If The Seas Catch Fire (12 page)

“I shouldn’t be here in the first place.” Dom combed his fingers through Sergei’s hair. “Damage is already done, I think.”

“Does that mean you want to stay for a while?”

“That depends—how many condoms did you bring?”

Goose bumps sprang up along Sergei’s spine and a shudder nudged him even closer to Dom. “More than enough.”

“Good.” Dom tipped up Sergei’s chin and kissed him. “Think we might need them.”

Oh God yes. More of you? Fuck yes.

He didn’t speak, though. He nudged Dom onto his back. Straddled him. Kissed him.

And didn’t ask any more questions that night.

After every night he spent with Sergei, Dom felt strange returning the next morning to the only life he’d ever known. He may as well have taken a hundred-year vacation from his own existence, and coming back to it was like materializing in someone else’s world.

But he didn’t let it show. He didn’t dare. This morning, as he did every time after checking out of the seedy motel, Dom had gone home, showered, put on a suit, and driven down to the office where he ran his part of the family’s operation. To the untrained eye, this was a temp agency where blue collar workers came in for short term employment, not where deeply indebted immigrants came to pay off the hefty bribes that would eventually earn them their citizenship.

As always, there was already a line outside the door. A dozen or so tired, sun-beaten men waited, watching Dom stroll into the building while they clutched weathered papers and manila folders to their threadbare shirts.

He could guess why most of them were here. Some were making payments on their debts to the family. Some needed more time. Some could barely scratch the surface of what they owed, but their circumstances demanded they come here and put themselves even deeper into debt.

Each man who came through here was different, and each was the same. They hailed from South America, Russia, China, even the occasional escapee from North Korea, but they all had the same story. Desperation had forced them from their homeland, and they’d come to America looking for something better. Immigration wasn’t easy, though, and it wasn’t cheap.

That was where the Maisanos came in.

For a fee, the immigrant’s papers would be expedited. For an even bigger fee, the person would get more than a green card—citizenship and everything that came with it. And for a fuckload of money, the immigrant’s family would be safely brought over and naturalized in a fraction of the time it would take through legitimate channels.

Felice’s crew oversaw the immigration arrangements. They issued the terms and handled the transportation of family members to the United States. Dom’s job was to disburse and receive money. He was the financial wizard—the man who could make dirty money disappear and resurface, clean as the day it was printed. When the debt was paid, he issued the people their paperwork, and sent them on their way as freshly minted American citizens.

As Dom settled in for the day, he caught himself wondering if Sergei was a citizen. He was obviously not American-born. Not with that accent. And sex workers in this town were often doing what they could to get by until they could get legitimate work.

Dom had a few Russian families on his payroll. He perused a few, looking to see if any had sons in their early twenties. With a click of a button, Dom could erase the family’s debt and expedite their paperwork.

No one came up, though.

Sergei had obviously been here a while. Long enough to soften his accent slightly.

Dom shook himself. Sergei was the last person he needed to be thinking about. Whatever went on between them, he needed to shut it out right now. He wanted to see Sergei again. He wanted a repeat of the night they’d spend in that godawful motel.

But he couldn’t let the lines blur between that life and this one, so he made himself focus. All day long, as he shunted money through channels that no fed would ever find, and updated ledgers for people indebted to the family, he forced himself not to think of Sergei.

Toward the middle of the morning, a tanned, gray-haired Chinese man named Dingxiang came in and sat across from him in his office.

“I just need some more time, sir,” the man pleaded. “My daughter, she had to go to the hospital last week. It was… it cost…” He shook his head.

Dom regarded him silently, keeping his sympathy hidden. He hated this, hated everything about it, but he had to keep his cards close to his vest. As much as he wanted to wipe the man’s ledger clean and let him leave without ever worrying again, he was already playing dangerous games with the accounting in the name of relieving people of their debts. He could only do so much without someone catching on.

Tone flat, he quietly said, “I’ve already given you extensions.”

