If The Seas Catch Fire (8 page)

“You ever had a dance like this?”

He gulped, and a flicker of something—nerves?—broke the rest of the calm and cool façade. Slowly, he shook his head.

“Rules are simple.” Sergei climbed onto his lap, sliding his hands over broad shoulders. “I dance. You don’t move. Don’t touch me. Got it?”

His eyes were fixed on Sergei’s abs, and as he nodded, he whispered, “Yeah.” He looked Sergei up and down. “My God…”

“Why did you come back?”

“I had to.” Domenico’s voice was just loud enough to be heard. “I can’t…” His gaze drifted up and down Sergei’s torso. “Can’t stop thinking about you.”

Sergei swallowed. Gay wise guys weren’t unheard of, but they didn’t last long.

“What’s your name?” Domenico asked again.

Sergei shook his head. “It’s not important.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Do I ever get to know what it is?”

“Why do you need to know my name?” Sergei turned around and leaned back against him, pressing his ass against an incredibly hard cock and his shoulders against Domenico’s broad chest. “My name isn’t relevant. You don’t know what it is, but I’m still turning you on, aren’t I?”

“Yes. Yes, you are.” The man’s breath tickled the side of Sergei’s neck.

Sergei lifted himself up and faced Domenico again, settling onto his lap as he added, “That’s all you need to know, isn’t it?”

“I don’t need to know anything. I
want
to know.” He slowly ran his tongue across his lips. “Just like I want to know what it feels like to…” He trailed off, gazing drifting over Sergei’s body, and if Sergei had been able to breathe—
what the fuck is going on?
—he’d have asked him to finish his sentence.

Dance. You’re here to dance.

Sergei ground against him, and the firm ridge of Domenico’s cock beneath his balls made his pulse soar. And not only that, it made
him
hard. Sergei often got into it when he was dancing, and sometimes if a guy was particularly hot, he even got a little turned on.

But not like this.

Domenico’s eyes flicked downward, and he gulped. “That… that G-string isn’t quite big enough for you.”

Sergei glanced down. “Isn’t when I’m like this.” And he was rarely like this when he danced. Fuck.

“Maybe you should take it off.”

“Can’t take everything off,” he murmured. “The… the law.”

Domenico’s eyes flicked up and met his, burning with lust. “You think I’m gonna report you?”

Sergei glanced back at the curtain. Then he stood and shimmied out of the G-string.

There was something deliciously dangerous and irresistibly sexy about this. Though a G-string hardly counted as clothing, losing it left him feeling like he’d just thrown off ten protective layers. Like he’d gone from fully-dressed to naked in just a few beats, and now he was against Domenico, cock and balls rubbing against the soft silk of his shirt and tie.

“You’re breaking the rules,” Domenico breathed, and Sergei swore he could hear his heartbeat in his voice. “Does that mean I can too?”

For five thousand dollars and that look in your eye? You can do any damned thing you want
.

“I don’t think you want to break the rules.” He wrapped his arms around Domenico’s neck, pressing his dick against the man’s chest and bringing his abs close enough to Domenico’s face to feel his breath. “You like looking without touching.” He slowly fucked against him, his own head spinning as the smooth silk turned his nerve endings to pure electricity. “Don’t you?”

Domenico exhaled hard, the warm air whispering across Sergei’s abs and making him gasp. “I want… I want to touch you.”

“I know you do.” Sergei leaned forward enough to murmur in his ear, “But this turns you on. Doesn’t it?”

Domenico shivered beneath him. “Everything about you turns me on.”

Likewise. It shouldn’t, but… shit.

Sergei leaned down to let his lips
almost
touch Domenico’s neck, teasing him with their proximity, and as goose bumps sprang up on the Italian’s skin, they sprang up on his too. He was too turned on to think. More turned on than he should’ve been. And he didn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop.

Dizzy and breathless, he let his lips graze Domenico’s neck, and he was rewarded with a helpless moan that made his whole body tingle.

