If The Seas Catch Fire (7 page)

Dom turned his head and cleared his throat, so he wouldn’t cough right in the stripper’s face. “Look, I’m just trying to figure—”

“I know your type, Maisano.” That sharky grin made his knees shake. “All business. All efficiency and numbers. You don’t waste your time driving all the way across this shithole town just to ask a stripper a few questions when you already know the answers. Especially not three weeks after the fact.” Closer still, his bare abs almost brushing Dom’s shirt. “So tell me. Why did you come here?”

“Because I need to… I need to know”—
what your skin tastes likes, and
—“what happened that night.”

“Yeah?” He bared even more teeth and leaned closer, reaching past Dom to rest his hands on the railing on either side of his waist. “That the only reason?”

“Yeah.” Dom swallowed. “It’s the only reason.”

The stripper studied him, and gradually, the triumphant cockiness faded. His features hardened.

“Look, here’s the deal, Maisano.” He stepped in close again, this time getting right up in Dom’s face, their noses almost touching as he snarled, “I’ve told you everything I’m going to tell you, and now you’re going to get the fuck out of my club.”

“For God’s sake, I—”

“You stay the fuck off my turf, I’ll stay the fuck off yours.” There was a menacing, murderous undertone to his Russian-accented voice.

Dom gritted his teeth—this fucker had no idea who he was really tangling with.

The stripper continued, “You and your kind run this town, but you’ve got no business in this club. Get the fuck out of here, and let my customers enjoy their night without having to worry about Mob guys starting shit. You got it?”

And then he was gone, the club door banging shut behind him.

Dom slouched against the railing, the humidity sticking to the goose bumps on the back of his neck.

Well. That was that, wasn’t it?

He swore into the night. There was no point in staying here, then. Maybe he’d come back in a few days. When he knew what to expect and wouldn’t be so flustered and caught off guard. He was
not
intimidated by a stripper half his size.

The stripper half his size who’d slammed a door that locked from the inside.

Dom wiggled the knob, then swore and stomped down the porch steps into the alley. As he made his way toward the road, an odd sense of déjà vu rushed over him. He looked around. The shoddy buildings, the boarded up windows, the rusty Dumpsters—they weren’t familiar, and yet they were.

He froze. This was where it had happened, wasn’t it? Right out here? But he only remembered that night in painful flashes. Bits and pieces of scenery that didn’t seem to go together now that he saw the big picture.

He shook his head and kept walking. No sense reliving that night again, especially not here. Instead, he returned to his car and got the hell out of there.

As he drove away, though, there was no getting that kid out of his mind. None.

And not just because he was annoyed by the refusal to tip his hand. The fact was, the stripper had him dead to rights. Dom had convinced himself he’d only come here for answers, but what had he really expected? For this kid to have some kind of insider knowledge about the intricacies of the Mafia?

No. That wasn’t why he was there.

It had nothing to do with the night Dom had been roughed up, and everything to do with how he’d felt when the stripper had stepped up into his space.

Everything about him was like catnip to Dom. The smoking hot body was just the start of it. That cold fearlessness? The unabashed sexuality radiating from every move he made? Even the way he spoke drove Dom crazy. His accent was sharp but subtle, and it made Dom hang on his every word. Made him pay attention to the way his mouth moved, hypnotizing him with the way his lips shaped consonants.

Dom thumped the steering wheel. He couldn’t go back. He didn’t dare. The stripper wanted nothing to do with a man from Dom’s world, and Dom would’ve been wise to accept that and move on because
he
had no business with someone from
that
world. He’d sowed his gay oats as a kid and nearly been killed for it. Even going back for a lap dance was dangerous. Someone might see him there.

Or worse, those desires might come back.

Fuck. Who was he kidding? They’d never gone away.

And now, with that stripper’s face and body and voice seared into his mind, there was no ignoring them anymore. There was no silencing them.

