If The Seas Catch Fire (38 page)

The light hurt. His eyes weren’t even open yet, and the light already hurt like a motherfucker.

He slowly pulled in a breath through his nose. The smell—solvents, alcohol, latex—brought to mind the place where Mama had died, but before that memory could settle in, pain tore through his chest, starting dead center and ripping toward his sides. He held his breath, eyes stinging. His right eye didn’t quite want to focus. It
could
focus, but the strain made his head hurt more, so he closed both eyes.

Breathing was a pain in the ass. An annoying tube rested on his upper lip and blew cold air up his nose. Something was wrapped tightly around his midsection, which kept him from inhaling deeply. Had they put a fucking corset on him or something? And even without the damned thing, the pain kept his chest from moving much. His ribs hurt. His neck hurt. Some places throbbed. Others were sharp and stabby.

An IV was attached to his right arm. Every time he moved or even thought about moving, the damned thing hurt. Fuck that shit. He had every intention of reaching over and tearing it out, but his body had other plans. The simple act of lifting his other arm was far too much work, and it sent fresh pain tearing down his side and across his chest.

A tall doctor in glasses came strolling in. “Ah, you’re awake.”

“You don’t say.” Sergei’s voice was raspy, barely more than a whisper. “Where’s Dom?”

The doctor arched an eyebrow.

Sergei’s heart sank. “Is he—”

“Visiting hours are this afternoon.” The doctor glanced over Sergei’s chart. “In the meantime, I’m Dr. Walters. How are you feeling?”

Sergei eyed him, but relaxed when he realized that glaring was painful. “Do you really need to ask?”

“I do, actually.” The doctor lowered his clipboard. “Any numbness or tingling?”

“Not nearly enough.”

The doctor scowled.

Sergei sighed. “No. Everything hurts like hell. Happy?”

That earned him a subtle but obviously annoyed sigh. As Dr. Walters scrawled something into what was must’ve been Sergei’s chart, he said, “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Sullivan.”

Sergei nearly corrected him, but bit his tongue. It was entirely possible someone had fed him a fake name, so he’d go with it until he had a reason not to. And distantly, he remembered giving that name as an alias once. To Dom. For a motel. Maybe that meant…

He shifted a bit, wincing. “So I’m lucky? Did I win the lottery while I was out, or what?”

The doctor actually laughed. “Well, if I were you, I’d go buy a lottery ticket. The emergency team
barely
had time to crack your chest before the sack around your heart filled up with blood. If you hadn’t gone into surgery when you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Sergei suppressed a shudder. “So when do I get the fuck out of here?”

The doctor scowled again. “You feel like going for a jog?”

The very thought of moving nearly made Sergei choke.

“That’s what I thought.” Dr. Walters put the chart beneath the foot rail. “You’re going to be staying with us a bit longer, Mr. Sullivan. At least until I’m confident you’re on the mend.”

“What about that lottery ticket I’m supposed to buy?”

“You may need to send someone to buy it on your behalf.” He looked at his watch. “Visiting hours start soon, so maybe you’ll have a visitor.”

Maybe?

“Get some rest,” the doctor said. “I’ll be by this afternoon to see how you’re doing.”

He left. Nurses came and went. One brought him food. Another came to fuck around with his IV. The first returned, and he had to give her credit—she didn’t bat an eye at the cursing he growled out in multiple languages while she fussed with his catheter. It was a good ten minutes before he stopped sweating after that, though it was hard to tell if it was the fact that his dick hurt or how much squirming and fidgeting had reignited the pain in his chest.

The door opened again. Jesus fuck. Now who wanted to—

“Well, well.” Dom’s voice sent a rush of warmth through him. “Somebody’s finally awake.”

Sergei’s lips parted. In his mind, he was sitting up, maybe even sucking in a startled breath, but a few hours in this reality had trained his body to keep those reactions to himself.

“How are you feeling?” Dom asked.

“Like shit.”

“Makes sense.” Dom smirked. “You look the part.”

“Fuck you.”

Dom chuckled, but then he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to his lips and another to his forehead. “You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered against Sergei’s hairline. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Sergei closed his eyes. “What the hell happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Sergei thought for a moment, his throbbing brain struggling to make sense of anything prior to the last few minutes. “Don’t know. Ask me again when I’m not on so many drugs.”

“Fair enough.” Dom pulled up a chair and sat beside him, resting his hand on Sergei’s forearm. “We wrecked, and I guess right before that, one of the fuckers got a shot in.” He squeezed Sergei’s arm. “As soon as I saw that bullet hole…” He swallowed hard.

