If The Seas Catch Fire (11 page)

Sergei glanced at his phone as he stepped into his apartment. He still had time before he needed to go meet Dom, and he’d already showered at the club and changed into more comfortable clothes.

He didn’t leave yet, though.

He triple-locked his front door and moved into the bedroom. There, he reached under the bed and up into a hole he’d cut into the box spring. From there, took down a steel box, which he set on the bed. He quickly dialed in the combination. The lock clicked and the lid came open.

From his back pocket, Sergei took out the stack of money he’d made tonight. The club had netted him about a grand. Slow night, but he didn’t care. The money he made there was chump change anyway. On top of that grand, he’d also pocketed twelve large for a job he’d recently done for the Passantinos.

The cash box was getting full. He’d need to make a deposit soon. This money would join the rest in one of several offshore accounts. Once his work was done and the Mafia families were fighting hard enough to tear each other to pieces, he’d flee to his property in Tasmania with the help of a fake passport and the substantial amount of money he’d built up by filling contracts for the very people he intended to destroy.

The stripping gig? He didn’t care about the money. That was entirely a cover. No one in the families wanted anything to do with a gay stripper, and the club was the last place they came looking if they had questions. Only four select individuals knew he was both a stripper and a contract killer. He was known by reputation only—even his four contacts didn’t have his real name, and he made sure no one ever connected his face to his hits—and anyone who wanted to reach him came through one of those four contacts. He was, essentially, hiding in plain site.

After he’d stashed the cash, he locked the box and put it back up under the bed. He reached up into the same compartment where he kept the money, and took out a rolled up paper, which he spread across the bed. On it, he’d painstakingly mapped out the hierarchies of all three crime families. From the bosses on down to the lowliest of soldiers, he had every name and who they answered to.

And it was all in pencil because it changed constantly, in no small part because of strings Sergei had been quietly pulling.

He’d erased Lorenzo Barcia’s name the night he’d tossed the fucker into the harbor. Tonight, thanks to some info that had trickled his way from one of his contacts, he put a new name in that space—Rico Barcia. The asshole’s very own brother, and an idiot and a hothead. Not someone who needed to be in a position of power, but there he was.

Rico wouldn’t last long. Sergei wouldn’t even need to do anything to put a target on that fucker’s head. As a soldier, he was a benign, if annoying presence. As a lieutenant, he could cause some actual headache for the Maisanos and Passantinos. It wouldn’t be long before he was removed from the hierarchy. Sergei probably wouldn’t even be the one to take him out—there were plenty of other hitmen in this town who’d do it for half the price.

And once he was out of the way, his replacement would come from a pool of even less competent hotheads. Which one? Sergei couldn’t say for sure. Didn’t matter. What mattered was that the more effective leadership had been removed, which would steadily weaken the entire power structure. He’d done the same with the other families—setting up the men who needed to be removed, removing them himself if he was assigned the contract, and watching the idiots and assholes move up into the newly vacated places.

He was especially glad that Lorenzo Barcia had finally gotten what was coming to him, and he’d been thrilled to be the one to give it to him. Every Mafioso was a fucking asshole, but there was a special place in hell for men like Barcia. Like many of his ilk, he made his money through narcotics and human trafficking, but he took it a step further. He saw nothing wrong with helping himself to the family’s merchandise, and not just cocaine. The women were terrified to do anything about it—he threatened them and their children if they crossed him—but a well-placed camera and some patience, followed by a damning video being “leaked” to the press, and the man’s fate was sealed. The video hadn’t shown everything—Sergei couldn’t do that to the woman—but there was enough to make it clear what Barcia intended to do once he’d dragged her onto that boat.

Legally, it was circumstantial evidence. As far as the Mafia was concerned, it was more than enough. The families put up with and committed a lot of crimes, but sexual assault was not tolerated.

The day after the video broke, the young woman was paid a small fortune to quietly leave Cape Swan, and that very night, Sergei was contracted to kill the bastard.

With pleasure
.

So Barcia was out of the picture, and the idiot who’d taken his place wouldn’t be around long. It was all part of Sergei’s plan, and it was all happening the way he’d predicted.

Well, aside from the part where he was bedding a Mafioso. That had been… unforeseen.

He shifted his gaze to the top of the hierarchy chart. There, among the Maisano underbosses, was Dom. Below him, a small crew of lieutenants and soldiers who, like him, weren’t terribly significant. They all seemed to do Corrado’s bitch work. Administrative shit. Paperwork. Sergei understood that Dom handled some money laundering, and worked with the immigrants to get their debts paid and documents processed, but his hands weren’t in much of the more nefarious stuff.

Good. You stay over there and do your thing, and you won’t get caught in the crossfire.

Sergei’s stomach knotted. There were no guarantees that Dom
wouldn’t
get caught in the crossfire. He was a made man. He was an underboss. By virtue of being Corrado’s adopted son, he was virtually untouchable.

But even untouchable men could be taken down. It meant a death sentence for the man who pulled the trigger, but it could be done.

Sergei tore his gaze away from Dom’s name and rolled up the chart. Yes, Dom could get killed. It was part of being in the Mafia.

And if he does get killed, so what? What do I care? He’s not the only gay man in this town.

Sergei swallowed as he tucked the chart back up under the bed. No, this wasn’t something he needed to think about tonight. He’d deal with it if the circumstances arose.

Tonight, Dom was alive and well.

And waiting for Sergei in a motel across town.

Sergei got up, gave himself a once-over in the mirror, and headed out to meet Dom.

*              *              *

Sergei had barely shut the motel room door before he and Dom were tangled up in a deep, hungry kiss. Dom had been here first, and he’d already stripped off his shirt and shoes, and Sergei immediately had his hands all over him as they kissed up against the door.

