If The Seas Catch Fire (5 page)

“You look much better than you did last time I saw you.” Rojas smiled like he meant it. “How are you feeling?”

Dom eased himself onto his plush leather sofa. “Amazing what a week can do. I finally don’t feel like I got hit by a truck, so I think I’ll pull through.”

“Looks like you will.” Rojas sat beside him. He checked Dom’s various injuries, most of which had faded to angry but harmless bruises. The concussion had left Dom with the odd headache, and his ribs were still sore, but with each passing day, he felt more human.

“Do you need any more pain pills?” Rojas asked.

Dom shook his head. “No. I haven’t even had to take them the last day or so.”

“Good. Very good. Well if you—”

Footsteps turned their heads.

Biaggio came into the living room. “Well, well. Look who’s up and moving.”

“Eh, sort of.” Dom shifted gingerly. “Doc says I’ll make it, so…”

“I should hope so.” The consigliere chuckled, but genuine concern creased his forehead. “We were all worried there for a couple of days.”

“Tell me about it,” Dom muttered. “But I’m good. Much better.”

Biaggio smiled down at him. “Very good.”

“Yeah. Nice to be functional without pain pills.” Dom looked at Rojas and smirked. “But now that I think about it, if you
do
have a few extras…”

The doc laughed. He patted Dom’s forearm, and rose. “When you run out, let me know, and we’ll see how you’re feeling.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to get back to my clinic, though. I’ll come by in a few days and check on you again.”

Dom nodded. “Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”

Rojas flashed him a slight smile. Then he shook hands with both men, gathered his things, and left.

Biaggio sat beside Dom. “Your uncle will be pleased.”

Dom gritted his teeth. “Yeah. He’ll be thrilled to have me back on my feet and not making the Maisanos look like weaklings.”

The old man shrugged. “It’s part of the game, Domenico. We have enemies, and we can’t risk looking weak. If they think a beating is enough to hobble one of us, then it’ll be open season on the whole family.”

“I know.” Dom rubbed his neck, which was a little stiff from trying to sleep comfortably with sore ribs. “I get it. I do. But it does put some pressure on when you’re trying to recover
and
look like you already have.”

Biaggio smiled and patted his leg. “It does. But you’re a tough one.” The smile faltered a bit. In a quiet voice, one that absolutely wouldn’t carry to anyone except for them, he added, “You’re definitely your father’s son.”

Dom winced, but said nothing. From anyone else, that would’ve been a grave insult, if not a threat. His father’s name was tarnished within this family, and being compared to him was never good. But Biaggio knew Dom, and he’d known his father, and when he said it, he meant the man they both knew Papa really was. Not a traitor. Not a coward.

“
Your father was a good man,
” Biaggio had once told him. “
He made mistakes. He did things that can never be forgiven. But he had a good heart, and the world is a darker place without him.
”

Biaggio squeezed Dom’s arm. “Your uncle will want to see you today. To see that you’re really back on your feet.”

Dom nodded, and they both got up. “All right. I guess I should go show my face, then.”

“Good idea.”

After all…

Image, image, image.

*              *              *

As Dom recovered from his injuries, life more or less returned to normal. After a couple of days, when he could move comfortably, he returned to the offices where he oversaw his pieces of the family business.

At his uncle’s urging, he also contacted Passantino to let him know he was all right, and that he’d make arrangements with Brigida again very soon. She didn’t need to see him when he was still battered like this, and he was in no mood or condition to try to woo anyone.

Not that it mattered—Passantino had sent all three of his daughters to Italy in the name of vacationing and visiting family. When Brigida was back in California, arrangements could be made.

“In the meantime,” Passantino told him, “we’re glad you’re all right. Give my regards to your uncle.”

Fine by me,
Dom had thought after he’d hung up.

Felice and Corrado had ears to the ground and were scouring Cape Swan for whoever had put Floresta and Mandanici up to beating him, and everyone was searching for that mysterious man who’d killed the pair and saved Dom. Dom didn’t remember him, though. No name, no face—nothing. There’d been someone else, but he’d been too fucked up to pick out any details.

So he told everyone, though.

His memory of that night was hazy, but there were bits and pieces that were crystal clear. Little sharply-focused frames of an otherwise blurry film. And in every one of them, that red-clad stripper featured prominently.

Who the hell
was
that guy?

The more he recovered, the more his curiosity came to life. He wanted to find the stripper, but not just for business reasons.

That bleach-blond, barely dressed kid hadn’t just saved his life—he’d awakened thoughts Dom had been trying to keep dormant for a long, long time. Those blue eyes, that lithe, strong body…

Dom pushed the thoughts away and forced himself to concentrate on the ledger in front of him.

