If The Seas Catch Fire (29 page)

This morning, he’d taken his cousin’s life.

This afternoon, he’d learned he was his uncle’s heir.

And tonight, he’d lost himself in his lover’s arms.

Dom was wide awake, but Sergei slept soundly beside him. The faint light coming in from the parking lot illuminated the very edges of him, tracing his profile as he breathed softly with his back to Dom.

Dom envied his ability to sleep tonight. Then again, after the way they’d fucked, and how exhausted and shaky he’d been after the third time, it was a miracle he’d been able to stay awake long enough to join Dom for another shower before he’d collapsed in a heap. If he was going to lose any sleep over this, it would apparently have to wait until
after
his body had recovered.

Dom was exhausted too, but not enough to pass out like that.

Tomorrow the family would bury Biaggio. Then God only knew what would happen. All he knew was that Corrado was right. The family had a war on its hands. These were, to say the least, dark times. He’d painted a target on Dom’s back by declaring him heir to the organization, and he was an idiot if he believed this wouldn’t ignite civil war within the family once Felice found out. Infighting would be a disaster on its own, but with shit hitting the fan with the Cusimanos…

In the faint light coming in from the parking lot, Dom watched his fingers run through Sergei’s bleached hair. Sadness and affection mingled in his chest. He wanted to stay like this all night. Hell, forever. From the first time he’d slept with Sergei, he’d found himself circling back to him whenever the rest of his world went off the rails. Sergei had become a source of sanity. An escape.

But there was no escaping now. All eyes were on Dom. People would be watching his every move. Some of them, he guessed, through rifle scopes.

Whatever violence came was part of Mafia life. Sergei wasn’t a part of that life, though. He was someone Dom never should have touched, and someone he never should have come to need like this.

Most of all, he was someone Dom couldn’t put in danger. And whether he liked it or not, every time he went near Sergei, he was lining him up with crosshairs that should’ve been for Dom and Dom alone. Bullets and car bombs were indiscriminate. There weren’t many hitmen who’d lose sleep over a stripper getting caught in the crossfire.

In his mind, he heard the father screaming for mercy as Corrado tortured the son.

“
So this was his punishment,
” Corrado had calmly explained. “
The last thing he ever knew in this world was his son screaming and begging for death.
”

Dom shuddered as much as he could without disturbing Sergei. What if Sergei was there when someone finally closed in on Dom? What if the last thing Dom ever knew was Sergei screaming in pain and begging for the release of death?

No.

That wasn’t going to happen.

As much as he wanted and needed Sergei’s touch, he refused to put him in danger. And the only way to guarantee his safety was to put as much distance between them as he could. Maybe Dom would go insane without these interludes with Sergei, but insanity was a small price to pay for Sergei’s safety.

Closing his eyes, he sighed.

Then he gently eased himself out of Sergei’s sleepy embrace and got up. Moving as silently as he could, he separated his clothes from Sergei’s and dressed.

In the darkness, he touched Sergei’s arm.

I’m sorry,
he wanted so badly to say.

But if he started speaking, he’d say something he couldn’t take back, and even if Sergei didn’t hear him, he’d hear himself. And he couldn’t let himself hear the things on the tip of his tongue.

So he squeezed Sergei’s arm.

Walked out the door.

And didn’t look back.

Eyes still closed, Sergei had followed every near-silent rustle of Dom getting dressed. A few times, he’d thought about asking him where he was going, why he was leaving like this instead of saying something. But he said nothing. It didn’t take a rocket scientist. And if Sergei spoke, then Dom might stay, and no matter how much Sergei wanted him to, it was best if he didn’t.

Dom had come back and stood beside the bed for a moment, and it had taken all Sergei had not to hold his breath or tense. He didn’t want Dom to know he was awake.

Softly, Dom brushed his fingers along Sergei’s arm, and without a single word spoken, he’d slipped out of the room. Sergei stayed still and silent until the door clicked and Dom’s footsteps had started fading into the night.

Alone, Sergei sat up in the bed where they’d had sex earlier.

The emptiness was weird, vibrating with a strange sense of finality. They weren’t going to see each other again, were they? Not up close and personal, anyway.

Sergei exhaled, rolling his tense shoulders. Everything was as it should be. This was right, even if it hurt. After all, being together was dangerous for Dom, and it was a distraction for Sergei.

Besides, he needed to get moving himself. It was still painfully early, but there was work to be done. Today was an important day.

Dom had a funeral to attend.

And Sergei had a job to do.

*              *              *

Through the scope, Sergei watched the church’s double doors. A few people lingered outside on the steps, all looking just as somber as the people who’d filed inside at the beginning of the service. Several were armed. They scanned the parking lot, the street, the hills—any place where danger might be lurking.