And before he could think twice, he whispered, “My name—” He shivered hard, thrusting against him like he was thrusting inside him. “Sergei.” His pulse sped up—none of his contacts had his real name, but Domenico did. Why? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He just needed… this time… “My name is Sergei.”

“Sergei,” Domenico breathed, as if it was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. “Are you close?” He looked up at Sergei, eyes wide and watering. “Please tell me you’re close.”

“I…” Oh God, he was. Sergei had never gotten off in one of these rooms, never come during a lap dance, but he was right there on the edge, on the brink of blowing his load all over this Italian’s expensive shirt, and he should’ve backed off, but he wasn’t interested in coming to his senses. He wanted nothing else in that moment, nothing more in the whole fucking world, than to come.

Sergei sat up, holding onto Domenico’s shoulders, and thrust against him, and Domenico groaned and whispered, “Ooh, yeah…”

“Gonna…” Sergei gripped his shoulders tighter. “Oh shit…” His eyes rolled back, his balls tightened, and even over the deafening music, he heard himself whimper.

“God, yeah,” Domenico groaned. “That’s… shit, that’s hot. Come, Sergei.”

Everything went white. Sergei arched against him, thrusting against wet silk until a shudder almost knocked his arms out from under him. He slumped over Domenico, trembling from head to toe. This was the first time ever—since he’d discovered he could make a fortune by grinding against a man in a dark back room—that he’d come during a lap dance. That he’d even come inside this godforsaken building.

And he’d come all over Domenico’s shirt and tie. For a split second, he thought Domenico would get upset, but then the breathless Italian whispered, “That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

“G-good.” Sergei licked his lips as he struggled to hold himself up on shaking arms.

“Can I touch you?”

Sergei swallowed. It was strictly against club policy, but so was coming on a guy’s shirt during an illegally naked lap dance. Nothing about Domenico pegged his danger radar now—chances were, he had no idea who Sergei really was, and at least the men near the top in his world were usually civilized when it came to those not involved in the Mob.

“Yeah,” Sergei panted. “You can—”

Domenico cupped Sergei’s face and kissed him.

Every instinct Sergei had honed as both a killer and a stripper screamed at him to shove the man back and get the fuck out of there, but…

But.

Domenico’s fingers twitched against the sides of Sergei’s face. His lips were softer and gentler than he’d thought they could be. If not for the coarse stubble abrading his chin, Sergei might’ve forgotten this uncertain tough guy was a Sicilian wise guy. That he was Domenico Maisano, for God’s sake.

He couldn’t help it—his curiosity got the best of him. He opened to Domenico’s kiss, and let himself be pulled in closer as Domenico gently explored his mouth. Against his better judgement, he slid a hand into Domenico’s hair, cradling the back of his head as lips and tongues sent Sergei’s pulse into overdrive. Domenico was tentative, and yet bold at the same time, his hands light on Sergei’s skin even as his mouth demanded more.

Eventually, Sergei lifted his head. Domenico stared up at him, and goddamn, he looked as surprised as Sergei felt. They were both out of breath, Sergei’s hips pressed against Domenico’s rock-hard dick, and even though Sergei had already come, that look in Domenico’s eyes sent his heart rate surging upward.

The bass in the lounge thumped against Sergei’s nerve endings, reminding him where he was, why he was here, what the laws and common sense said he could and couldn’t do.

Knees shaking, Sergei got to his feet, thankful for the muscle memory that kept the motion graceful and deliberate when he felt this clumsy.

As Sergei pulled on his G-string, Domenico rose. He didn’t say a word, and they both cleaned off and straightened their clothes, Domenico tugging at his tie and his sleeves while Sergei shimmied into the barely-there leather shorts.

Then they faced each other, and before Sergei could make heads or tails of any goddamned thing, Domenico held up a card between two fingers. “I want to see you again.”

Sergei took the card. His mind knew of at least a thousand reasons why that was a bad idea, but his body was definitely intrigued. He shouldn’t have wanted a damned thing to do with him, and he should’ve turned tail and gotten the fuck away from him, but he wanted to know what it was like to get him alone.

“See me again?” Sergei thumbed the edge of the card. “When?”