Tried to, anyway.

Right or wrong, he desperately wanted to see that stripper again.

Who are you kidding? Get that close to a gorgeous man, you’re gonna want to do more than see him.

He shifted in his desk chair, glancing at the door in case someone had come strolling into his office. Even with the desk in front of him, he was sure his hardening cock would be conspicuous to anyone who wandered in. As if anyone in this office would dare.

He shook himself.

Jesus, Dom. What’s wrong with you?

It was dangerous to even entertain these thoughts. He’d learned that the hard way back in his younger days when he’d sneak off to San Francisco or LA or Vegas at every opportunity. He’d check in somewhere under a fake name, and get his rocks off with any willing set of cock and balls he could find.

He hadn’t gone back since he was twenty-one though. Nearly getting caught by a pair of Cusimanos had scared him right out of that sense of adventure. The Cusimano and Maisano families hated each other, and that had been during a period of violent strife between them. If the two goons had seen him and they hadn’t killed him themselves, they could’ve turned him over to his uncle and let him know they’d found him sucking a guy’s dick in the backseat of a cab.

Even today, the thought of his uncle finding out he was gay sent chills through him. He knew all too well what happened to cocksuckers in this family. To this day he was haunted by the night he’d had no choice but to carry out a contract on a cousin who’d been outed.

Dom shuddered and took a deep swallow from his glass. Nearly getting busted had scared all the horniness right out of him for a while, and being tasked with “removing that degenerate pervert from this town” had terrified him. There’d be no coming out. No exploring his remaining curiosity, or scratching the itch that a good-looking man had always aroused in him.

So he’d tamped it all down and ignored it, and he’d resigned himself to eventually marrying a woman just like he’d resigned himself to being his uncle’s hitman. He hated both roles, wasn’t made for either one, but there was no room in this family for men who couldn’t kill or men who wanted men, and there was no leaving this family either. He’d had no choice but to live and breathe as a straight Maisano.

Maybe that was why he was itching to see the stripper again—a chance, however slim, to revisit that delicious past before he surrendered to respectability.

He couldn’t do it, though. It was too risky.

Much, much too risky.

No matter how tempting it was.

Sergei didn’t need as much time as he’d thought to arrange the hit.

Framing Eugenio Cusimano would be easy. He was notorious for drinking himself senseless and taking his expensive cars out speeding on the highways while he was drunk off his ass. Though he spent two or three weeknights at his mistress’s condo in Crescent City, every Friday and Saturday, like clockwork, he showed up at Dame Kelly’s bar at eight o’clock sharp and stayed there until last call. Then he’d hit the road and, by the grace of God, always managed to make it home alive. Sergei just hoped the booze didn’t kill the man—and the man didn’t kill anyone else—before he’d had a chance to complete the job.

Nicolá Cannizzaro didn’t make it quite so easy. He wisely varied his habits and his routes. He didn’t drink to excess—few Mafiosi did, and Corrado Maisano frowned on it especially hard. Nicolá wanted the favor of his sister’s father-in-law so badly it was pathetic, to the point he toed the line like nobody else in the family.

Sergei stalked the pristine motherfucker for three days before he found a weakness he could exploit. Every man had one, and Nicolá was no exception. In his case, a god and a girl. One he was devoted to as publicly as possible, no doubt to impress the boss. The other, a closely guarded secret, probably because the boss would be decidedly
un
impressed.

As Sergei parked his stolen sedan in the lot outside St. Leo’s during Wednesday Mass, he felt a tiny bit guilty. His father would’ve been horrified if he’d lived to see Sergei stalking a murder victim at a church. Then again, if Papa had lived this long, Sergei wouldn’t have been killing Italians in the first place, so he didn’t let the thought linger.

Mass finally came to an end. Sergei watched closely as the parishioners filed out the front door, each pausing to exchange a few words with the priest. It was strange, watching Cusimanos, Passantinos, and Maisanos coming out of the same church without giving each other a second look. There was only one Catholic church in town, and even avoiding enemies wasn’t a good enough reason for these wise guys to slum it at the Russian Orthodox church downtown. So they’d agreed upon a holy ground ceasefire some years ago. No one discussed or carried out business here.

Which made this the perfect place to abduct Nicolá. Though he wouldn’t be taken right from the church steps, it would be the last place anyone saw him alive, which meant it was entirely possible there’d be a rumor that
someone
had broken the sacred agreement. Just another gust of wind to fan the fire Sergei had been stoking. Then he—

A man emerged from the church, and Sergei did a double take so hard he nearly snapped his neck.

Was that—

On second glance, no. It wasn’t Domenico. Fine features, but not fine enough. Broad shoulders, but a little too soft around the midsection. No, no. He was all wrong.

