If The Seas Catch Fire (2 page)

He found his boss by the bar, and flagged him down. “Hey, Paco. I need to step out for a bit. Take care of something.”

Paco raised his eyebrows. No doubt Jesse had told him about the shit going on in the alley. “You need a hand?”

“No, I’ve got this. Just need some time.”

Paco didn’t ask questions. People in Mafia-run towns usually didn’t—the less they knew about shady shit, the better.

With his boss’s blessing, Sergei left the club. In the car, he found a pair of leather gloves in the glove compartment and put them on so he didn’t leave any more fingerprints in or on the vehicle. Then he drove the goons’ car out of the alley and safely away from the row of clubs. He continued along the waterfront, past a deserted park and down to the marina, where he stopped.

As the engine idled, Sergei drummed the wheel and gazed in the rearview, debating how to handle the wise guy in the backseat and the two idiots in the trunk. If they hadn’t killed the guy, they were either inept, or they’d only intended to send a message. Pity for them they’d chosen the wrong post office for that message.

And one way or another, they
were
inept. They were also competition. More importantly, their ineptness could get them caught, and once the cops got their hands on anybody in this fucked up underworld—especially with bodies washing up on the beach—everyone remotely attached to La Cosa Nostra were in danger, and that included independent contractors like Sergei. If these morons were stupid enough to rough someone up this brazenly with a police station six blocks away, then they were a liability to everyone.

They had to go.

Sergei got out of the car. He opened the trunk, and without any fanfare or hesitation, unloaded two bullets apiece into their foreheads. Then he slammed the lid again.

As he’d done in the alley, he smeared his footprints in the gravel. With a towel he’d found beside the two dead men, he wiped every surface to make sure he didn’t leave any fingerprints on the inside or outside of the car. There could be no trace of him here; though the rounds were nearly impossible to trace and even the .22 would be in the ocean before sunrise, he took no chances.

And now he was left with the beaten up guy in the backseat. In theory, he could’ve offed him and walked away. One less Mafioso to pollute this town.

But Sergei didn’t kill indiscriminately. Even when he was absolutely certain a man was Mafia—and thus fair game for a bullet—the fact remained that offing the wrong guy could mark him for death if anyone ever connected him. He was good at covering his tracks, but he refused to take unnecessary risks.

And besides, he only committed murder under three circumstances. One, when it was a paid hit, because even for an independent contractor, saying no to the Mafia was a death sentence. Two, when he was in actual immediate danger. Three, when the mark needed to be removed from the Mafia chessboard so Sergei could push them all one body closer to extinction.

The goons technically hadn’t put him in immediate danger, but they posed a threat to Sergei and the handful of other hired guns in this town. They’d also seen his face. They’d brought Mafia business too close to where he conducted his business. They’d had to go.

That wasn’t to say his life as a stripper and his life as a contract killer never crossed. Quite the contrary—he had a very select group of contacts who met him at the club, and through a series of coded comments, gave him work that paid a hell of a lot more than making horny bankers pant. He deliberately handled his transactions there, hiding in plain sight. No one but his contacts ever saw his face, and none of the macho Mafia assholes would ever suspect a sometimes flamboyant gay stripper of being the hitman equivalent of the boogey man. The assassin they told their children about when they wouldn’t behave.

What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

And he wanted to get back to the club tonight, but he still had one more mess to clean up.

Sergei tilted the rearview down and studied the Italian’s still form. What little he could make out in the darkness, anyway. There was no telling exactly who the semiconscious Italian was. Well-dressed—that was
not
an off-the-rack suit—so he probably wasn’t just some random wise guy. Involved enough with La Cosa Nostra to take a ride in the trunk of a Cadillac and have his ass kicked in a back alley. But his name? His role? What he’d done to earn a beating like that? Anyone’s guess.

Sergei’s best bet was to let him go. Besides, the guy could be someone he actually wanted alive. Not that he wanted any Mafiosi alive, but some needed to keep breathing while Sergei continued pulling strings to move people into position within the families’ hierarchies. Once the dominoes were in a row, they’d all fall in good time, but for now, some of them needed to stay alive until the pieces were in place.

