The Tattoo Artist (La Petite Mort #1)

52. Chapter 52

fifty-two

Quinn

F ive Months Later, Sometime in October

I hadn't spoken to Alexander since the day I left him and my sister, I mean my mother, crying, begging me to give them a chance to explain. I moved to the United States when I was awarded a scholarship to attend a school in New York City. This was my fresh start away from the lies and the secrets.

Alexander stayed away, but that changed the moment I landed in New York. I wished I could have kept my distance, but it was nearly impossible when Deimos held a part of me. Not giving Alexander a chance to explain was the biggest regret I had.

I missed the part of me that enjoyed watching Deimos kill, which was why I was on my way to the psychiatric clinic where they kept my mother. I haven't spoken to or met my father, but based on what my mother told me, he wanted to meet me. My mother, Athena, showed up on my birthday almost two months ago, and the truth about what my grandparents did was horrifying.

I snatched my backpack from the kitchen counter and headed out the door when suddenly my mother, Athena, stood there, her hand raised in a fist like she was ready to knock. I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat.

She was here.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," she said with tears in her eyes. The tears that had stung my eyes fell. For the first time in my life, I had a mother who remembered my birthday.

"Quinn, can we please talk?" My mother pleaded. I nodded my head and moved aside, letting her into my studio apartment. I took a seat across from her, watching her every move. I observed my mother and looked closely at her hair color and nose. She sighed.

"I was fifteen when I met your father. He was going to our sister school, an all-boys catholic school.We met during one of the field trips that our schools did. It was a whirlwind romance, but it was short-lived. When I found out I was pregnant, my parents were very angry—" She paused, taking a deep breath and doing her best to control her emotions.

"Very angry. I was a disgrace to the Conner family. They pulled me out of school and locked me inside my room," she confessed, her eyes welled with tears.

"I didn't get a chance to tell Paddy—Padraig I was pregnant. After I gave birth, your grandparents made sure that I never got to see you again. They stole my baby," she admitted, tears stained her cheeks.

I, too, was crying, listening to my mom talk about the horrible things my grandparents did to her. How could they steal their grandchild? How could they drug their daughter so that she would lose her mind slowly?

They locked her up as if she were a prisoner. Her only crime was to fall in love with an Irish boy from a mafia family.She finished telling me about what she had gone through for the past seventeen years. I clutched her hand within mine, and before I realized what I was doing, I was out of my chair and wrapping my arms around my mother, crying alongside her.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered on my knees, praying to God that my mother would forgive me.

The psychiatric clinic my mother was held in was not far from whereI lived. The past four weeks have been dedicated to researching the clinic. I had Owen pull blueprints to get in and out without getting caught.

The box I kept with information about Deimos included newspaper articles. One was about an unethical doctor who, for the right price, would do whatever needed to be done. The nurse who helped him suffered the same fate. Then, there was an article about the death of a record clerk. The same clerk who forged my birth certificate. Deimos killed all these people, and for that, I would always be indebted to him.

But the psychiatric director, the doctor, and the nurse who destroyed my mom's life were mine to kill. Deimos gave me the perfect weapon: a medieval dagger that was very effective when it came to piercing someone's heart or slitting their throat.

I entered the clinic through the employee entrance, swiped the badge I had stolen from the reception area, and headed for the director's office, avoiding the cameras. I needed to do this to finish what Deimos started two years ago.

I wanted their blood.

As I slowly entered his office, he looked up, staring back at the younger image of the woman whose life he helped destroy.

"Cara," he whispered.

I shook my head, raising my hands to remove my hoodie, revealing more of myself. "It looks like you' ve seen a ghost," I joked, watching his face pale and lose color.

"I'm Quinn," I emphasized as I closed the gap between us. He stood there frozen behind his desk, and I—well, I stood across from him. The only thing separating us was his large oak desk. I could see he was debating reaching for the phone, which would be a very bad decision on his part.

He reached for the phone and wrapped his fingers around the headset. He didn't see it coming as I threw my dagger, piercing through his hand. He screamed in agony. "Shhh," I teased at the same time. I motioned with my index finger against my lips for him to be quiet.

"No, one is coming to help you, director."

I watched his fearful expression and tears run down his cheeks. Even though I wanted to take my time and make him suffer, I couldn't. I needed to be out before the next shift started. "Sit down," I ordered.

I smirked, watching him take a seat, his hand pinned down on his desk with my dagger. I made my way around and stood behind him. I leaned forward to retrieve my dagger as I clutched the hilt and pulled it. He screamed in pain as he watched, horrified. I used my free hand to muffle his screams. His head was tilted up, looking at the ceiling. I replaced his view of the ceiling with my face as I hovered over him, a satisfied smirk on my face. "This is for Cara Athena Connor," I revealed, and at the same time I slit his throat. I let go of his head, which fell forward. I wiped my dagger clean on his clothes.

Reaching into the back pocket of my jeans, I pulled out a poker card with Deimos's sign of death on it. I wasn't sure what urged me to do it, but I guess I was sending Alexander a message. I forced his mouth open and shoved that poker card down his throat.

I closed the door gently behind me as I walked the clinic halls with a sinister smirk on my face, and just like the director, one by one went down that night—first, the director, then the doctor, and lastly, the nurse who abused my mother.