If The Seas Catch Fire (6 page)

And getting his ass beat, apparently.

Sergei didn’t know who had decided Domenico Maisano needed a beating, never mind why, but it didn’t matter. Mafia royalty or not, Domenico didn’t seem like much more than a pawn. On the other hand, Domenico’s father had left a shameful enough legacy to taint his son’s name as well as his own, and although Domenico was apparently a savvy businessman and a made man, there were plenty of people in all three families convinced that he was a rat waiting to happen. Though it was unusual for someone quite so high up in the ranks to be roughed up by a couple of goons, that night behind the club may very well have been a warning.

Whatever the case, Domenico wasn’t Sergei’s problem. He wasn’t even sure why he kept thinking back to that night, besides the intrusion on his territory by idiots who didn’t know how to be discreet. Somehow, though, Domenico kept creeping into the back of Sergei’s mind.

He shook himself, focusing on the black Lincoln parked outside the bar. The only piece of the Maisano clan he needed to worry about tonight was currently tied up and tripping balls in the trunk.

And what the hell? When it came to Mafia-connected Italians, Sergei didn’t have a sympathetic bone in his body. Yet he
was
curious if Domenico had recovered.

Of course he was. A man like that getting fucked up by goons like those was a sure sign that the war was about to begin. It was entirely possible that he’d been meant to be the Archduke Ferdinand for the Maisanos—the nobleman whose assassination ignited years of bloodshed that had been a long time coming.

Did that mean Sergei had inadvertently doused the fire that he himself had been trying to start for the past few years?

He thumbed the grip of the pistol beside his seat. Maybe he needed to finish the job. It had been a necessity, offing those two assholes and moving the would-be crime away from the place where he did business, but Domenico Maisano’s survival had been collateral damage.

Right. Which is the only reason you helped him get his ass to a park bench so he could wait for help.

Sergei tapped his gloved finger on the gun. Every bullet he ever fired was part of the plan. When he spared a life, it wasn’t compassion or even mercy. He’d spared Domenico Maisano because that was how this business worked. You didn’t just kill a made man because he was there. Fulfilling a sanctioned hit was one thing—the person who called in the hit would be blamed and punished if anyone felt compelled. The hitman was doing his job. But killing a made man without a contract put the blame squarely on Sergei’s head. If Domenico’s death was ever somehow traced back to Sergei, the punishment would be severe and anything but swift. Corrado Maisano had a well-earned reputation for using butchery as a means of making a point or seeking vengeance. The execution for murdering his nephew would probably not be pleasant.

And yet, Sergei’s brain kept circling back to… why? He could have easily gotten away with it. The gun was unregistered. .22 caliber bullets were almost never traced back to the weapon that fired them—they were too common, and half the time, damaged by ping-ponging around inside the body before coming to rest in a bone or something. And anyway, he’d flung the gun off a cliff several miles south of town. Neither the cops nor the Mafia—whoever would’ve found the body first—would’ve had any more reason to connect Sergei to Domenico’s murder than they would the other two men who’d been bound and shot in the Caddy’s trunk.

He shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Focus, damn it. You’ve got a job to do.

And maybe once that job was finished, he could waste a bit more time wondering why the fuck Domenico Maisano was still alive.

Around two in the morning, right on schedule, Eugenio Cusimano came stumbling out of the bar and staggered to where he’d parked. He dropped his keys three times, but finally managed to get the door open.

Sergei started his engine. Adrenaline was beginning to drip into his veins, and his heart sped up as he put the car in gear.

Eugenio fidgeted and shifted around in his seat for a moment. Maybe he’d felt the needle. Maybe he was just too drunk to control his limbs anymore. Eventually, though, he finally pulled out of his space, and headed out to the road. Sergei followed him.

Three miles later, Sergei was getting nervous. That car was still staying between the lines, Eugenio driving much too well for a man in his state. Between the booze and the cocktail of tranquilizers inside that syringe, Eugenio should’ve been groggy as fuck by now. He really shouldn’t have even been conscious.

Sergei tapped his thumbs rapidly on the wheel. Maybe it hadn’t worked. The poison usually kicked in quickly, but Eugenio had a hell of an alcohol tolerance. What if Sergei hadn’t worked out the right dose? Or maybe the needle hadn’t gone in. Or he’d felt it before he’d pressed down enough to activate the plunger.