He opened the car door. “Time to go.”

The Italian groaned softly and struggled to sit up. Sergei helped him, and with some cursing and grunting, the wounded man made it out of the car.

Once he was on his feet, he leaned against the car, clutching his side. “Fuck…”

Sergei gave the man a quick down-up. This was the first chance he’d had to actually look at the guy, and surprisingly the Italian wasn’t one of the greasy, weathered assholes he was used to seeing. Even with the blood and the bruises, he had a much prettier face than most of his kind. The streetlights picked out a few strands of silver in his otherwise jet black hair, but he couldn’t have been older than forty. Mid-thirties, maybe.

And he probably had that lightly tanned olive skin like the other Mafia scumbags, but between his sickly pallor and the blood and sweat glinting beneath the milky light, it was impossible to tell.

Sergei shook himself. “You need a hospital.”

The man spat blood on the pavement. “No fucking hospitals.”

Stubborn idiot. Hospitals routinely called the cops when people came in with signs of assault and battery. When well-dressed Italians came in with signs of assault and battery? Nobody called nobody.

“You could be bleeding internally.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He shifted, wincing. “But I’d rather not stay out here.”

Sergei bit back some profanity in his native tongue. The less this guy knew about him, the better.

“Listen.” The Italian groaned, holding his side protectively. “If you’re gonna shoot me, just fucking get it over with.”

“If I was going to shoot you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. What’s your name?”

The Italian lifted his head enough to meet Sergei’s gaze. “Who wants to know?”

Sergei rolled his eyes. “The guy who’s going to decide whether you wake up tomorrow in a hospital, a jail cell, or a morgue.”

He blinked. “Domenico Maisano.”

Sergei’s blood turned cold and he muttered, “You’re shitting me.”

Maisano laughed, but then grimaced, and managed to croak, “You’ve heard of me.”

“Yeah. I have.” Sergei knew that name well. This guy was the nephew—more like adopted son—of Corrado Maisano himself, the boss of the powerful Maisano clan. A contractor like Sergei, who worked with all three of the big families, had to tread carefully. He had no way of knowing if he’d just interrupted a sanctioned hit, albeit a sloppily executed one. If it wasn’t sanctioned, and by some chance, someone figured out he’d been the one to finish the job, he’d bring the wrath of all three families down on his own head.

Son of a bitch. All he’d wanted to do was get all this crap away from the club so the cops wouldn’t come knocking on doors. Now he had Domenico fucking Maisano on his hands.

“Can you walk or not?” he asked sharply.

The Italian groaned again. “I don’t… I don’t know.” He tried to take a step, but stumbled, and when Sergei caught him, the man gasped. “Fuck. That hurts.”

“You got a phone?”

Maisano gingerly patted his pockets, and then shook his head. “Not… not anymore.”

“Of course you don’t.” Sergei looked around. They were pretty far from town, and no one would be wandering around here this late at night. “Don’t move.”

Maisano mumbled something about that not being a problem.

Still wearing the stolen gloves, Sergei made sure Maisano hadn’t bled on the backseat—he didn’t care if Maisano was connected to the assholes in the trunk, but on the off chance someone happened by before he’d relieved himself of the limping Italian, Sergei didn’t want anyone connecting
him
to them.

Then he went to the trunk, opened it, relieved one of the dead guys of his phone, and slammed the lid. “Come on. We’re going for a walk.”

“Maybe you are,” Maisano said through his teeth. “Look at me.”

“Well, it’s up to you. The paramedics can find you over there”—Sergei gestured with the phone toward a park a few blocks away—“or they can find you here.” He tapped the trunk with his gloved knuckle.

Maisano’s eyes widened.

“So.” Sergei nodded toward the park. “Let’s go.”

Maisano cursed again. Then he carefully pushed himself off the car and took a few slow, painful steps. “Don’t expect me to walk fast.”

Sergei bit back his impatience. “Need a hand?”

Maisano eyed him suspiciously, but then nodded. “I could use one, yeah.”

Sergei took his elbow, and together, they shuffled toward the park.