“What about Felice?” Sergei moistened his lips. “What happened to him?”

“He’s dead. Apparently we missed a hell of a shootout down at the marina. The Cusimanos showed up, and I guess Felice got a call out to some of his crew.”

“That must’ve been a mess.”

Dom nodded. “Six Cusimanos and five Maisanos dead. The cops came in and collected everyone who was left.”

Sergei exhaled slowly, letting the truth sink in. It was over. Really
over
. “What about you? Are you okay?”

Dom smiled. “I was wearing a seatbelt.”

“Didn’t want to fuck up my aim.”

“Well, it must’ve paid off—you hit the driver, and that was that. They held the road for a few seconds, but then wiped out. All three guys in the car were dead.”

“Good.” Sergei winced as he tried in vain to get comfortable. “How the hell did
we
wreck, then?”

“When the driver lost control, he hit my back end.” Dom shrugged apologetically. “At that speed, on a winding road…”

Sergei looked him up and down. “So you didn’t get hurt? You’re obviously okay now, but were—”

“The airbag punched me in the face, and I was walking pretty slowly for a few days.”

“A few—” Sergei blinked. “How long has it been?”

“A week.”

“I’ve been out cold for a
week
?”

“Not quite. Heavily sedated and hopped up on painkillers.” Dom smiled, running his thumb along Sergei’s hand. “You’ve actually been awake more than you think.”

“I don’t remember anything.”

Dom shook his head. “You’re not supposed to. They kept you drugged so you wouldn’t be in as much pain, and so you wouldn’t tear out your IV again.”

“Again?” Sergei looked at his hand, and realized there were a number of bruises along the veins. Ditto with his other hand.

“Let’s just say you’re not the most compliant patient in the world.” Dom patted his arm gently. “But you made it.”

“And you were here? The whole time?”

“As much as they’d let me.” Dom frowned. “Dr. Rojas pulled some strings so I could stay with you in the ICU, but once they moved you down here, that asshole doc in charge didn’t want me underfoot all the time.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I’ve been staying down the road at one of the motels we used to use.”

Sergei blinked. “You… even with the investigation going on? You should be as far from here as possible.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Dom squeezed his shoulder. “But I wasn’t leaving you behind. I couldn’t leave you here any more than I could’ve left you out there on the road.” He leaned down again and kissed him softly. “As soon as you’re back on your feet, though, we’re out of here.”

“The doctor said it might take a while.”

“I know.” Dom pressed another soft kiss to Sergei’s cheek. “But I’m not going anywhere until you do.”

Sergei reached up and touched Dom’s face. “Thank you.”

Dom smiled. He smoothed Sergei’s hair and whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

It was over. Once Sergei’s body recovered, they’d leave, and it would be well and truly over.

And for the first time since he was eight years old, Sergei could know peace.

A few months later

“I don’t need a fucking painkiller,” Sergei muttered.

“Just take one.” Dom took his hand on the wide armrest between them. “It wouldn’t hurt you to sleep.”

“It’s a long flight. I’m sure I’ll pass out sooner or later.”

“Suit yourself. They’re in my bag if you need them.”

Sergei nodded.

The plane pulled away from the gate, and as it taxied, Dom’s heart sped up, but he took a few slow, easy breaths to calm himself down. He’d never been a fan of flying. As the plane’s front end lifted up, though, and the noise of tires on asphalt gave way to the whine of the engines, he exhaled.

“Maybe you should be taking something,” Sergei teased.

Dom eyed him.

Sergei snickered, squeezing his hand. “Just take one.” He batted his eyes. “It wouldn’t hurt you to sleep.”

“Very funny. At what point are you healed enough that I can elbow you when you’re being a pain in the ass?”

“Don’t know.” Sergei winked. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”

“Yeah, right…”

Sergei chuckled.

Dom shifted around to get comfortable in his seat. It was first class, after all. Might as well enjoy it, even if he loathed the idea of hurtling across the sky in a metal tube.

As much as he wasn’t thrilled with air travel, he did find a hell of a lot of relief in the idea of the ground getting farther and farther away. Soon, they’d be out over the ocean, and after more hours than he cared to think about, they’d touch down in a new world to start their new life together.

They’d left Cape Swan nine days after Sergei was wounded. He hadn’t recovered yet, but they couldn’t risk staying in town while the cops and feds descended on La Cosa Nostra.