No. Sergei had planned for every contingency and variable. It would work. It had to.

But why wasn’t it working? What the fuck was—

Eugenio started to weave lazily. Though the brake lights didn’t come on, the car lost speed. After a sluggish mile or so, it nosed off the road onto the soft shoulder and came to a lazy stop.

Sergei stopped behind him, left the engine running, and cautiously approached the vehicle. Just as predicted, when he reached the window, Eugenio was passed out against the steering wheel.

Sergei pushed the fat asshole into the passenger seat. He carefully withdrew the syringe from the seat and tossed it into the bushes. Then he went back to the stolen car, killed the engine, and got out again to open the trunk. From inside, Nicolá stared up at him, mumbling something against the duct tape across his mouth.

“We’re going for a walk.” Sergei cut the tape that was wrapped around the man’s ankles, and took his arm, guiding him up out of the trunk. After he’d closed the lid, he walked him to Eugenio’s car and shoved him into that trunk. He taped Nicolá’s ankles again, and slammed the lid.

With both of his marks doped up and contained, he drove out of Cape Swan and out onto Highway 103. Out here, with nothing but trees, mountains, and the occasional podunk town or meth lab between here and Interstate 5, the world was dark and quiet. The only light came from the high beams. When Sergei slowed down and started nosing off onto the shoulder, everything in the rearview lit up bright red from his brake lights.

There wasn’t a soul in sight, and he was confident that no one would come by this time of night. He’d been out here enough times to know how deserted this highway was. How much blood could dry on pavement and how hoarse someone could become from screaming before a passerby finally showed up and called the cops.

Sergei suppressed a shudder as he eased the car to a halt. Nightmarish memories flashed through his mind—his brothers and father bleeding out in the headlights’ glow, Mama screaming until her voice gave out, the certainty that the car pulling up had come to finish off him and Mama—but he tamped them down. That night couldn’t surface now, or it would distract him from the job at hand.

He left the engine idling and got out, pistol in hand. The air was thick and oppressive, tasting of hot asphalt, but he was cold beneath his thin T-shirt. He paused to roll his shoulders, forcing back that memory that always tried to bubble up when he came out here.

Work to be done. No time to dwell on the past.

Slowly, the chill receded and his focus returned. Time to get the job done.

He opened the trunk. “Get out.”

Nicolá blinked. Then he saw the muzzle of Sergei’s gun pointed at him, and he obeyed, scrambling to get out and on his feet. The drug made him waver a bit, but he managed to get on his feet.

“Go.” Sergei lowered the weapon and nodded at the highway. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“What?”

“You’re a lucky man.” Sergei grinned. “Got a message. Turns out they don’t want you dead after all.”

The Italian’s face went slack. “So, the Georgian…” He struggled to form words, and still slurred them. “They’re not sending the…”

“He’s not coming. But I would suggest you start walking before someone calls me back and tells me they’ve changed their mind.”

“Where am I supposed to—”

Sergei held up the pistol again. “You want me to change my mind?”

“N-no. But…” Nicolá looked around. “Why did you bring me all the way out here? And… where
are
we?”

“Outside.” Sergei shrugged. “Fuck if I know. But if I were you, I’d start walking before this phone starts ringing.” He held up his cell.

The mark got the message. He spun on his heel, wobbling a little, and started walking down the highway.

Sergei got back into the car beside Eugenio. He pulled out onto the road and followed Nicolá.

Nicolá looked over his shoulder and then started running. Or trying to, anyway—he was still unsteady on his feet, and his gait was uneven and clumsy. He looked to his right, probably trying to make a quick decision about jumping into the deep, rocky ditch or taking his chances on the shoulder.

He didn’t think fast enough.

Sergei slammed on the gas. Nicolá hit the hood with a meaty
thud
and rolled up onto the windshield, cracking the glass. Sergei swerved, and the man’s body tumbled off the hood and into the darkness of the ditch.

Sergei parked, got out, and made his way down to where Nicolá lay. He shined a small flashlight into the shadows and quickly found Nicolá. The impact had contorted his hips and spine, and his head was attached to his neck at an unnatural angle. If he wasn’t dead, he was close to it.

Just to be sure, Sergei climbed down, peeled off a glove, and touched the man’s neck. Yep—dead.