A thousand yards away, safely perched on top of an apartment building, Sergei paid them little mind. An earpiece kept him abreast of the service going on inside, so he’d know when to be ready.

Unsurprisingly, there were only Maisanos at this service. Though the three families mingled peacefully at St. Leo’s most of the time, there was violence in the air right now. Blame being thrown around like New Year’s confetti. Too much potential for a sidelong glance or a misheard whisper to spark a fight, a gun battle right there in the pews. No one could take anything for granted these days. Not even the safety of holy ground.

Which meant that after Sergei was finished, the Maisanos would be out for blood. The Cusimanos and Passantinos would be blamed, and they’d be answering to a sacrilegious hit at a funeral.

The service began to wrap up. The people on the stairs turned toward the doors. Sergei shifted slightly and peered even more intently through the scope.

A pair of suited men pulled the doors open wide. Slowly, mourners emerged.

Six Italians held the casket on their shoulders, and carefully started down the steps, moving out of the crosshairs.

Behind them, several black-clad Italian women dabbing away tears. Family members, he assumed

And then…

There.

Corrado Maisano.

To his left, Felice. To his right, Dom.

Luciano was MIA. Sergei had heard on the radio that his body had been found by some unfortunate teenager early this morning. One less hit to line Sergei’s pocket, but one less piece to remove from the board before shit started going down. Had he and Dom been close? Was Dom grieving for his cousin? The consigliere?

The three Italians slowly descended the steps.

Sergei’s eye flicked toward Dom, and for a second, his heart clenched. Dom had been so passionate last night, and now he was somber. All in black. His face pale and his features pinched with grief.

The crosshairs landed on Dom’s throat.

Sergei tore his gaze away, covering his mouth as vomit lurched into the back of his mouth. He recovered quickly, swallowed hard, and looked through the scope again. He fixed the crosshairs on Corrado’s chest, and refused to let his gaze slide toward Dom.

They were too close together. An unexpected movement, even a change in the wind, and Dom could take the bullet meant for his uncle. Sergei was an expert marksman, but even he couldn’t control what happened on the target end. Once the bullet left the barrel, things were out of his hands, and he had to accept that Dom might not survive this.

And it didn’t matter, for God’s sake. He was one of
them
. No matter how good the sex was, or how much Sergei might’ve softened for Dom when the lights were low and all the guns and violence were elsewhere, he was a Maisano.

And besides, he’d left. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t given any warning, and was just… gone.

His eyes stung, and his vision blurred momentarily.

Get a grip. Take the shot.

Hit him, and he’s just another dead goon like the one he’s grieving.

And you’re almost out of time to take the shot.

Sergei quickly wiped his eyes and swallowed again, making sure the acid was well on its way back down, and then put his eye back up to the scope. The scope reduced his peripheral vision to almost nil, but in the background, he could still make out Dom’s shape.

Ignore him. Ignore him and focus. Focus on Corrado.

Sergei slowed his breathing. He stared at the crosshairs. At the man behind it.

And squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession.

The rifle jerked. Corrado dropped. Felice went with him, throwing himself over his father as if to both catch and shield him. Sergei squeezed the trigger again. Blood exploded onto the stairs behind them, and Felice jerked, grabbing his arm as his mouth opened with a cry that Sergei couldn’t hear.

The whole church yard erupted into chaos, but Sergei didn’t watch. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and ran like hell. Down the stairs, out the back, into his car. With the rifle covered up in the backseat, he drove away, driving calmly despite his heart pounding as much from the run as adrenaline. He couldn’t risk drawing attention.

All the way out of the neighborhood, he watched the rearview as much as he watched the road.

No one followed him. No one stopped him.

He casually cruised right through downtown Cape Swan, then off toward his apartment. A clean getaway, as always.

Normally, he’d be itching to go meet Tumino to get the rest of his money, but all he could think of now was Dom. Had he been hit? Was he okay?

Sergei shook himself and gripped the wheel.

He didn’t want to know.

*              *              *

He laid low for a few hours to let the dust settle, and then called Tumino from a burner phone.

“I’m on my way. It’s payday.”

“Not so fast.” The man muffled a belch, making Sergei wrinkle his nose. “There’s… a problem.”

“A problem?” Sergei exhaled sharply. “The show went as planned. What more do you want?”

“I need you at your usual place tonight. I’ve got a contact coming to see you about another show. Finish that one, and we’ll talk payment for this one.”

“That wasn’t our deal,” Sergei snapped. “Pay me for—”

“This is a big one, son,” Tumino said. “And it needs to happen fast. Wrap that one, and your salary’s doubled for today’s show.”

Sergei resisted the urge to whistle. That was a metric fuckload of money. Still, he didn’t want to be played. “Have your contact bring fifty percent of today’s pay. He shows up with that, we’ll talk about the next show.”

