If The Seas Catch Fire (35 page)

He wanted them to let her be, though. Just for a little while. Not for his sake—he’d be long gone before it occurred to anyone that it might’ve been him. He just wanted her to have a little bit of peace.

There’d be a burial. A tasteful plot and a headstone that didn’t tell the whole story. The home had promised him time and again that if anything happened to him before she died, they’d make sure that when the time came, she had a service and a respectful burial, and he believed them. He didn’t need to attend himself. There was no more peace to be made. Her soul was hopefully resting now, and her body was in the hands of people who’d sworn she’d be properly laid to rest.

His only hope was that he’d given her, in death, the peace she should’ve had in life.

When he reached the parking lot, he got in the car and drove away, and he didn’t look in the rearview as he left the home for the last time.

The heat of the day weighed down on Dom’s neck and shoulders as he walked up the path. He could still see his car from here, and sweat was already beading on his forehead and beneath his hair.

The path was mostly overgrown now, but Dom had memorized it. He wasn’t supposed to know the way through here. The first time he’d walked this path, following the narrow, winding strip of barely-trampled dirt, his only thoughts had been to keep up with his uncle’s long strides. On the way back down to the car in the darkness, he’d focused intently on memorizing everything. He’d counted his steps, counted the bends and switchbacks, made damn sure he committed those numbers to memory. Although Corrado had forbidden him from coming here again, and had probably convinced himself that a twelve year-old would never find his way back to that spot anyway, Dom had been determined to return. Countless times over the years, he’d done exactly that.

As he stepped into the clearing this time, a chill prickled his sweat-dampened skin.

There was no sign that the dirt had ever been disturbed. Hardy coastal desert plants had taken over, climbing one on top of each other like creeping ivy. Between the wind, the vines, and the occasional rainfall over the last twenty-three years, there was no trace of the indentations Dom’s bony knees had made in the dirt that night. The smooth, flat spots where shovels had tamped down on freshly overturned soil—long gone.

It was silent out here, perfectly still. In the distances, seagulls cried and the surf lapped at the shoreline, but here in this tiny, shaded place, everything was quiet. All these years later, Dom couldn’t step into this clearing without his ears ringing.

When his uncle had brought him here the first time, Dom had been surprised to see Papa there in the clearing. He wasn’t alone. There was a priest lurking in the background. Dom didn’t recognize him, but the man had on the distinctive white collar and clutched what must’ve been a Bible to his chest.

Also in the shadows were two of Uncle Corrado’s lieutenants—huge burly men, both from the Old Country—standing behind the priest. The ground had been dug up. A big hole. As Dom and Corrado entered the clearing, Papa had faced them, sweat pouring off his face, dirt on his trousers and blood on his shirt, and his eyes had grown huge.

He’d dropped the shovel in his hand and pointed at Dom. “Why is he here?”

Why are
you
here, Papa?
He’d told the whole family goodbye. Why was he upset that Dom had come here? Did he
want
to leave him and Mama?

“This is between you and me, Corrado,” Dom’s father had growled, but there’d been a note of desperation in his voice. A plea that Dom now understood—
do what you must, but not in front of him
.

“This is a family matter,” Corrado had said coldly. “Your son is family. And he needs to understand what happens when family turns on family.”

Cringing, Dom had braced himself. He’d seen men beaten for their crimes before. Sometimes a man needed an attitude adjustment, Felice—then fourteen—liked to joke, and Corrado would chuckle and agree. Dom had steeled himself, sick at the thought of watching his father get beaten by the burly goons standing in the shadows, but it was the way things were.

“Corrado,” Papa begged. “Please. Don’t—”

Corrado went over to him and put an arm around him, and he murmured something in his ear. Something Dom couldn’t make out, but something that made Papa’s shoulders sag. When Corrado let him go, Papa kept his eyes down and knelt at the edge of the hole in the ground.

Dom’s blood had turned to ice. What was happening?

Corrado put a hand on Papa’s shoulder. “If you’d like to say anything to your son, now is the time.”

Papa closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Looked at Dom. “Tell Mama I love her. And I love you.” He’d swallowed hard, and something in his gaze intensified as he whispered, “And remember
everything
I told you.”