Now all he had to do was finish with Eugenio.

He put the glove back on, returned to the car, and drove it a short ways down the road. Then he nosed it off the shoulder, put the car in neutral, cranked the wheel toward the ditch, and got out. He went around the back, gave it a push, and let physics do the rest. The car rolled off the road and down into the ditch.

Eugenio was still slumped in the passenger seat, and at this angle, Sergei wasn’t going to be able to move him, so he improvised—he pulled the man’s feet up hooked one under the pedals, giving the impression that the crash had sent him tumbling into the passenger seat. His forehead had even left a little smear of blood beside the glove box, completing the illusion that he’d been tossed around.

Mission accomplished.

Normally, Sergei would just leave both bodies and let the authorities find them in due time, but he didn’t want to risk Eugenio waking up and finding a way to cover his tracks. For that reason, he’d brought along a burner phone.

He dialed 911 and cleared his throat.

A woman answered, “911, what is your emergency?”

“I… oh my God…” Sergei breathed heavily for effect, making sure it sounded ragged and panicked, and devoid of his accent. “I’m up on the 103, out by Mountain Junction and a car just ran off the road!”

“Sir, stay calm, do—”

Sergei hung up. Then he wiped the phone, tossed it into the bushes, walked into the forest, and headed toward Cape Swan.

And in the distance, sirens started wailing.

Every attempt to find out who’d paid Floresta and Mandanici to rough up Dom had come up empty. It was highly unlikely that they’d done this on their own. Neither was made, and for them to fuck with a made man, especially one as high up in the ranks as Dom, had been asking for a lot worse than the stripper had given them. In a way, he’d done them a favor—had Corrado gotten his hands on them, they’d
still
be screaming now, three weeks later.

But every lead came up empty and every trail went cold. Dom still had questions, though, and there was only one person he could think of who might have answers. Now that his body had healed enough that he could move around comfortably—thank God for ribs that were bruised and not broken—he decided it was time to pay the enigmatic stripper a visit.

Tracking him down would be easy enough. There weren’t many clubs in Cape Swan with male strippers. If he wasn’t there now—laying low, maybe—someone had to have seen the guy before. And just in case they weren’t willing to talk, Dom brought a thick stack of hundreds with him.

He debated going incognito. Civilian clothes that wouldn’t get him spotted from a mile away like pinstriped Armani had a tendency to. But he wanted anyone who saw him to know he was there for business. Nothing personal. Showing up in a strip club occupied only by men—the strippers
and
most of the clientele—was dangerous to say the least.

On the way into town, following the directions to a cluster clubs along either side of a rundown road, Dom tried to conjure as many details as he could remember. Though the face was clearly etched in his mind, he replayed everything over and over anyway, just in case there was something he’d missed.

Blond. Definitely bleached. He wasn’t sure why, but he was certain that hadn’t been a natural color. And he’d heard a subtle but unmistakable accent. Sharp, both the accent and the voice. Slavic of some kind? Russian? That would match those prominent, hawk-like features he was sure he remembered.

Yeah, he’d recognize him. This guy was committed to memory, and Dom would know exactly who he was the moment he laid eyes on him. Assuming he was here, of course.

Dom parked a block or so away, and walked down the sidewalk that was lined with sex shops, strip clubs, and all the kinds of places his mother had warned him to stay away from. Of the two with male strippers, he picked the closest one.

He paid a cover charge to a stony-faced bouncer, strolled inside, and—

Stopped dead.

He’d been bleeding and half out of his mind the first time he’d seen him, but looking at him now through clear eyes with a lucid mind… holy shit.

He was indeed a stripper, and he was good at what he did. At least a dozen men were crowded around the table-stage, staring up at him as he writhed against a metal pole. He was wearing—barely—black leather this time, and it left little to the imagination, especially when he lifted himself up off the stage, bent, twisted, showed off his mouthwatering strength and flexibility.

Dom forced himself to look away while he took a few slow breaths. He wasn’t here for that. This was business. And not the kind of business that usually went on here.

He collected himself, and then turned toward the stripper again. By this point, the dance was over, but the stripper wasn’t done yet. He’d come down from the stage, and he beckoned to a sleazy-looking bald guy with a lecherous grin on his lips. The client rose. As they started toward a hallway guarded by a pair of burly bouncers, Dom pushed himself away from the bar.