“Yes, yes. And terribly… terribly sorry. But—”

Right then, Dom’s receptionist Daisy leaned in through the office door. “Excuse me, Mr. Maisano. Biaggio is on line three.”

“Thank you.” As she stepped back out, he turned to Dingxiang. “Give me just a moment.”

Dingxiang nodded.

Dom picked up the phone. “Yes, sir?”

“You have a meeting with your uncle at one o’clock.”

Dom glanced at this watch. That gave him just over an hour. “At the house?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there.”

Biaggio hung up without so much as a goodbye. That was normal for him—odds were, he had a hundred tasks to perform in the time a normal man would need to complete three. Pleasantries weren’t part of his tightly packed schedule.

Dom folded his hands and faced Dingxiang. “Listen, I’m going to waive your payment for this month, and this month only.”

The man exhaled with obvious relief. He undoubtedly knew there’d be conditions, strings that would make all but the most desperate man cringe, but almost anything was better than having a Maisano debt collector at his door.

Guilt tugged at Dom. It wasn’t at all below him to cancel an immigrant family’s debts and send them on their way with their papers in hand, but he’d already waived a substantial amount of money for another family this month. There was only so much he could do before even his financial wizardry couldn’t make the numbers line up, and then people would ask questions he couldn’t answer. If the truth ever came out, he wouldn’t put it past Corrado to find a family who’d been released from their debt, and use them to make a point.

He exhaled. “If the next payment is a minute late or a penny short, your interest rate will go up three percent.”

Dingxiang blinked. Dom swore he could feel the man’s heart drop. The interest rate was already high on the loan, and if it climbed much higher, repayment would be nearly impossible.

Dom hated himself for it, but he said, “If you aren’t able to make those payments, then we’ll need to talk about employing you down at the marina.”

Dingxiang blanched. Every immigrant in Cape Swan knew what marina employment meant, and only the most desperate accepted those jobs. “Next… next month will be on time.”

Dom nodded. “Good.”

Dingxiang left the office, and Dom let Daisy know that he too was on his way out, and that he’d likely be out for the rest of the day. Even if the meeting was short, which they usually were, he had a feeling he’d be indisposed for a while.

*              *              *

Felice and Luciano were already there with their father.

Corrado scowled. “Glad you could join us, Domenico.”

Dom muttered an apology. He hadn’t been late, but Corrado didn’t like to be kept waiting, and “be there in one hour” meant “one hour is the absolute latest or there will be hell to pay.”

Corrado shifted his attention to his older son. “Luciano?” He nodded toward Dom.

Luciano turned to Dom. “We have the detailed police and medical examiner reports for Nicolá.” He handed over a thin folder. “You’re going to want to see this.”

Dom opened the folder and skimmed over the police report. “It says the ME found evidence he’d been tied. And that he’d had tape over his mouth.” He lifted his gaze. “I thought Cusimano wiped him out while he was drunk.”

“Well.” Corrado slowly released a breath. “Maybe as drunk as he was, this killing wasn’t as accidental as it appears.”

“Of course it wasn’t an accident,” Felice said. “Why the hell would Nicolá be wandering around the highway at that hour?”

Luciano muffled a cough. “That’s where it gets a little more complicated, though. The ME found traces of Ecstasy and a number of other drugs in his mouth and in his bloodstream. Basically, a cocktail of hallucinogens and downers. It’s anyone’s guess what else was in there that he’d already gotten out of his system.”

Dom tilted his head. “Since when did Nicolá get involved in that shit?”

Corrado sighed, running a hand through his thinning white hair. “It’s hard to say, Domenico. Sal Greco overdosed on heroin last year, and none of us ever knew he touched it.”

“But if Nicolá was bound and drugged,” Dom said, “then it’s pretty clearly murder.” Bile burned its way up the back of his throat. If one of their own had been murdered, then Corrado wouldn’t let that murder go unanswered. And Dom wouldn’t be able to say no. It was as inevitable as it was sickening.