“And while you’re at it”—Corrado withdrew a pistol from inside his jacket—“remember that family comes first. And if it doesn’t…”

The gunshot must’ve echoed for miles. Instantly, the whole world had fallen silent, but not silent enough. Though Dom’s ears had immediately started ringing, and he’d clamped his hands over them in terror, it hadn’t been enough to drown out the sick thud of Papa’s body hitting the ground. Or the thud of his own knees when he dropped onto them.

His father hadn’t fallen completely into the hole, so the lieutenants picked him up and tossed him in, and the thud again reverberated through the ground and into Dom’s knees and echoed inside his head.

Corrado crouched beside him and hugged him gently, speaking so softly that Dom could barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. “Loyalty is critical, Domenico. Loyal to the family, sworn to omerta. Or…” He’d gestured at Papa. “Or this.”

Dom shook himself. In all the years that had gone by, he’d never forgotten the smell of gunpowder mingling with Corrado’s aftershave.

Gazing down at the place where Papa remained undisturbed to this day, Dom took a deep breath “I never forgot what you said. You were right about this life. It’s a fucking viper, and anyone who picks it up is bound to get bitten. But I’m getting out of it. I found a way out.” He pushed his shoulders back. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. For all I know, I might be joining you soon. But I won’t be coming back here. I… if this thing works, I’ll be leaving Cape Swan and never coming back, which means I can never…” He sighed. “I wanted to say goodbye one last time.”

He stood there for a while, just staring at the seemingly benign ground before he finally whispered, “Goodbye, Papa.”

And then, for the final time, he turned and walked away.

Sergei and Dom wanted some answers, and Sergei was pretty sure he knew who had them. Through one of their mutual contacts, he reached out to Tumino.

“I need to discuss the job,” was all he let on.

As always, they met in the guesthouse. And as always, Sergei was on guard. Especially after such a high-profile job, there was always the risk of a hitman being taken out rather than risking him bragging to someone about the kill. He checked his perimeter motion sensors, and then led Dom inside.

Tumino was in the living room, as was his custom, and Sergei went in by himself.

The man grimaced, shifting on the couch as his innards bubbled audibly. “So it’s done?”

“Not exactly.”

Tumino glared up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Behind Sergei, Dom stepped into the room.

Tumino’s eyes widened. His puffy cheeks lost some color. “Oh, Jesus.” He reached for the phone on the table, but Sergei grabbed it first.

“Make so much as a peep,” Sergei growled, setting the phone out of reach. “And you’ll be dead well before security gets here.”

Tumino gulped. “What the hell is this?”

“We’ve got some questions,” Dom said. “And it seems you’re a man who might have some answers.”

“No, no.” Tumino scooted to the edge of the couch, groaning as he did. “No, I’m not gonna get involved in this.” He started to get up, but froze when Dom pulled out a pistol.

“Sit. The fuck. Down.”

Sergei glanced at Dom, eyebrows up. Shit. He had a bigger spine than Sergei’d thought.

Tumino wisely sat back down. He leaned against the back of the sofa. “What do you two want?”

“I want to know how far back Felice is involved in all this shit,” Dom said. “Is it true that he called in the hit on me?”

Tumino gulped. “I…”

“Answer the question,” Dom said in a low growl that made Sergei shiver. He hadn’t seen this side of him before. Dom stepped closer, Tumino’s eyes tracking the pistol. “Come on. Fucking answer, or—”

“You know I can’t say nothing.” Tumino shifted, grimacing painfully. “I can’t talk just like you can’t talk.”

“I couldn’t give a fuck less about omerta right now, asshole,” Dom said. “As long as I’m alive, I am the boss of the Maisano organization. Which means I can order a bullet into your head if I’m so inclined. I could even ask the Georgian to fire it for me.”

Tumino’s eyes flicked toward Sergei.

“So.” Dom folded his arms. “You ready to talk?”

The man still didn’t speak.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Sergei held out his hand. “Give me the gun.”

Dom hesitated, but gave it to him, butt first.

Tumino watched the exchange and paled.

Sergei stepped in front of him, dug the gun into a couch cushion beside Tumino, and fired. The couch muffled the shot enough that it wouldn’t draw attention from the main house, but it was still enough to leave his ears ringing a bit.

He jammed the pistol against Tumino’s forehead.

Tumino pressed his lips together, wisely stifling what was probably a scream.