A few paces shy of the hallway, Dom stepped in front of him. “Wait. I need to talk to you.”

Their eyes met, and the stripper halted, his eyes widening for a split second. An instantaneous
Oh shit.

Quickly, though, he schooled himself, every trace of surprise—was there some fear in there?—vanished in favor of annoyance. Those piercing blue eyes narrowed. “I’m working.”

“Whatever he’s paying”—Dom nodded toward the bald guy—“I’ll double it.”

The stripper’s lips tightened. “You want to talk, you wait out here.”

“Triple.”

The stripper laughed humorlessly. “Offer accepted, but wait your turn.” He didn’t wait for a response, and sauntered into the back with the other guy.

After they’d disappeared, Dom swore. Irritated—and yet impressed by the kid’s cojones—he went to the bar to wait for him. He ordered a Coke, and while he sipped it, desperate to cool down despite the air conditioning, Dom couldn’t shake the image of the stripper in the bald guy’s lap. He’d never had a lap dance from a man before. Women, yes, but the idea of a man undulating and writhing on top of him took his breath away. The thought of the stripper in his lap took him back to the frantic fucks he’d had as a teenager and in his early twenties.

He’d put all of that behind him, though. Sworn off his dangerous tendencies.

But something about this place and the sharp-tongued stripper brought those desires right back to the surface.

If he was even remotely smart, if Floresta and Mandanici hadn’t knocked every last fragment of common sense out of his skull, he’d get the fuck out of this club right now and forget he ever saw the blond stripper.

But he didn’t. He stayed there, nursing his Coke, his heart thumping and his palms sweating, until the bald guy staggered out of the hallway. The man disappeared into one of the restrooms. Probably to jerk one off. Dom supposed he’d have been in the same state if he’d just had an up close and personal dance from—

Oh mio Dio. Him
.

The stripper sauntered out from the same direction, a hint of sweat gleaming on his forehead. His platinum blond hair was straight again, as if he’d taken a moment to make himself presentable before coming out here.

He walked right up to Dom and leaned on the bar beside him. “All right. You wanted to talk.” He paused to make a sharp gesture at the bartender. “Cough up the cash and talk.”

“Not here.” Dom swallowed. “Someplace private.”

Those slim lips pulled back across straight, gleaming teeth. “That can be arranged, but”—the stripper winked—“I charge extra for that.”

Dom suppressed a shiver. He was here for business. For information. Not for a chance at putting his hands all over that slim, powerful, lithe—

He cleared his throat. “I’m here to talk. Nothing more.”

The stripper’s expression suddenly hardened, all traces of humor gone so quickly Dom wondered if he’d imagined them. The bartender materialized and set a bottle of water in front of him, then disappeared again, but besides picking up the water, the stripper gave no indication he’d even seen him. “Look, I know what you are.” He eyed Dom. “My boss doesn’t want your kind in here, and I don’t want to do business with you unless it involves—”

“I’m not asking you to do business.” Dom leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “But we’ve met before, and I need to know what else happened that night.”

He didn’t get defensive. He also didn’t get nervous. Dom did, though—this guy wasn’t stupid. He knew what night Dom was talking about, and if he knew who and what Dom was at a glance, then he know he was in a dangerous spot. But he held his gaze like Dom couldn’t have intimidated him if he’d wanted to. No fear whatsoever. Just icy indifference.

The stripper sighed with theatrical boredom. “What happened that night? I rubbed my ass all over a couple of dicks. Some Italian guy showed up in the alley with blood all over his fancy suit. And I rubbed my ass over some more dicks.” Another shrug as he brought his water bottle up to his lips. “Isn’t much else to tell.”

“I doubt that.”

“That’s all you’ll get from me.”

Dom sighed. “Look, I’m not leaving until we talk.”

The stripper lowered his water bottle and narrowed his eyes. “First, we are talking. Second, I’ll see your cocky attitude and raise you several bouncers who take shit from no one.” He gave Dom a derisive down-up. “Especially not your kind.”

Dom was probably the mellowest guy in his entire family, and even he was struggling not to strangle this jackass. “I need to know what you saw.”

“You know as much as you’re going to know.”

“You can tell me or you can tell the cops.”