Sergei shook himself. Why the fuck did he care? He had a job to do. Domenico Maisano had nothing to do with it. He had nothing to do with anything.

He rubbed his eyes and focused on watching for his target, not the man who’d inexplicably occupied space in his brain lately.

Nicolá didn’t leave until everyone else had cleared out. Hands in his pockets, eyes down, strolling down the steps and across the parking lot without so much as a glance around him. Funny how he was so good at varying his routine, so vigilant about situational awareness, and yet here and here alone, he let his guard down. Sergei wasn’t sure if Nicolá’s faith was admirable or stupid.

The pious wise guy was alone, which Sergei had expected. The rest of the family was a little more half-assed about attending church, and Nicolá didn’t dare show his face with that pretty Mexican girl no one knew about yet. Maybe Sergei was doing him a favor by eliminating the need for that conversation.

The mark walked toward his car. Gaze down, brow furrowed, keys spinning around his finger. Deep in thought, apparently. The priest must’ve had something profound to say tonight. Good—Nicolá could chew on that while he waited to meet God.

Sergei grabbed a map off the passenger seat, and got out. Effortlessly adopting that perfect American accent he’d honed ages ago, he called out, “Excuse me? Sir?”

Nicolá turned around. “Yes?”

Sergei waved the map. “I’m completely lost and my GPS battery is dead. Could you show me how to get back to the highway?”

“Which highway?” Nicolá dropped his keys into his trouser pocket and started toward him. “The 101 or the 103?”

“103.” Sergei spread the map across the trunk lid. “I’ve been driving around for twenty minutes, and I think I’m going in circles.”

The Italian chuckled. “Easy to do in this part of town. All right.” He tapped the map. “You’re right here, and you want to go—”

He froze. Slowly, his gaze slid downward toward the pistol Sergei had pressed in beneath his ribs. “What the—”

“Get in the car.”

The mark’s lips tightened. “You’re doing this here? In a church parking lot?”

Sergei shrugged. “Not my god.”

Nicolá’s eyebrows rose, his forehead creasing.

“Get in the car.” Sergei nudged him with the pistol. His accent slipped, but at this point, he had the upper hand, and this guy wasn’t going to live long enough to describe him to anyone. “You’re driving.”

The mark exhaled, and then nodded.

Slowly, both eyeing each other, they got into Sergei’s car. Sergei kept the weapon trained on Nicolá’s midsection as the Italian started the engine.

“What’s to stop me from driving into the ocean or crashing into a building?”

“Because you don’t know if I’m planning to kill you or not,” Sergei said coolly. “Or what might happen to Marguerite if I’m not alive to place a certain call later tonight.”

Nicolá sucked in a sharp breath, and Sergei knew damn well he’d won.

At Sergei’s instruction, Nicolá drove to the edge of town.

Sergei pointed at a deserted parking lot outside a supermarket that hadn’t survived the last recession. “Park here.”

The mark slowed down, but didn’t turn. “Why should I? You’re going to kill me either way, aren’t you?”

Sergei exhaled sharply. “Because a bullet to the stomach is one of the more painful ways to die?”

Nicolá’s eyes flicked toward the gun.

Impatiently, Sergei growled, “And Marguerite might—”

“All right! All right. Don’t hurt her. Please.” He cursed in Italian, and then pulled into the parking lot. He stopped, kept both hands on the wheel, and turned to Sergei. “If you’re going to do it, just be done with it.”

“I’m still waiting for orders. Cooperate, and you might walk away tonight. Irritate me, and, well…” Sergei lifted the gun slightly.

Nicolá regarded him uneasily.

“Listen,” Sergei said. “I’m not going to kill you unless you fuck with me. I wasn’t sent here to kill you.”

“Then why—”

“Because someone needs to hold onto you until a decision is made.” Sergei shrugged. “If they decide to kill you, that’s up to the Georgian. Not me.”

“
The Georgian?
” Nicolá went white. “They’re sending
him
after me? I didn’t do anything!”

“Not my problem. All I know is that I’m supposed to keep on ice until the final decision is made, and that how well you cooperate with me will determine how much he’s supposed to fuck you up before he kills you.”

Nicolá swallowed hard, as if pushing back a sudden wave of nausea.

Sergei held out his hand. “Keys.”

Expression blank, Nicolá killed the engine and surrendered the keys.

“Get out.” Sergei opened his own door without ever shifting his gaze away from Nicolá. Try anything stupid, and I’ll make you bleed until the Georgian’s ready for you. And remember what I said about your girl. Clear?”

The Italian’s nostrils flared and his jaw tightened, but he nodded.