“Hot, isn’t it?” Sergei snarled.

“You son of a—”

“Tell us what we want to know, or your balls are next.” He shoved the weapon into the man’s crotch, and when Tumino whimpered, he added, “Don’t think I won’t shoot one of them off if you keep testing my patience.”

“You fucking psycho! You’re—”

“I’m going to give you a ballistic vasectomy if you don’t—”

“All right! All right!” The man gulped. “I’ll talk.”

Sergei withdrew the gun and stepped back. “You’ve got five seconds to start talking.”

“Okay, okay.” Tumino fidgeted on the couch, eyeing the bullet hole. “It’s Felice. Everything… it all goes back to him.”

Dom’s expression hardened. “Tell us more.”

Tumino nodded. “Felice’s been pulling the strings from the start. The orders never come directly from him. It’s always one of his boys. But I know who’s in charge. They give me the order, and I pass it on to, well…” He nodded toward Sergei. “A while back, after Barcia was killed, Felice was pissed off that Corrado wouldn’t authorize a hit on the boys who did him in. He knew he needed to raise the ante to get Corrado to fire back.” He gestured at Dom. “So he had someone rough you up.”

Dom blinked. “Felice ordered that?”

Tumino nodded. “He didn’t think the men who did it would wind up dead, but they did, and that gave him even more leverage against the Cusimanos.”

Sergei and Dom exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“It’s the same reason he wanted you offed out on the boat that day—because if his father realized you’d been killed, and he saw how easily it could’ve been Felice, he’d have had no choice but to retaliate. After Corrado didn’t react when Felice had Eugenio Cusimano framed for killing Nicolá Cannizzaro, he—”

“Wait, what?” Dom cocked his head. “So who
did
kill Cannizzaro?”

Sergei thumbed the trigger guard. Heart speeding up, he said, “I did.”

Dom’s eyes widened. “What?”

“I was specifically paid to make it look like Eugenio killed him.”

“So then…” Dom shook his head. To Tumino, he said, “Are you saying Felice arranged for Sergei to kill Cannizzaro and make it look like Cusimano did it, so that Corrado would issue a contract on Cusimano?”

Tumino nodded. “So Corrado had Eugenio taken out, but Raffaele Cusimano didn’t retaliate the way Felice wanted him to, so Felice had to stir the pot a little more.”

“But
why
?” Dom asked.

“Because he wanted the families at war. The more he could convince his father that the Cusimanos were getting violent, the more he could convince his father to respond with the same.” Tumino squirmed, grimacing, though it was hard to say if the discomfort came from his condition or the looming threats. “Once things were going to shit, he could get his brother and father out of the way, and take over the family without anyone thinking twice.” He stared up at them. “That’s all I know. I don’t know what else I can say.”

“That’s what we needed.” Sergei pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “But before we go, I want to get one thing very, very clear.” He unfolded the paper and held it where Tumino could see it, and then pressed the gun to his forehead again. “You see this?”

Tumino shifted his gaze, holding his head perfectly still. “Yeah?”

“You recognize those addresses?”

Tumino squinted, and then the color rushed out of his face. “Those are my children’s addresses.”

“Uh-huh. They are.” Sergei slid the paper back into his pocket. “If I have even the faintest reason to believe you’re squealing to anyone about this conversation, or that you haven’t kept your mouth shut about any of this, I will—”

“I believe you!” Tumino showed his palms. “Just don’t hurt my kids.”

“Good. We understand each other.” Sergei looked at Dom and jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

They made a quick escape, hurrying off the property to where Sergei’s car was parked a half mile or so down the road.

As Dom buckled his seatbelt, he cleared his throat. “Would you… would you actually go after his kids?”

“No.” Sergei casually put the car in gear. “But as long as he believes I will, he’ll keep his trap shut.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He will.”

*              *              *

It took a few days to put their plan in motion.

While Sergei made sure weapons were in place and every aspect of security and escape routes were taken into consideration. Dom had to continue playing the role of newly minted boss. On the surface, it seemed dangerous, letting him go anywhere near the men who wanted him dead, but the truth was, Dom could walk safely amongst the Mafiosi. Not despite the contract on his head—because of it. If Sergei had been contracted to kill him, then only Sergei had been contracted. Otherwise, after the deed was done, the other contracted hitmen could go to the police and point to whoever had paid them to commit the same crime, while walking away scot free.

