by Bethany-Kris
“Oh?”
“Fat lot of feckin’ good it did me.”
“I stayed out of sight, kept quiet. There wasn’t much else I could do.”
“Whatever, it did us no good. Not surprisingly, the Russian isn’t happy his son found his way into an alley after being beaten to death. I won’t have problems with them, but you can fix it easily enough.”
Connor’s instincts suddenly went on high alert. “First, I didn’t beat him to death. I crushed his goddamn throat, and that was how he died. He survived the beating.”
“Details. You know how I feel about those.”
He didn’t trust his father, and he didn’t entirely know why, but his suspicion was perked for one simple reason. Sean had said he made an attempt to be polite with the Russians. That was some nonsense if Connor had ever heard it—Sean didn’t make nice with nobody.
“What can I do, then?” Connor asked.
“Get rid of the father.” Sean worked on lighting his cigar as the woman made her way back into the room, her head still down, and a pint of black stuff ready for her owner to take. Once she passed it over, she legged it out of the room again at a single nod from Sean. A silent order for her to go. “He’ll be the one to cause the fuss, to name names. I thought to make him happy with something—I know the man from way back, you see—but it didn’t work.”
“So you want me to—”
“Kill him, Connor. What else?”
“And you think getting rid of him will fix the rest,” Connor muttered.
“I know it will.”
But how?
That was why Connor didn’t trust his father.
There was more than one man in every organization. There were many men.
Sean pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, and read off an address. “No wife or other children live in the home, they’re long gone. The wife took the youngest a while back and ran.”
Connor’s jaw ached from clenching so hard. “All right.”
“But you still know the rules.”
“Yeah.”
“Connor.” Sean’s black gaze landed on him again. “What are the rules?”
Jesus.
He hated his father.
“Don’t kill souls you can sell,” Connor finally said, his voice flat and monotone.
Sean smiled, but it was false and cold. “It’s been a while since you’ve done a proper job for me, I had to make sure you remembered.”
How the feck was he supposed to forget?
“I’ll get it done.”
Sean nodded. “I could have handed this off to someone else, but I do know how much you enjoy these … things, lad.”
Connor had all he could do not to respond, because as much as he wanted to deny what his father said, Sean was right.
Connor did enjoy it.
Another reminder of just how much he’d taken from Sean.
“And don’t take too long to finish it out,” Sean called out to Connor’s back as he turned to leave, “I’ve waited long enough as it is.”
Connor nearly stopped to ask his father what he meant. He decided against it, but only because he was able to leave Sean’s presence, and he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there.
It was all he had ever wanted.
• • •
Mikhail Petrov didn’t live right in the heart of Brighton, as a good majority of the Russian Bratva chose to do. No, he lived on the outskirts, the wee, old suburbs between Brighton and lower Brooklyn, where brownstones littered blocks and gave the appearance of being beyond city limits.
There was no beyond, when it came to the city.
Connor cut the engine to his Harley a good block away from the Russian’s home, and stared down the dark street. Pools of light intercepted the darkness every so often from streetlamps up above his head. He walked his bike another half of a block, weaving in and out of the parked cars on the side of the road, yet noting how the street was quiet.
As it should be, for nearly two in the morning.
Had Mikhail lived in the heart of Brighton, or even in a busier part of Brooklyn, Connor might have chosen a different time to make his presence known to the Russian mobster. This particular time of night, however, was just grand for the area. It was quiet enough, the houses and rows of brownstones were dim with sleeping occupants, and once Connor got his bike closer to the two-level home in which Mikhail lived, he would have a fast, clear getaway.
He couldn’t ask for more than that, when it came to a hit.
Yet, he could …
He could ask not to be there at all.
Connor pushed those thoughts to the side, deciding it was better if he didn’t get lost to his conscience, or rather, his lack thereof, for the evening. He didn’t feel like questioning himself on the fact that as much as he didn’t want to be there, a larger part of him still hummed with excitement and anticipation of what would come next.
He was better at denying that he wasn’t a monster, when he could pretend otherwise. He was better at denying he didn’t enjoy his ability to kill, when a victim wasn’t waiting at his feet.
Except he wasn’t better at those things at all.
Connor was no better than his father underneath the mask he wore. Sean was simply more liable to take his mask off, and show the world his truths, while he laughed in their faces and enjoyed every moment of it.
Cut from the same cloth …
Connor moved the kickstand out on the Harley once he was happy with his position. Down the street, only three houses before another long row of brownstones, stood the two-level home he needed to breach. He pulled his helmet off, and hung it on the handlebar, before making sure his black bandana was still tied firmly around the lower portion of his face. The black fabric toted a large print of the bottom half of a skull, hiding the majority of his features, but still allowing him to speak without being muffled.
That was, if he needed to.
Connor tugged on a pair of black, leather riding gloves. Not the same ones he used to ride his Harley, but a new pair, fresh off the shelf. He had a bit of a partiality to his riding gloves, and since whatever he used for the evening would have to be destroyed, he’d grabbed a second pair.