The stripper laughed. “A Mafioso talking to the cops. Does your uncle know that you—”

“Enough,” Dom growled. “All I’m asking for is a few minutes and some information. And then you can get back to more”—he nodded toward the stages—“lucrative pursuits.”

The kid glanced at the stages, and then rolled his eyes and slammed his water bottle down. “All right. But we’re making this quick.”

He didn’t wait for a response and started walking. He led Dom down a dark hallway and out into the back alley. It was another hot, sticky night, the breeze off the ocean doing nothing to counter the lingering heat from the California sun.

Dom peeled off his jacket and draped it over his arm. “You got a name?”

The stripper snorted. “Small talk? Really?”

Dom shrugged. “Seems like introductions are a customary way to start a conversation.”

“A polite conversation, sure.” He folded his arms tightly across his bare chest. “Those rules don’t apply to this one.”

Dom blinked. This kid was something else. He didn’t show even a hint of that subtle wariness that Dom’s kind had cultivated in the population at large.

And damn it, that should have annoyed the shit out of Dom. While he didn’t particularly like the way people cowered or moved to the other side of the street when they saw men from the families, sometimes it did make these “I need some information” conversations a hell of a lot shorter.

But this kid intrigued him too. He wasn’t afraid of Dom, and he didn’t seem naïve about it. This wasn’t some idiot who couldn’t see far enough past his own bravado to realize he was talking to someone dangerous. He didn’t strike him as someone who’d panic if Dom tipped his hitman hand and let him know exactly what he was dealing with. No, he looked Dom straight in the eye, cool and collected, and silently dared him to make him blink.

Dom swallowed. He hadn’t hallucinated that night, had he? This stripper really had shot Floresta and Mandanici before taking him to—

“Come on.” The stripper released an impatient breath and cocked his hips sharply. “We going to stand out here, or was there something you wanted to talk about?”

Dom cleared his throat. “I just want to ask you about the night we met.”

“Fine. But let’s get one thing clear right away.” He nodded sharply at the door. “Every five minutes I’m out here is a dance I’m not doing, and every fifteen is a private dance. You already owe me three grand, and every five minutes costs you another two hundred. Fifteen costs a grand. Got it?”

Dom had to admit, he admired his fearlessness. He pulled his billfold from his pocket and withdrew some cash. “How about this.” He held up the money as he put his wallet away. “We talk, I give you two grand.”

The stripper’s eyes darted toward the folded bills.

And in a split second, the money was gone.

Dom blinked, glancing at his empty hand, and then at the stripper as he inspected the money he now held. How the—

“Fine.” The stripper tucked the cash into his waistband. “What do you want to know?”

How you moved that fast, for one thing.

Dom pushed his shoulders back. “I want to know what happened.”

The kid laughed. “You had your ass kicked by two idiots.”

“And you showed up, and the next thing I know, I’m on a bench and you’re gone.”

“Yeah?” A slender shoulder lifted in a sharp half-shrug. “What did you expect me to do? Hold your hand until the medics showed up?”

“I didn’t expect you to do anything. But you did something.” Dom tilted his head. “And I want to know what, especially after both men were found in the back of a car with .22 rounds in their foreheads.”

No flinch. No surprise.

“Two fewer wise guys to fuck up this town? What a loss.” He smirked. “No offense.”

“Mmhmm.”

He held Dom’s gaze without flinching. “I don’t understand why you’re here. We both know what happened.”

“I think you know better than—”

“No, I don’t. And it doesn’t seem like I’m telling you anything you don’t already know.” He stepped closer, right into Dom’s space, and before he realized he’d done it, Dom backed up against the railing. The stripper grinned triumphantly. “You really here for answers you’ve already got?”

Dom folded his arms. “You really want me to pass it along that you’re the one who put a couple of bullets into those two? Because that’s still an option if you refuse to help me.”

The stripper’s lips twitched, but so subtly Dom couldn’t read if it was more irritation or if he’d struck a nerve. And then the stripper snorted with laughter. “You really want
me
to believe you’d go tell your boys that a queer little dancer like me saved your ass when you couldn’t do it yourself?”

Dom clenched his jaw.

“That’s what I thought.” The stripper’s eyes narrowed. “You wops and your obsession with image.” Shaking his head, he clicked his tongue. “Guess you don’t have any cards left, do you?”