Odds were, no one knew Dom was a marked man except for those directly involved in assigning the hit, and none of them would make an unsanctioned move on a made man, never mind a boss. Dom was effectively bulletproof.

And his brazenly high profile was driving Felice Maisano insane.

“He’s getting antsy,” Dom said as he and Sergei sifted through papers in his office late one night. “He isn’t saying much, but he’s definitely not happy.”

“Let him squirm.” Sergei pushed a stack of folders across the desk. “He’s too much of a fucking coward to meet me face to face even if I’d let him. I’m sure Tumino’s keeping him placated, though.”

Dom chuckled. “Good.” He stuffed some envelopes into a box that would be dropped at the post office tomorrow. In between planning their takedown, not to mention Dom going through the motions as boss, they’d been sneaking in here during the night, burning the midnight oil as they sent legal documents to the hundreds of immigrants on the Maisanos’ payroll.

With each sealed envelope, an immigrant family received their legal citizenship, and a letter stating their debt had been wiped clean. They owed the organization nothing. By the end of the last night, the entire payroll was gone and the ledger was blank. Now, even if Sergei and Dom were killed, they’d dealt a crippling blow. Without labor, the whole operation would fall apart. They needed desperate immigrants as drug mules to collect the coke bricks from the crab pots and smuggle them through the marina.

Dom wasn’t worried about anyone back-tracking and telling the people that, no, their debts were not canceled. They were too worried about their image, and for once, that would work in Dom’s favor—no one wanted to give the impression that the Maisanos went back on their word.

When they were finished with the last of the documents, they left the office and went back to Sergei’s place to rest, regroup, and make sure everything was in place.

Because tomorrow, the Maisanos were going down.

*              *              *

When Felice went out on his boat again the next day, Sergei was waiting. He’d slipped on board in the middle of the night, and after everyone had boarded, he kept his head down. Patiently, he rode all the way out to the cargo ship, to each crab pot, and back toward the marina. Tucked into a closet full of Felice’s wife’s clothes, Sergei waited, even as he had to endure the moans and cries of Felice fucking his mistress.

Toward the end of the voyage, he and the woman exchanged some flirty comments and a few long kisses before he slapped her on the ass and promised to meet her outside as soon as he’d retrieved a few things from the safe.

The woman left. Oblivious to Sergei watching through the slats, Felice changed the bandages on his stitched wound, and then fixed his shirt and his hair, and exchanged a smug grin with his own reflection. Sergei rolled his eyes.

Get over yourself, asshole. I guarantee she’s more into your wallet than your “technique.”

Felice opened a panel in the floor beside the bed, revealing the safe beneath it. He entered the combination to the safe, and Sergei slipped soundlessly out of his hiding place.

The deck creaked beneath his foot, and Felice started to turn around, but Sergei was faster—he dug the gun into the back of his skull.

“Make a sound,” he said just loudly enough for Felice to hear, “and your brains are all over that safe.”

Slowly, Felice lifted his hands. “How much do you want?”

Sergei laughed. “Oh, that’s so cute. You think I came here for money.”

Felice tried to turn his head, but Sergei flipped the gun around and pistol-whipped him, sending him down onto his arms. As the Italian rubbed the back of his head, a little blood smearing on his fingers, he growled, “What the hell do you want?”

“I want you to sit there and not make a sound.” He paused. “You might want to cancel your evening plans.” Sergei chuckled. “Tell her you’ve got a headache.”

“Fucker,” Felice muttered.

The boat came to a gentle stop. Down below, there were voices and activity as the crew secured the boat to the marina.

“All I have to do is say the word,” Felice said. “And you’re a dead man.”

“Yeah? I’m out of things to lose.” Sergei nudged him with the gun’s muzzle. “You seem like somebody who wants to live, though.” He paused. “And now that I think about it, I don’t think I’d shoot you in the head.” Sergei stepped in front of him and pointed the pistol at his midsection. “I’m more inclined to aim for non-vital organs. Let you roll around and scream for a while before your own gut poisons you.”

Felice’s eyes widened.

“I think we understand each other. Do what I tell you, and you won’t get a hot lead injection.”

The Italian gulped.

Through the open window, voices made it into the bedroom:

“Afternoon, Mr. Maisano.”