “I’ll make a call, and see what Killian has to say.”
“Sure, sure.”
Connor turned away as George’s phone buzzed on the counter, ready to go set up another room in case someone did walk in spur of the moment.
“Well, fuck,” George muttered.
No one said whatever fancy family George had come from did a damn thing for his crassness.
“Problem?” Connor called from the next room.
“Client canceled.”
“Cac.”
George poked his head into Connor’s room. “Yeah. You need something new to add, right? And hey, I’ve got the room ready. Luck of the Irish. Interested?”
Connor smirked. Was that even a serious question? He never said no to ink. “Boyo, I already agreed, when you said I needed something new.”
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. Sea
n’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.
He didn’t know why she had made it this long—two years—but she was still there.
“You make her nervous,” Sean said.
Connor’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“It—the girl, you make her nervous when you’re around. She gets skittish, like a feckin’ deer.”
“I don’t even look at her.”
Or speak to her.
It was better if he didn’t.
Connor couldn’t help her.
He hadn’t been able to help any of them.
“Exactly,” Sean said. “You act as though she doesn’t exist. Everyone else at least acknowledges that she’s here. She doesn’t know what to make of you, I suspect.”
“Probably the same way she saw you when you brought her here, right?”
Sean didn’t answer that one.
Not that Connor expected him to.
“Since you’re not interested in staying for a drink, let’s get this over with,” Sean said, pushing up from his chair. Connor didn’t move from his spot, even as his father reached over and plucked a cigar from a box. “I thought to clean up your mess with the Russians, show face, be polite, and all that rubbish.”