One thing was becoming abundantly clear—Dom
loved
kissing. It didn’t matter who was on top, or if they were dressed or naked, or standing in a cramped motel shower—every chance he had, it seemed, Dom was kissing Sergei. Frantically. Gently. Deeply. Softly. So much kissing.

And Sergei couldn’t get enough either. He loved the way Dom kissed.

Hell, who was he kidding?

As they tumbled into bed, half-dressed and fully hard, he didn’t just love the way Dom kissed. Everything the man did drove him insane. This was supposed to be for Dom’s benefit—getting gay sex out of his system before he married—but it was feeling less and less like charity with each passing night.

And this time, like every time, Dom touched and kissed Sergei as if this was the first time. Sometimes he’d watch his hands run over Sergei’s skin, as if marveling at the sight of himself touching another man. When they had sex, Dom never rushed, not even when he was trembling with arousal. He kissed him like he really wanted to
taste
him—gently exploring his mouth, cradling the back of his neck as if to say “stay here, just a moment longer.”

No wonder Sergei couldn’t help coming back for more.

“You want to be on top?” he murmured between kisses.

Dom moaned, shivering against him. “Yes please.”

They separated long enough to get a condom on. As Dom put on some lube, Sergei turned around on his hands and knees.

Sergei was usually on top, but more and more, he was enjoying letting Dom top him. The man took his time, tonight as always—easing himself in, giving Sergei time to yield to him and relax. Which was especially good because unlike some of the other men in his family, Dom was definitely not lacking below the belt. His cock was thick, stretching Sergei enough to make his eyes water, and Sergei clawed at the bed and rocked back against him, eager for more, more,
more
.

Dom steadied his hips and moved faster, not quite thrusting, but close. Sergei closed his eyes, gripping handfuls of the sheet and slurring curses as every stroke took his breath away.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Dom murmured, running his hands all over Sergei’s back. “Jesus, you’re—” His breath hitched. He picked up a little bit of speed, and whatever he said after that didn’t make it to Sergei’s brain.

Then Dom leaned forward, urging Sergei down with his body weight, and they sank to the bed. This should have set off every alarm bell in Sergei’s mind—being underneath a bigger, stronger Italian was dangerous as fuck—but all he could do was melt beneath Dom’s hot skin and slow, rocking strokes. What wasn’t to love about this trembling man stretched out over him, balls deep in him, cursing in his ear as he rode him into the mattress?

Sergei felt around and found Dom’s hand, and they clasped their fingers together. Weirdly intimate? Affectionate? God, he didn’t know. He just needed to hold on to something, to Dom. As much as he could in this position, he rolled his hips, fucking against the mattress as Dom thrust deep and hard. All the while, they gripped each other’s hands painfully tight, as if they could somehow get more leverage that way or… or something. Sergei didn’t know. He didn’t care. He only cared about holding on, and letting go, and the orgasm that Dom was pushing him toward with every deep, breathtaking stroke.

Sergei heard himself curse, and didn’t even know what language it was, only that he was falling apart, and Dom just kept right on fucking him that way, and then Sergei was coming, shuddering, moaning into the pillow as Dom kept him coming, and coming, and coming.

Then Dom groaned behind Sergei’s ear, and his rhythm became sharp, uneven thrusts, each knocking the breath out of Sergei as Dom tried to drive himself just a little deeper before he shuddered, swore, and relaxed.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Their hands relaxed, but didn’t let go. Sergei was panting as hard as Dom, and God bless him, Dom had the presence of mind to keep his weight off Sergei’s ribs so he could breathe.

Finally, Dom pressed a soft kiss to the back of Sergei’s shoulder. He let go of Sergei’s hand, pulled out, and got up. “Be right back.”

“’kay.” Sergei rolled onto his back, mostly to get away from the wet spot, and stared up at the dingy ceiling. Jesus. He could not get enough of this man.

As Dom came back to the bed, his legs not quite steady beneath him, Sergei grinned up at him.

And to think—I thought you were like all the other Mafiosi.

That thought sobered him. Dom
was
a Mafioso. Though everything ceased to exist while they were in the middle of driving each other to mind-blowing orgasms, it was all still real once the dust settled again. Sergei was still a man who killed men like Dom.

Dom eased himself down beside Sergei and draped his arm over him, dark hair and olive skin contrasting sharply with Sergei’s fairer skin. “I’m going to be dead on my feet tomorrow.” He kissed Sergei’s cheek. “But it’s fucking worth it.”

“Damn right it is.” Sergei lifted his head and kissed Dom on the mouth. They faced each other on their sides. For a long moment, they lay in silence, Dom trailing his fingertips along Sergei’s skin, watching himself draw lazy loops and swirls as Sergei watched him.

After a while, Sergei said, “You’re not like the other Italians in this town.”

Dom’s fingers stopped. “Is that a compliment, or…?”

“Yeah.” Sergei laughed. “Trust me, it’s a compliment.”

Dom chuckled, sliding his hand over Sergei’s waist. “In that case… thanks.”

Sergei ran his fingers down Dom’s arm. “I guess you don’t… you don’t seem like the Mafia type.”

“What
is
the Mafia type?”

“Well…” Sergei swept his tongue across his lips. “I don’t know. Not you.”

Dom released a long breath. “I wish it wasn’t me, believe me.”

Sergei furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“If I had the choice, I wouldn’t be what I am.”

“Then why are you?”

“Like I said… if I had a choice.”

Sergei held his gaze, wondering how far to push the question. He was curious as hell—a Mafioso who didn’t want to be? Since when?—but was it his place to ask? Dom wanted him for sex, not questions about a career he apparently didn’t want.

So instead, he slid closer, running his hand over Dom’s hip, and glanced past him at the ancient alarm clock on the bedside table. “It’s almost three. I probably shouldn’t keep you much longer.”