“Unless he was into one of those weird sex clubs that have been popping up downtown,” Luciano said.

“No way,” Felice said. “Nicolá wouldn’t go near a place like that.”

Luciano eyed him. “You don’t know—”

“Nicolá was last seen alive at
church
!” Felice said. “They found his goddamned car there.”

“Yes. He was there several hours before the estimated time of death. He could have gone anywhere with anyone during that time, and the ME thinks he’d been drugged for quite some time before he was killed.”

Felice shook his head. “No way in hell he’d go from there to… one of those places. And even if he did, Eugenio Cusimano still ran him down on the highway.”

“Question is,” Luciano said softly, “was it deliberate?”

Felice slammed his fist down on the desk. “Whether he meant to do it or not, this is
murder
. We have got to send a message to the Cusimanos, and take out—”

“I know what we need to do, Felice,” Corrado said coolly.

Gritting his teeth against the nausea, Dom closed the police report. “There’s got to be a way to settle this without more violence.”

Felice rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Dom. What do you want to do? Ask them to write a heartfelt apology?” He laughed, shaking his head. “We gotta send a message here, not pussy foot around.”

“No,” Dom said. “But as volatile as things have been lately, this could snowball into a shootout right in the middle of downtown.”

“Felice is right, Domenico.” Corrado glanced at his younger son, then shifted his gaze to Dom. “Whether Nicolá was killed deliberately or not, we have conclusive proof he was killed by Eugenio Cusimano. I’m not interested in his intent. I’m interested in the fact that he’s taken out one of my men. A member of my
family
.”

“I can have him dead before dawn,” Felice said through gritted teeth. “Just say the—”

His father’s upraised hand stopped him. “You’ll do what you’re ordered to, and nothing more. Am I clear?”

Felice bristled, rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet, but didn’t comment any further. Dom wished like hell Corrado would send his younger son on one of these hits. The only reason he never actually suggested it was that Felice was the kind of psychopath who’d make his mark suffer. At least taking the job himself, Dom could end it quickly, cleanly, and painlessly. Felice would torture the guy for hours. Like father, like son.

“Eugenio Cusimano killed Nicolá Cannizzaro,” Corrado went on, calmly and evenly. “This will not go unanswered. If Nicolá’s death goes unpunished, the Cusimanos will think they can take out Maisanos with impunity. Felice is right—we need to send a message. A strong one.”

Corrado looked Dom right in the eye and gave him a subtle nod.

And that was that. The contract was issued. Corrado had deliberately groomed Dom to pick up certain cues. Even if they were in the middle of a room packed with cops, bugs, and federal agents, he could order Dom to take out a hit, and no one would know except for them. Law enforcement couldn’t overhear conversations that didn’t happen.

Corrado issued his orders via subtext and subtle gestures, and Dom carried them out without ever breathing a word to anyone. With equally subtle cues, he’d let Corrado know when the deed was carried out. Nothing spoken. Nothing written.

There’d be no evidence except the body and the ever-increasing amount of blood on Dom’s hands.

*              *              *

Eugenio Cusimano was a drunken idiot, but the family had him on a tight leash after the accident. He didn’t go near bars anymore. Didn’t drink. He still had his habits and haunts, but he started varying his routes. When he visited his girlfriend in Crescent City, he never returned via the same road, and that was a challenge considering just how few roads went in and out of Cape Swan.

Dom monitored him, stalked him, memorized his every move. He barely had time to go into the office—as always when he was hunting someone down, most of Dom’s waking hours were spoken for.

Not for long, though. It only took ten days to get close to Eugenio. As close as he needed to be, anyway.

Late one night, as he often did, Eugenio parked in an alley a few blocks over from his girlfriend’s condo. Dom found the man’s car, parked his own on another street, and then strolled down the alley. There was no one around this time of night, and a Dumpster hid the car from view of the road. Probably just in case Elena Cusimano came looking for her husband. Smart thinking—the wrath of a made man’s wife was not something a mistress wanted at her front door.