Flexing his fingers, Connor felt the new leather crack around his joints and knuckles. Damn. He didn’t like gloves at all when he was doing a job, to be honest. He much preferred bare skin, as it made the experience all the more heightened in the moment. He was able to feel the heat of the blood, or even feel the slip of his blade when it nipped his own skin.
Others in the business preferred things like gloves to separate them from the act.
Not Connor.
He liked to be in it.
The black pullover he wore was only to save his leather jacket from ruin. Connor shoved his jacket into the saddlebag on the back of the bike, and stepped off. One more check of his phone, and his father’s last message.
Even with the phone tucked safely away, and the message out of his sight, Connor wasn’t able to get rid of the words. Not from inside his mind, anyway. He could practically hear his father saying them, instead of typing the words out, and he imagined Sean had done so with his usual pleased sneer.
Take your time while you’re there. I know you like that.
In a way, his father’s orders irritated him.
In another, it made his suspicions come alive all over again.
It would be one thing, if this job had come from a place of punishment or revenge on Mikhail. Should the man deserve a painful death, one that was dragged on so that the utmost pain could be achieved, then Connor could understand.
That wasn’t the case at all.
No, this was just Sean feeding into what he already knew about his son.
Connor hated it.
Yet, a part of him was still … grateful.
He hated that even more.
Connor strolled down the street, careful to avoid stepping under any of the streetlights, just in case someone happene
d to be awake and looking out their windows. Despite knowing better, he let his thoughts wander.
What would it be like for him, if he could become more like his father?
Less prone to pretending. More able—and willing—to embrace the parts of himself that society deemed evil? Capable of not caring beyond the desire to feed into what he liked?
Would he be happy?
Connor wasn’t sure if Sean knew what happiness was, or if he had ever even felt the emotion.
That’s enough of that.
This was exactly why Connor didn’t stay stuck in his own head for too long. He didn’t like the mirror he was forced to look into, or the reflection staring back at him when he did finally give in to temptation.
It didn’t matter, Connor decided as he slipped down the pathway that would lead him to the back of the house. He had business to do.
He could go back to pretending he was normal tomorrow.
Breaching the back entrance of the house took Connor exactly twenty-three seconds. Too long, and not his best time for a break-in, but also not his worst. He always gave himself thirty clear seconds to pick a lock before he just smashed the whole feckin’ door down, but he’d yet to actually need to go that route.
Unneeded attention, after all.
Unsurprisingly, the home had no alarm system, but Connor expected that. In these parts, as well as in Jersey where his father took up residence, the houses that belonged to the bad people were well-known to even petty criminals. Nobody messed around with those homes, if they could help it. It just wasn’t smart.
Stuffing the multi-purpose tool he’d used to pick the lock back into his pocket, Connor also pulled out his weapon of choice for the evening—his favorite red pocketknife. Similar in style and appearance to the one he’d had as a child, this one was larger by two and half inches. It also had a stronger handle that was less prone to breaking, and a blade that cut through skin like a hot knife to butter.
He had many knives—too many to be normal, likely—but this one had been a gift. From his father, of course. One of the very few Sean had given him over his lifetime.
For whatever reason, Connor kept going back to that particular knife, time and time again. It wasn’t something he wanted to look deeper into than he already did.
The house was dark, a silence echoing down the back hallway, while a light flickered somewhere toward the other end. A television likely, probably turned on mute, guessing by the lack of sound.
Connor still stepped lightly as he went in that direction, knowing that appearances were absolutely deceiving in every sense of the word. Just because the house had no alarm, and it was quiet inside, meant nothing.
High ranking members of criminal organizations did not live in the realms of stupidity and ignorance like the rest of the world did. Those men were always prepared—always ready and waiting.
Connor walked forward with that knowledge forefront in his mind.
He passed a bathroom, a kitchen, and an equally-empty study as he neared the spot where the light from the TV was spilling out into the hallway. Just as he came up to the arch-shaped entryway, Connor stopped, his entire form turning into a statue.
The flickering light from the television had stopped for the briefest second, but not because it had been shut off. No, because the light continued to reflect on the hallway wall just the same way as it had been before. It was the briefest flash of something—a shadow—that hindered the flickering light.
And then …
Connor took a single step forward, carefully and quietly.
A floorboard creaked, but it wasn’t from his movements.
He almost chuckled, but that wouldn’t have helped his situation. Instead, Connor purposely took a heavy step, making sure it would be heard loud and clear, and hoping his intended target would act accordingly.
The man did exactly that.
A form came rushing out of the entryway of the main room, a metal bat in hand and wearing only a pair of slacks. The man was already swinging as he came out, looking half-pissed, half-drunk, and ready to kill. Had Connor been a step closer, that bat would have met the side of his feckin’ head.
“Nice swing,” Connor muttered as the man’s eyes met his. The man glanced at his eyes, and then down to the skull bandana covering the lower half of his face. “But you’re still a bit of a bollocks, being drunk and all, eh?”