There was no ignoring the truth—everything he desired was in that strip club, wrapped in sweat and leather.

I want him. I need him.

Dom turned the car around.

Sergei downed the rest of his water bottle in three swallows. He was still fired up after his exchange with that fucking Italian, but the guy was gone now, and it was time to make up for lost pay. Not that he was hurting for money after getting paid for last night’s job.

And not that the last ten minutes hadn’t been profitable. He’d taken a couple grand off Maisano in one motion. But he was annoyed. Rattled in a way he couldn’t quite describe.

That night in the alley should’ve been the end of it. Domenico Maisano had no business occupying as many of Sergei’s thoughts as he had recently, and he definitely had no business strolling into this club like he owned the place.

Sergei glanced at the door Maisano had come in through, and his stomach twisted. The guy was gone now, and that was the way it needed to be. He especially wanted Maisano out of here because the guy piqued his interest in a way his kind usually didn’t. Sure, he was attractive. Domenico Maisano was apparently one of the better-looking Italians in this town. Then again, even the ugly ones could wear a suit well enough.

But there was something about him that had made Sergei look twice. Something that had struck a different chord tonight than the other Mafiosi ever did. Especially now that his face had mostly healed. Without the blood and swelling, with his dark hair flawlessly arranged except for a couple of strands fluttering in the breeze, he was…

Hell, he was hot.

Really… really… hot.

Sergei scrubbed a hand over his face. He was losing his mind, wasn’t he? Entertaining any thoughts of a Mafioso that didn’t involve bullets? Stupid.

He couldn’t help himself, though. As he leaned against the bar, waiting for one of the stages to open up so he could dance again, he indulged in a few replays of that moment when he’d backed Maisano up against the railing. A veil had definitely lifted just then. A little bit of fear, but a lot of something else. Something Maisano didn’t want to think about.

Sergei’s skin prickled beneath his crop top, but he forbid the shiver from making it up his spine. The only thing he wanted from the wops in this town was blood, no matter how attractive they were. Attractive, and repressed, and—

He shook himself. He did want a piece of Domenico, but for the same reason he wanted pieces of some of the other hot Italians—to literally stick it to the families. An orgasm for him, a death sentence for the other guy if word ever got out. Just the way it needed to be.

On the middle stage, Jesse finished his performance. As he stepped down to escort someone into the back for a private dance, Sergei tossed his water bottle in the recycling bin behind the bar. Then he strode across the floor to the now vacant stage. Time to forget that Italian asshole and dance.

It was a good night. A busy one. Guys were coming in out of the heat for some air conditioning and cold liquor, and sweating right through their expensive suits and silk shirts as Sergei and his boys took turns dancing on poles in the middle of waist-high stages. Booze was flowing, tips were piling up—it was early yet, but looking to be a great night for those in G-strings.

When Sergei went up for yet another dance, there was a crowd around his stage before the deejay had even started the next song. Wide-eyed “gentlemen” sucked on highballs and longnecks as Sergei made that pole his bitch. He leaned against it, legs apart, positioning himself just right to make it look to anyone in front of him that the pole was right up his ass, and judging by the way the combed-over businessman in front of him nearly dropped his drink, the illusion worked.

With a full audience around him, Sergei didn’t usually pay any attention to anybody else. These boys were here to scatter Andrew Jackson all over the stage and shove his uncle Benjamin into Sergei’s G-string. Everyone else was irrelevant.

But as Sergei leaned against the pole and undulated, using his hips and abs to mesmerize four guys tugging at their sweaty white collars, he glanced to his left. The shimmering bead curtain beside the bar had parted, as it did a million times a night, but this time, he looked.

And missed a beat.

What the fuck was
he
doing here again?

Maybe he’d rethought that whole “I’m just here for information” thing. Sergei knew what he’d seen—there was more in Maisano’s eyes than just a need to know what had happened three weeks ago.