On the way, Sergei expected questions. Who the hell was he? What the fuck was he doing interfering with Mob business?

But Maisano didn’t ask. Maybe he was in too much pain to give a damn. Or he could’ve been silently thanking one of his Catholic saints for the leather clad angel who’d swooped in and saved his ass.

Good thing he kept his mouth shut. Sergei hated questions. And Maisano could thank all the saints he wanted—he didn’t need to know he was walking with an angel of death.

Every step Dom took was agony. Thank God this kid had intervened when he did. Left to their own devices, Floresta and Mandanici may or may not have killed him, but they sure would’ve done some more damage.

Clutching his side and holding his breath, Dom stole a glance at the slight blond enigma walking beside him. He didn’t know what to make of this kid. Not a fucking clue. He had to be around twenty-five, give or take a year, and judging by his accent, he must’ve been a Russian immigrant. There were a lot of those in Cape Swan. The way he was dressed—tight red leather and not a lot of it—he was either a stripper or a hooker. Nobody in this town dressed like that unless they were selling orgasms.

He obviously wasn’t a pussy. There was no telling what he’d done to Mandanici and Floresta. Dom had been on the verge of blacking out when the kid had shown up, and he’d only just been aware of the shot that had apparently hobbled Mandanici. Then Floresta had knocked Dom to the ground, and everything that happened after that was hazy at best. Next thing he remembered, he was being guided out of the car and onto his feet, and why the fuck were they down by the marina?

“Here.” The kid gestured at a bench beside a bus stop. “Sit.”

Dom didn’t argue. With some help, he eased himself down onto the hard bench, groaning as blinding pain ripped through him. “Fuck…”

“You really need to see—”

“I’ll be fine.” Dom moistened his lips, pausing to gingerly tongue the sweet raw spot where a fist had apparently shoved the tender flesh against his tooth. It had stopped bleeding as near as he could tell. His mouth tasted metallic, so he couldn’t tell spit from blood anymore, but the wound didn’t seem too severe. And he hadn’t lost or cracked any teeth, so… He’d call it a win.

He lifted his head and blinked a few times, trying to bring his eyes into focus. Whoa. If this kid was selling sex, he was in the right line of work. He was slim and ripped, the contours of his muscles standing out thanks to the harsh overhead light. The blanched light made his bottle blond hair almost white but didn’t quite pick out the color of those intense eyes. Or maybe it was just because Dom couldn’t focus his own enough to tell if they were blue, or black, or… whatever. Piercing, that was for sure, especially coupled with those sharp Slavic features.

Dom gingerly drew a breath. “You never told me your name.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Who am I gonna tell? The cops?”

The kid glared down at him.

“You asked
my
name,” Dom said.

“Yeah. I did. Anyway, you’ll be good here till help shows up.”

Dom glanced at the phone in the stripper’s hand—those gloves didn’t seem like part of his ensemble—then at him. “You calling, or am I?”

“You are.” The stripper tossed him the phone. “I’m out of here.”

Dom eyed him. “You’re pretty tough for a hooker.”

He bristled. “I’m not a hooker. I’m a stripper.”

Dom didn’t laugh—his ribs wouldn’t allow it anyway, and he really didn’t want to piss off this kid till he had a better idea what he was dealing with. “My mistake.” He gestured at the piece tucked into the kid’s waistband. “Strippers always pack heat like that?”

The stripper looked at the gun as if he’d forgotten he had it, and then shrugged. “This is a shit part of town. Everyone’s armed.”

Dom glanced around. His vision was a little fuzzy and doubling around the edges. He was up the road from the marina, that much he knew. This area was all too familiar.

How the hell had he gotten here tonight? In the trunk of one car and the backseat of another, that much he knew, but at the beginning of the evening, he’d been clear on the other side of Cape Swan. He’d been parked behind an upscale restaurant, palms sweating and stomach sick over a date he didn’t want to be on, when the assholes got the drop on him. How long ago had that been? Shit. He had no idea what had happened, or when, or where…

All he knew was that he was fucked up and he needed to get out of here. He turned on the phone. It didn’t require a passcode, fortunately, and thank God he’d committed a few key numbers to memory. “Do you need me to get you a cab or something?”