“Soon.” Domenico ran the backs of his fingers down Sergei’s arm. “Very soon.”

Sergei looked him up and down, sizing him up. Domenico was a few inches taller, and much wider in the shoulders. If Sergei didn’t know a fuckton of ways to kill men twice his size without breaking a sweat, he’d have backed away. He told himself that, anyhow. Standing this close to him, smelling his cologne and sweat as Domenico loomed over him with cum all over his shirt, Sergei was half-tempted to suggest they fuck there and then.

He’d probably lost all the good sense he’d had left, but at least he was losing it with someone who had as much reason as he did to keep his trap shut. More reason, actually. All Sergei had to do was leak it to the world—or the media—that he’d had sex with Domenico Maisano, and his family would have him killed. Fags didn’t last long in their world.

Sergei wasn’t worried about his own safety. Only a handful of Mafiosi knew who he was. They
all
knew him by reputation, but nothing more. His very,
very
select few contacts knew his face and his profession, but they didn’t know his real name, and they absolutely knew what would happen if they betrayed his confidence. Outside those contacts, no one—least of all the man in front of him with the cum-stained shirt—knew the killer who handled the lion’s share of all three families’ hits was a smart-mouthed bleach blond stripper.

“There’s…” He hesitated. “There’s a motel near the waterfront. The Sandpiper. My shift is over at one thirty.”

Domenico glanced at his watch. Then he nodded. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Get a room. Put it under the name Sullivan.”

“Okay.”

They held each other’s gazes. Then Domenico straightened his wet tie, buttoned his jacket, and started to go, but then he paused. He met Sergei’s eyes. “By the way, um… thanks. For what you did that night. In the alley.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sergei hadn’t done it for any altruistic reasons, but he had to admit, he was glad this guy hadn’t been killed. In a weird way, he was starting to like him.

They held eye contact for a few more seconds. Then Dom broke eye contact and brushed past Sergei.

Sergei exhaled. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, wondering what the hell had just happened. Or what was going to happen later tonight. Or why in the world he thought this was anything but a stupid, potentially deadly idea.

Mind reeling, he straightened his hair just for something to do. Then he headed back out to the lounge.

Domenico was nowhere to be seen. Good. He was serious about the whole discretion thing, and wasn’t a complete fuckwit about it.

Sergei looked down at the card in his hand. There was a handwritten phone number and nothing else. If he had any sense at all, he’d have set that card on fire and never let Domenico cross his mind again.

But it was too late for that. Sergei was intrigued.

He had to know what it was like to fuck Domenico Maisano.

Dom left the club and drove a few blocks before he had to pull over and collect his thoughts. He scrubbed his hands over his face, but that didn’t help—he could still smell Sergei’s cologne, sweat, and semen.

Semen? Had he really…

He looked down at his shirt and the damp spot he hadn’t been able to completely wipe away. Holy shit. He’d lost his mind. He shouldn’t have even been in that club, never mind letting a stripper come all over him and then making plans to meet that stripper later for sex.

A shiver ran through him. In his mind’s eye, he could still see Sergei’s face in that unbearably hot moment—eyes screwed shut, lips apart, fair skin flushed as he’d rubbed against Dom and shuddered. And that kiss. Maybe it had just been too long since he’d kissed a man, but Dom couldn’t remember a kiss ever turning him inside out like Sergei’s had.

He stared out the windshield. What the fuck was he
doing
? For all he knew, this kid was a goddamned sociopath. He was, after all, capable of cold-blooded murder. That hadn’t been self-defense. Not when they were bound and gagged in the trunk of a car, and dispatched with two expertly-placed rounds apiece. And the bullet to Mandanici’s knee? Even if that had happened by accident—say, during a scuffle—a lot of time had passed between that wound and the lethal one.

But still, something about Sergei drew him in. Dom couldn’t deny that the cold detachment was part of it. Sergei was so in control, and all Dom could think was that Sergei was exactly what he needed so he could
lose
control.