Then a memory flickered through his mind of grabbing the cash out of Maisano’s hand.

Shit. Had he come back for his money?

Well, that could get… awkward…

Sergei quickly focused on entertaining the men below him. Maisano hadn’t tried to interrupt him so far, hadn’t made a scene, so maybe he’d wait for Sergei to finish here. He’d waited last time. Of course, last time, he hadn’t been there to collect money he’d been unexpectedly relieved of.

Well, whatever had brought him back, he could wait until Sergei had finished his business unless he wanted to be escorted out by grizzly-sized bouncers. And hopefully that would be enough time for Sergei to figure out a strategy for dealing with him.

As he danced, Sergei ground his teeth, hoping his customers were focused on his body and not his expression. He didn’t like Maisano coming here, especially for the second time tonight. This was
his
turf. Mafiosi only came here when it was business, and—

Fuck. What if it was business? What if he knew who and what Sergei was, and he’d come here for that?

“
You took my money,
” he could hear the bastard snarling, “
so now you’re going to earn it.
”

Son of a bitch. How many times had he told himself he’d never, ever give the Mafia an advantage over him in a business dealing? He should’ve left the money in Maisano’s hand. He’d had plenty of control over that conversation, and still, fucking with the nervous wise guy had been irresistible. Stupid, but irresistible. At worst, he’d stolen from him. At best, he’d screwed him—taking far more than offered and giving back much less than demanded.

Shiiit.

The song changed. The regulars knew what that meant—the table dance was about to become a lap dance for whoever ponied up the most money and got Sergei’s attention. Three guys waved twenty dollar bills at him, but they lowered them when two others started flashing hundreds.

Ignoring Maisano’s looming presence as best he could, Sergei grinned down at each of them, eyebrows up and head tilted.
That all you got, baby?

More money came out. They eyed each other, digging into their wallets. Each time one brought out a hundred, the other did too. Sergei’s favorite kind of night—when he had two men equally willing to pay up, and they happened to be sitting right next to each other.

The first was hot—probably mid forties, with a few lines and some gray around the edges. A wedding ring too. Bet his wife had enough expensive cars and trinkets to turn a blind eye to his extracurricular activities. The other was older. Early sixties, at least. He may have looked like Hugh Hefner, but he also appeared to be loaded like the Hef, so… fine.

Sergei plucked the money out of each of their hands, and leaned back to drop it in the center of the table. The bouncers would make sure nobody tried to grab it.

Then he stood over his two customers. “Turn your chairs. Face each other.”

They exchanged wary glances, but did as they were told. As Sergei lowered himself onto the edge of the table, a large shadow moved in his peripheral vision, and he glanced up to see Maisano standing just a few feet away. He had a bottle in his hand—water, maybe?—and stared at him over it.

Sergei tore his gaze away from that unsettling presence. He had work to do.

He sat in Hef’s lap, straddling him, and Sergei hoped the man’s cardiologist was okay with whatever happened when he started rubbing his groin on his chest. Sergei wrapped his legs around him, then leaned back so his head was in the married guy’s lap. With practiced agility, he slid from one man to the other, teasing each in turn and making sure both got their money’s worth.

As he moved from Hef to the married man, he glanced up.

Maisano was watching.

Intently.

If he’d come here for money, he was at least distracted for the moment—his lips were apart, and his eyes were round.

Staring right back at Maisano, Sergei ground his ass against the married man’s rock hard dick. Over the pulsing music, he heard the guy beneath him whisper, “oh God.”

Sergei tilted his head back, making sure his lips brushed his ear, and murmured, “You haven’t had any attention in a while, have you?” He wiggled his ass, and the man groaned. “Such a shame.” He ground harder, and then turned around and did the same on Hef’s lap, squeezing the married man’s waist with his ankles as he made Hef whimper and moan.

From the sidelines, someone else breathed, “Holy shit.” He had his hand over his own crotch. Fine, let him feel himself, as long as he didn’t whip out here in the lounge.