So, with the help of Dr. Rojas, they’d slipped out of town in an unmarked vehicle, and though the trip was miserable for Sergei, they made it to Portland, where one of the doctor’s colleagues accepted the transfer. It hadn’t been cheap—Dom had paid the new doctor an enormous sum to make sure he didn’t question or report a patient recovering from an unexplained bullet hole and massive surgery.

From there, Sergei’s recovery had been up and down. What began as a minor fever quickly escalated into a massive infection that sent him to the ICU for three days. As a nurse put it, he almost met God a few times before that was over. By the time he was finally released from the hospital over a month later, he’d lost twenty pounds he couldn’t afford to lose and could barely stand. A week after that, he was back in the hospital with pneumonia.

But finally, he started improving, and the setbacks were fewer and farther between, not to mention less severe. He’d put weight back on. He didn’t get winded walking up the stairs to the second floor one-bedroom apartment they were renting in Hawthorne, a cruddy little neighborhood in Portland.

And a couple of months ago, after they’d spent the evening talking about flights and fake visas, Sergei had kissed him like he hadn’t kissed him in months. The kind of kiss that meant it was going to be one hell of a night. And it was.

Now, they were on their way out of Portland, leaving North America behind for a fresh start in another hemisphere. There was nothing left for them here, and Dom was fine with that. The Maisano name was no longer his. Using some of his connections with the state department, he’d bribed their way into new identities. Passports, driver’s licenses, the whole nine yards.

Beside him, Sergei stirred a little. Dom turned his head and couldn’t help smiling. Maybe Sergei hadn’t needed that painkiller after all—the plane had barely leveled out at its cruising altitude, and he was already snoring softly.

Dom slipped his fingers between Sergei’s and leaned across the armrest to kiss the top of his head, his spiky hair tickling his nose.

Though Sergei was out of the woods now, his recovery was far from over. He still had problems with his pectoral muscles on one side, and the concussion and whiplash had conspired to plague him with occasional blinding headaches. But he was okay. He was alive. Not a day went by that something didn’t remind Dom of how close he’d come to losing Sergei, and each time, he sent up a whisper of gratitude that he hadn’t.

Sergei hated what his wounds had done to his chest. The scars weren’t quite such an angry red anymore, but they were hardly inconspicuous. Thick scar tissue knotted around the place where the bullet had gone in, and a long, ropy line down his breastbone marked where the surgeons had opened his chest.

“Guess my stripping days are over,” he’d whispered the first time he’d looked at himself in the mirror.

Dom had put his hands on Sergei’s shoulders and kissed his cheek. Meeting each other’s gazes in the reflection beneath the hospital bathroom’s fluorescent light, he’d said, “They’ll fade. Give them time.”

Sergei had scowled and lowered his eyes. “They’ll always be there, though.”

“Maybe.” Dom had wrapped his arms around him. “But so will I.”

They’d locked eyes in the mirror again, and Sergei smirked. “You really are a sap, you know that?”

They both burst out laughing, but a grimace from Sergei brought the moment to a halt.

“Shit…”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Sergei rubbed his chest gingerly. “Sense of humor’s still intact, but I may have to keep it on ice for a while.”

“Duly noted.”

Over time, though, the wounds had healed, and the bones and muscles mended enough that Sergei could laugh comfortably. Outside of physical therapy, anyway. He wasn’t in nearly as much pain these days, thank God. Still plenty of healing to do, still plenty of days that were worse than others, but he was going to be all right.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that Floresta and Mandanici had dragged Dom into a back alley, where Sergei had intervened and saved him. At the time, Dom had had no idea then that they’d become lovers, that they’d fall for each other, or that Sergei would put his life on the line to save him a second time.

And in the end, Sergei had not only saved Dom’s life but freed him from a world he’d never imagined escaping. A world that had managed to break them both but hadn’t broken them far enough to keep them from bringing the whole thing down before they got the hell out.

The men who’d survived the marina shootout and the wrecks on the highway were all in jail, awaiting trial. The families’ lawyers had attempted to work their magic, but that anonymously submitted package of damning evidence to the FBI put a stop to that. The Maisanos, Cusimanos, and Passantinos were all in shambles now.

Last Dom heard, the feds were still hunting for him, as well as the mysterious “Georgian.”

Good luck with that.

Dom grinned to himself, squeezing Sergei’s hand.

He didn’t know what to expect from this new life. Sergei had property on the coast of Tasmania, and even without new identities, Dom couldn’t imagine anyone finding them there.

It had been a rough road, but they were going to be all right. Between them, they had enough money to keep them going for years, but more importantly, they were free now. He had a new identity that wasn’t tied to the Mafia. He had the man he loved.

And against all odds, they’d made it out.

Together.