He lifted his head, but the stripper was gone.

He scanned the deserted road as much as his sore muscles and shitty vision would allow, but there was no sign of the guy. Not even footsteps fading into the night.

They got ninjas working as strippers in this town or something?

Well. Whatever. He was alone now.

He shifted his gaze back to the phone, gave his eyes a second to focus, and entered a number. It rang several times, before Biaggio, his uncle’s consigliere, picked up.

The sleepy, irritated voice muttered, “Hello?”

“It’s Dom. I need help.”

He could almost hear the old man snapping to attention. “What’s going on? Are you all right? Where are you?”

“I’m… down by the marina. Couple of blocks from the gate. Banged up.”

“What? My God, what’s… Are you all right?”

“I’m… I think so? I just need to get out of here.”

“I’m on my way. Do I need to call Rojas?”

Dom knew damn well Biaggio was going to call the family’s physician either way—better safe than sorry—but he still croaked, “Yeah. Call him.”

Biaggio swore in Italian. “Where
exactly
are you?”

Dom gave him the intersection, and after they hung up, he leaned back against the bench, but that only aggravated the bruises on his back.

As his body ached and throbbed and threatened to just fall apart, his mind reeled. He tried not to think about everything that had happened tonight, tried not to pick apart exactly how the motherfuckers had caught him with his guard down, but that was easier said than done. It was like his brain had split into two pieces, and both sides were pulling him in opposite directions. One wanted to focus solely on staying conscious and watching for his ride. The other wanted to go back to the restaurant where his evening had started and retrace his steps. Figure out exactly when things had gone to shit. When he’d ceased to be meeting with Brigida Passantino, the woman his uncle was pressuring him to marry, and when he’d suddenly been in serious danger. And serious pain. And…here.

He rubbed his forehead, carefully avoiding the goose egg swelling near his hair line. There’d be plenty of time to retrace those steps when he got home. Biaggio had undoubtedly notified Uncle Corrado—no one in the family got roughed up without the boss knowing about it. Corrado was probably already pacing in his office, ready to grill Dom about what had happened. Or more importantly,
who
had happened. Who had dared to fuck with a boss’s nephew? Who was Corrado going to order dead before sunrise?

Dom was pretty sure the guys who’d fucked him up were dead already, though. The shouting and struggling in the trunk of the car had ceased after a few small caliber gunshots. Assuming he hadn’t hallucinated that part. Had he? No, he was pretty sure that had been real. Along with the red leather clad stripper who’d pulled him out of the car and then vanished. Had
he
been a hallucination?

Except Dom hadn’t gotten to his feet, into the car, and out of it again on his own power. Someone had been there beside him—he could still feel every tender spot the kid had touched while helping him up.

No, he’d definitely been real. And dangerous.

The back of Dom’s neck prickled. In his mind’s eye, he saw the pistol in the stripper’s waistband, the way the kid had carried it comfortably and naturally.

The gunshots echoed in Dom’s mind. There hadn’t been anyone else around. No one else could have pulled the trigger. Which meant…

No way.

But then, who else could have done it? For that matter, it didn’t take a big guy like Dom to pull a trigger, though God knew he’d pulled his fair share. A pistol made anyone, however slim and slight, physically capable of killing. If Dom could cope with putting a bullet through someone, he had no reason to believe that stripper couldn’t. And those ice cold eyes hadn’t held a trace of fear, though Dom had hardly been a threat to anyone by the time he could look at the kid’s face. Still, Dom was alive, Floresta and Mandanici were dead, and…

And who the fuck
was
that kid?

*              *              *

It seemed like hours before the sleek black car pulled up and stopped on the curb. Two doors opened. Stan, the driver, hurried around the front as Biaggio, the white-haired consigliere, stepped out of the car.

Biaggio’s eyes widened. “Domenico, what happened? Who did this?”

“Couple of Raffaele Cusimano’s thugs. I’d know… I’d know Michele Mandanici’s fucking face anywhere.” Dom held his breath as he tried to stand.