Sergei got them all—the two men paying him and the half dozen watching—riled up and panting, and then he stopped, lifting himself to his feet. “So who wants that private dance?”

Hef dug into his wallet.

The breathless middle-aged husband tugged at his tie. “How much is—”

“Five large.” Maisano came out of nowhere and held out a stack of hundreds.

Sergei stared up at him.

“I ain’t got that much,” Hef muttered, and took his drink and left.

“My wife would kill me.” The married guy skulked away too. No one even tried to pony up more.

Sergei gritted his teeth. On the other hand, Domenico was offering five Gs for a fifteen minute private dance. Sergei hardly needed the money, but if this guy was willing to cough up that much, Sergei couldn’t help but be intrigued. If Domenico was here to ask Sergei to take somebody out, he’d have even more in his pocket. And if he’d come for the money Sergei had taken earlier…

Keeping his nerves beneath the surface, he asked, “You got the cash?”

Domenico held up the wad of hundreds.

Sergei forced himself not to scowl as he plucked the money from the man’s hand. “Looks like you’re the lucky winner.”

Domenico shivered. That was odd—the Mafiosos were strictly business when they came in here. They’d pay a fortune for a dance that wasn’t really a dance, and if anything, curled their lips at the strippers and clientele.

And suddenly Sergei was fighting a grin instead of a scowl. Maybe he’d been right about Domenico after all. Those little glances. The nerves.

He led Domenico to one of the private booths in the back. Roy the bouncer met his eyes, and Sergei gave him a nod. Code for “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” He’d stay close enough to intervene if shit went down, but otherwise he’d keep his back turned and watch the other guys giving their dances. Then he’d get a cut of whatever Sergei made from the against-club-policy activities he’d turned a blind eye to. He got fifty bucks for ignoring a blowjob that never happened, and Sergei got a shitload more than that for taking whatever contract was offered to him in hushed tones behind a curtain.

Or maybe, unlike all his other brethren who came in here with wads of cash, Domenico really wanted a lap dance.

Sergei pulled the curtain across, and didn’t quite know why his heart was beating so fast as he turned to face Domenico.

The Italian unbuttoned his jacket and lowered himself into the crimson armchair. Most guys flopped down on the cushion and waited like a drooling dog for the show to get started. Not this guy. Arrogant Mafioso, royalty in name only, he sat like an overlord taking his throne instead of a sleazy asshole panting for dick in a chair where a thousand men before him had blown their loads.

The music came on.

Sergei assumed his usual provocative stance, standing close enough to fuck with his mind and pulse while he ran his hands up and down his own sides.
Here’s the goods. You like what you see?

“So.” Sergei gazed down at him. “You want more information, I assume.”

“Not this time.” Domenico met his eyes, and he grinned, knowingly and dangerously. “This time I want a dance.”

That was… unexpected. This was the moment when his contacts usually started speaking in code, and “a dance” wasn’t part of that code.

Sergei ran the tip of his tongue across his lip. “Just a dance?”

“Yes.” The long, lingering down-up Domenico gave him, his breath hitching here and there, raised goose bumps on Sergei’s mostly exposed flesh. When their eyes met again, Domenico spoke just loud enough for Sergei to hear him over the music, “I suspect with you involved, there’s no such thing as just a dance.”

Apparently he wasn’t here in any official capacity. And maybe he’d given up on his pursuit of more details about the night they’d met. Sergei would certainly keep his guard up, but if Domenico wanted a dance…

Sergei stripped down to his G-string, watching Domenico’s eyes widen. He swore he could feel the man’s pulse rising, especially when Sergei stepped closer and slid a knee between his thighs. Domenico parted them farther, and his fingers curled over the edges of the armrests. Maybe the arrogant overlord…wasn’t. Eyes wide and spine stiff, knuckles turning white, he suddenly seemed in over his head.