Tumino grunted. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You want to tell your boss we’re not doing business?”

Silence for a moment. And then, “I’ll send him with cash. But be there. He’ll be coming your way at ten o’clock.”

“Fine.”

Sergei hadn’t planned to go to the club tonight, but apparently he was going after all. He finished cleaning and reassembling his rifle, and then showered, dressed, and headed to the club.

And right at ten o’clock, a very uncomfortable looking guy in a suit wandered in. Uncomfortable guys weren’t unusual, but this type, they stood out.

Sergei sidled up to him. “Hey, sugar. You want a dance?”

The man scowled, but nodded. “I’ve got… cash.”

“That’s what I thought.” Sergei gestured toward the back. “Let’s go.” The man followed him into the hallway. Sergei gave Roy a nod, and he turned his back just before they stepped into the booth. Almost immediately, the music started.

“Cash?” Sergei held out his hand.

The man produced an envelope. “Fifty percent of today’s show. As requested.”

“Good.” As Sergei thumbed through it, he asked, “Where’s Baltazar?”

“He’s no longer employed by the production company.”

Sergei’s eyes flicked up. Baltazar was dead? Whoa.

He tucked the money into his waistband and folded his arms. Stomach roiling, he asked, “So, I understand there’s a problem?”

“Yes.” The man shifted uncomfortably, eyeing his surroundings. “Mostly a change in the line-up.”

“Yeah? So what do you want from me?”

“The full Monty.” He lowered his sunglasses and looked Sergei in the eye. “Happy ending and all.”

A big hit that needed to
look
like a hit. Of course.

Sergei nodded once. “How much?”

“Five million for the whole production.”

Whoa.
“Who’s the star?”

The guy glanced past Sergei, then pulled his jacket open, revealing the pocket on the inside before he slipped two fingers in and withdrew a folded photo. Smart man—he knew better than to let Sergei think for even a second that he might be pulling a gun.

He held out the photo, and after Sergei took it, the man fidgeted nervously.

Sergei unfolded the photo.

And his stomach dropped straight into his feet.

Dom.

Shit. Oh shit
. Cold water flowed through his veins, and he held the photo tighter to keep his hands still.

“Another five million? For
this
guy?” He forced a laugh. “He’s not even a star.”

The guy shrugged. “He is now. Inherited the production company.”

Oh. No. Fuck!

Corrado had left the organization to Dom?
Dom
was the boss now?

No. No, no, no. No, that—

“You got a problem?”

Sergei’s stomach lurched. If he declined the contract, he’d be rolling in with the tide before sunrise. If he took it but failed to fill it, he’d be hunted down and given a bloody lesson in what happens to people who cross the Mafia.

“Hey.” The goon straightened. “I asked you a question. You got a—”

“There’s no problem.” Sergei met his gaze, and just as he’d hoped, the guy drew back. Sergei held out the photo. “This will take some planning. It isn’t going to happen overnight.”

The contact huffed and snatched the photo back. “But you’ll make the arrangements?”

Sergei nodded. “It’s… it’s going to take time.”

The goon’s expression hardened. “Boss wants this one to go forward as quickly as possible.”

“That’s fine and good.” Sergei held up the photo. “But a production this big takes work.”

He scowled. “You ain’t getting paid to take your time.”

“No, I’m getting paid to make sure everything is done
right
.” Sergei narrowed his eyes. “Unless you’d like to tell me how to do my job.”

The man gulped but then set his shoulders back. “Just get it done, kid.”

“Will do.” Sergei’s voice barely made it over the music.

His contact left. Alone in the booth, Sergei raked a hand through his hair. This was bad. Real bad.

He needed to get the fuck out of here. The booth. The club. The town.

But he couldn’t. Because getting out of town wouldn’t do him any good unless he got out of this contract first. By knowing the hit even existed, he knew too much, and if he didn’t join into the solemn pact of silence—committing a capital crime, and thus being disinclined to rat out the others—then he’d be a liability. The Maisanos would hunt him down like they hunted down apostates, and the punishment would be…

He shuddered.

What do I do?

For now, he just needed to get out of this club and… and…
think
.

Sergei left the booth. He found Paco at the bar and pulled him aside. “I, uh… I need to go.”

“You okay?” He glanced past him. “That asshole rough you up or something? You need—”

“No. No.” Sergei thought quickly. “I got a text from the place that takes care of my mother. They—”

“Jesus, why didn’t you say so?
Go
!” Paco damn near shoved him toward the lockers. “Get out of here and make sure she’s all right.”

“Okay, okay. I’m going.” Relieved, Sergei hurried to his locker, took out his wallet and keys, and left.