Slowly, they both stepped out of the car. Sergei waved him around to the back of the car and popped the trunk.

Nicolá balked. His eyes darted this way and that, but he didn’t move—apparently he wasn’t going to challenge Sergei’s marksmanship. Good. He needed Nicolá alive for the time being.

Sergei put on a pair of thin leather gloves. Then he pulled a foil sheet out of his pocket. It was dotted with gray-blue lumps of a dried paste, and he popped two off. They were a mix of Ecstasy and God knew what else. His poison guy, Katashi, had been selling it to him for the past couple of years, and it worked wonders for subduing marks who needed to stay alive but compliant for a little while.

“Put these under your tongue.”

Nicolá arched an eyebrow. “How about you put them in your—”

The pistol pointed at his forehead shut him up.

“Under your tongue.” Sergei held out the tabs. “Now.”

Nicolá took them, but eyed them. “What are they?”

“They’re not bullets. Put them—”

“How do I know they aren’t—”

Sergei lowered the weapon and jammed the muzzle against Nicolá’s balls. “Both of those under your tongue, or one of these in each nut. Got it?”

Nicolá slipped the tabs under his tongue. He grimaced, probably at the taste.

“Don’t swallow it,” Sergei said sharply. “And just to make sure you don’t spit it out.” He held up a roll of duct tape.

The Italian’s grimace turned murderous, his lips blanching and nearly vanishing, but he didn’t stop Sergei from taping his mouth. If looks could kill…

But they couldn’t.

Sergei nodded toward the car. “Into the trunk.”

Nicolá hesitated for a split second. A muzzle tap against his dick got the message across, and he climbed into the back of the car.

Sergei bound his hands and ankles with tape. Then he slammed the trunk and went around to the driver side. He wasn’t worried about the mark getting loose back there. There were no sharp edges or anything in the trunk—he’d made sure of that. And even if he’d overlooked a potential escape route or a weapon, the drug would keep Nicolá from noticing anything beyond whatever blissed out hallucinations kept his subconscious occupied for the next few hours.

With Nicolá safely getting high in the trunk, Sergei drove over to the clubs that Eugenio frequented. He wasn’t at the first two, but the third time was the charm—the goon’s car was parked just outside.

Sergei parked nearby. Then he glanced around, made sure no one was looking, and quickly jimmied the man’s car door open. He cut a tiny slit into the leather interior of the driver seat, and tucked a needle and small syringe beneath it, with the needle sticking up so Eugenio wouldn’t be able to avoid sitting on it and injecting himself with the poison. Once everything was in place, he wiped the car for prints, locked the doors, and returned to the stolen car, which was parked where he could easily see when Cusimano came out.

And then he waited.

Elbow pressed beneath the window, he rested his head on his hand and drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. This was the boring part. Waiting. There were only so many times he could play out his plans in his mind before he wanted to fucking
go
.

He was impatient with short term plans, but he was pacified by the knowledge that his longer term plans were beginning to come to fruition. These days, the Cusimanos appeared to be solid, but the in-fighting was slowly unraveling their entire power structure. The Passantinos just needed their elderly boss to retire or die, and he’d be succeeded by his second-in-command, a vicious Sicilian-born con artist with the Cusimanos in his back pocket.

And the Maisanos were nearly there too. Corrado was in good health and was well-respected by the Passantino boss, not to mention his own family. If something were to happen to him, he’d be succeeded by his equally well-respected son, Luciano. There’d been rumors that Corrado had other men in line for his position in case Luciano died before him. After all, no one wanted Corrado’s psychopath younger son, Felice, in power. But a series of tragic accidents, tips to the cops, and blatant executions had removed nearly everyone fit to fill the senior Maisano’s shoes. Everyone except for Luciano.

Lovely son you have there, Maisano. Be a shame if something happened to him
.

Sergei wasn’t ready to make that move yet, though. As twitchy as he was about carrying out tonight’s plan—
c’mon, Eugenio…
—he was a patient man when it came to his larger goals. He had to be absolutely sure that all of the families were in checkmate, not just check, before he took out Luciano and Corrado Maisano. He had to be absolutely certain that Felice would take over and all other potential heirs had been eliminated. Once Felice did take over, Sergei would make sure Old Man Passantino “retired,” leaving his son in power. Putting those two opposite each other was like dropping a pair of rabid wolverines into a cage together. Except these two rabid wolverines would have an army of made men and the authority to sic them on each other. Then all that remained for Sergei was to skip town while the families finished each other off.

And once again, as he drummed the steering wheel and watched for Eugenio, Sergei’s mind wandered back to a particular Maisano. One who hadn’t ever played any role in his plans because he never seemed to play a significant role in anything besides the family’s bookkeeping.