“Easy, easy.” Stan took his arm and gently helped him to his feet. “Sir, he’s bleeding and that looks like a hell of a bump on his head. Don’t you think we should take him to the—”

“No,” Biaggio snapped. “Corrado’s waiting for him. Dr. Rojas is on his way. He’ll there by the time we get back.”

Stan pursed his lips, but didn’t protest. As the driver helped him into the car, Dom questioned whether Stan and the stripper were right. Maybe he did need a hospital. But that would be for the doc to determine, and Dom wasn’t going to the ER unless it was absolutely necessary.

Inside the car, Dom closed his eyes, trying in vain to get comfortable on the luxurious leather seats.

Across from him, Biaggio was silent. Paternal concern radiated off him—he had long been more of an adoptive father to Dom than Corrado, and Dom doubted Biaggio would sleep tonight until Rojas gave Dom a clean bill of health. While Corrado raged and plotted vengeance, Biaggio would be wringing his hands about broken ribs and internal bleeding.

He said nothing, though. He undoubtedly had a million questions, but Corrado would interrogate Dom as soon as the doctor had determined he was all right. Anything Dom told Biaggio, he’d be repeating to Corrado later, so there was no point in asking now.

Thank God for that. Talking hurt. Hell, breathing hurt. Dom really wasn’t in the mood to say anything to anyone unless it involved the words “morphine” and “now.”

All the way to Corrado’s house, Dom swam in and out of darkness. He was exhausted. Completely drained. As if the adrenaline had kept him going until the car arrived, and now he was collapsing. Like both of the other car rides he’d taken tonight, this one was a blur of turns and stops and starts until Biaggio quietly said, “We’re here.”

Dom opened his eyes as Stan eased to a stop in the portico in front of Corrado’s mansion. Beyond the tinted windows, a handful of people were waiting for him. Just four that he could see, and for that, Dom was grateful. This kind of offense—two thugs kidnapping and beating a made man—certainly warranted waking everyone in the family, but Corrado must’ve known Dom wouldn’t be able to handle a crowd of angry Italians. Not until he’d had some pain pills, some sleep, some coffee, and some more pain pills, sleep, and coffee.

Among the tiny cluster of people in the portico were his uncle, of course, and Dr. Rojas, the physician who’d come any time Corrado demanded it. Like most immigrants in town, the doc was owned by the family, and he was at the beck and call of the Maisanos to show up whenever he was needed, day or night, to treat anything from a child’s ear infection to a bullet wound, all the while turning a blind eye to certain things.

Things like exactly why Corrado’s nephew-slash-adopted-son was stumbling out of a limousine with blood all over him.

Rojas looked Dom up and down, his tanned face lined with concern. “Rough night?”

“Rough night.” Dom swallowed. “You’ve got something for pain, right?”

The doctor nodded, no humor registering in his expression. “Of course. But first, I need to make sure none of your injuries are serious.” The doc inclined his head. “If there’s anything internal or broken, there’s nothing I can do here.”

“Then let’s hope there isn’t,” Dom said.

Rojas nodded. He probably hoped as much as Dom did that this could be handled with a house call—nobody liked broaching the subject of a hospital transfer with Corrado.

With Biaggio and the doctor at each elbow, Dom shuffled up the portico’s marble stairs. Aunt Marcella had set up one of the guest rooms on the first floor, and they guided him in there.

Getting his jacket and shirt off was excruciating, but with the doc’s help, he was able to strip out of them.

“Sorry they woke you up,” Dom whispered.

“It’s all right,” Rojas ground out. “I got here as soon as I could once I realized it was you.”

They exchanged glances, but let the subject drop when Corrado appeared in the doorway. Wordlessly, Dr. Rojas examined Dom, poking and prodding just right to make his vision turn white, Corrado hovered at the edge of the room, arms folded and lips taut. Biaggio paced outside, occasionally pausing to peer into the room.

Finally, the doctor gave Dom a couple of pills and let him lie down. “I don’t see any signs of internal trauma beyond some bruising. Only an X-ray will tell us for sure if any ribs are broken, but if they are, the fractures are mild and there isn’t much to be done except wait for them to heal.”