“Wh—”
Connor didn’t have the desire or patience to listen to a drunk Russian spew profanity at him, or question his motives. He figured it was obvious enough why he was there, and now that he was there, Connor’s anticipation to get the show going was revving and roaring.
The Russian reacted slower than Connor expected, raising the bat for another swing but already too late. Connor grabbed the head of the bat. At the same time, he lifted his knife with careful precision, slicing across four of the man’s knuckles as he yanked the bat towards him.
The man dropped the bat with a shout, pulling his bloody hand towards him at the same time Connor flung the bat backwards down the hall, forgetting the weapon in an instant. It wasn’t important now, it couldn’t be used.
“Mikhail, right?” Connor asked.
Connor ticked the man under his jaw with his knife, forcing the guy to look up at him, to stare him straight in his eyes and not get distracted by other wee things that were unimportant. All too soon, the only thing the man would see was the color red as he watched Connor hurt him. Better he got used to the face he was able to see, now.
“Right?” Connor pressed, spinning the tip of his blade ever so gently down the man’s throat.
“Da.”
Connor tipped his head to the side, recognizing the Russian term as confirmative. “For reference, if you’re going to speak to me in your mother tongue like a feckin’ eejit, I’ll just cut the bastard right out and save us both the hassle.”
That seemed to do the trick.
“Mikhail is my name, yes,” the man said slowly.
His gaze took in the tattoos on the man—the most obvious ones he knew were important to the Russians’ and their culture—a set of stars on the clavicle bones, epaulettes on the shoulders. As old as the man was, with his graying, receding hair, weathered skin and his rounded stomach, his body was a canvas of artwork.
Connor simply didn’t have the time to appreciate the work.
Mikhail was practically naked, and while he didn’t smell of booze, he was clearly drunk, likely from vodka. The smash of the bat hitting the wall had not been quiet, and neither had Mikhail’s shout from being cut across his hand, which was now causing quite a puddle of red on the floor and his feet.
None of those details mattered much, except for what they meant.
No one else was home.
Perhaps no one lived here with the man, no wife, daughter, or other sons as Sean had said weeks earlier when he’d passed this task on. That meant, for Connor, this job was … ridiculously easy.
Still, Connor wanted to be sure. “No wife?”
Mikhail swallowed hard as the knife was dragged over his bobbing Adam’s apple. “Suka left me years ago.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re Sean’s boy, no?”
Connor refused to give any sort of reaction to being recognized, simply shrugged. “Good guess.”
“Not a guess,” the Russian murmured. “Your eyes—they’re the same as your father’s. Not as dead, perhaps, but still the same, yes?”
“We’re not that alike.”
“It’s enough, boy.”
Connor kept one eye on his knife, and the other on any reaction coming from Mikhail. Although, if he were honest, the Russian seemed almost … resigned. As though he had expected this, or something of the sort, and maybe he had been waiting for it.
Who was Connor to say?
“Your father is a bastard,” Mikhail said, his tone strong though his voice was quiet, “one that cannot be trusted.”
“This isn’t news.”
; “You could at least apologize for my son, even if this has nothing to do with him in the end.”
“What else is it about, then?”
Mikhail smiled a sad sight. “You’ll find out soon enough. An apology, yes?”
Connor eyed the man, gaging his intentions. “You do realize I’m going to skin you alive, right?”
He liked the cuts.
He liked the way they bled.
He didn’t have to explain why.
“A bullet would be faster.”
“I don’t like fast.”
Mikhail released a sigh, shaky and heavy all at once. “Neither does your father.”
Yes.
Because even if they were different, they were still the same.
Connor didn’t offer that apology; he had nothing to be sorry for. Instead, he gave the Russian something else. “I made it quick. Quicker than this will be, Mikhail.”
Mikhail nodded.
Good enough.
Connor’s knife made its first cut before Mikhail was even capable of realizing his throat had been sliced with a tiny slit. The quickest move, one Connor had perfected and learned over the years, and Mikhail’s vocal cords were cut as his mouth fell open and blood began to fall in rivulets down his tattooed body.
The puddle of blood on the floor grew larger.
Connor felt calmer.
He knew this better than anything else.
He enjoyed the sounds a man usually made while he died, but being in a densely-populated area with neighbors close by, it was not something Connor could afford. That didn’t mean it would be easy, or fast, for the Russian. It just meant he would be reduced to grunts, gagging, and gurgles for the next hour.
Mikhail’s hands came up to his throat, his fingertips dancing over the cut and the fresh blood. The sounds he made were almost guttural—of pain and surprise; of fear and anger.
Before he could think to attack, Connor moved again, making sure his victim would be appropriately rendered incapable as he finished his job. He twisted Mikhail in one arm, turning the man as his blade sliced deep into the backs of the man’s knees, cutting the tendons, and forcing him to fall limp like a ragdoll. He didn’t do the same to his elbows.