And when Sergei’s control wavered, as it had tonight in that private booth, he was mesmerizing. Dom wanted more. He wanted to get under his skin. He wanted to see him and hear him and taste him when he let go completely. He needed to know what it felt like to—

His phone buzzed. He jumped, and panic shot through him. Was Sergei canceling?

He dug his phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen.

Shit—that wasn’t a call he could ignore.

“Hello, Biaggio. What’s—”

“Where have you been?” the consigliere snapped. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the past half hour.”

Dom gulped. “Sorry. I was out on the highway. No signal.”

Biaggio huffed sharply. “Well, I hope you’re back in town now. Your uncle wants to speak with you.”

Dom mouthed a curse. Unless he had a damn good reason—one that involved blood, in most cases—Corrado didn’t like excuses. If he wanted to speak with him, that meant
now
. Dom just hoped this meeting was a quick one.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“How long?”

“Thirty minutes. Forty-five tops.”

“I’ll let him know.”

Dom hung up and pulled out on the road again. He was only about twenty minutes away, but first, he needed to stop by his own place long enough to change his shirt. Better to walk into his uncle’s office a few minutes late than with semen on his shirt. While he was there, he grabbed some condoms and lube from the bedside table. One less stop to make en route to the motel, and thank God, the condoms weren’t expired.

Then he headed straight for his uncle’s house.

*              *              *

On the way down the hall toward Corrado’s office, Biaggio wrinkled his nose. “My God, Domenico. That cologne is horrible.”

Cologne? He wasn’t wearing any—

Dom took a breath and caught the lingering scents of leather, sweat, and—though he was probably imagining it, since he’d changed his shirt—other traces of Sergei. He cleared his throat. “Smelled better in the store, I guess.”

Biaggio clicked his tongue but let the subject go. In silence, they walked on, and when they reached the massive double doors, one of Corrado’s security guys pushed it open and gestured for them to go in.

The office was crowded with several of Corrado’s top men. Near the desk, Felice and Luciano hovered, speaking in hushed tones.

The air was tense. Something had happened.

Biaggio stepped around behind Corrado’s desk and whispered something to the old man. Corrado lifted his gaze, and looked right at Dom. Then he stood, waving a hand. “Luciano, Felice, Dom—stay. Everyone else—out.”

Immediately, everyone headed for the door, and within seconds, they were alone. Biaggio didn’t even stay, which was weird—he knew every bit of the family’s inner workings, and Corrado’s secrets were Biaggio’s secrets.

With only the immediate family remaining, Corrado sat back in his enormous leather chair. “Nicolá’s body was found early this morning.”

Dom’s stomach dropped. Death was a routine part of this life, but it was still hard to lose someone he knew. He turned to Luciano. “Does Serafina know yet?”

Grimacing, he nodded. “I told her this afternoon.”

“Is she…”

“She’s devastated,” he whispered.

Dom exhaled. As much as he disliked Luciano’s wife, she’d adored her brother. Hell, they all had. “You’ll give her my condolences?”

“I will. Thank you.”

Dom nodded, and turned back to his uncle. “What happened?”

“Run down out on the 103.” Corrado folded his long fingers, and his voice was nearly a growl as he added, “By a drunk Eugenio Cusimano.”

“Eugenio—” Dom inclined his head. “Run down? As in, on foot?”

Corrado scowled, and nodded slowly.

“What the hell was he doing out there?”

“We don’t know. It sounds like it happened last night, but it took until today to find the body. A medic stumbled across it, actually, while they were investigating a one-car ‘accident’ in the vicinity.”

Dom shifted his weight. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know.” Corrado took in a long breath. “This was no accident, and someone is going to bleed for it.” The vicious undertone of his uncle’s voice made Dom’s skin crawl; he was only too aware of what Corrado was capable of.

“I’ve got ears open on the investigation.” Luciano spoke up, his voice quiet and calm despite the shock of his brother-in-law’s death. “But word is that Eugenio was drunk off his ass and—”

Felice laughed bitterly. “He’s
always
drunk. And if the Cusimanos won’t keep a leash on him, then we’ll have to take care of him before he kills another of our own. He’s fucked up enough, Dad. It’s long past time to—”

Corrado put up a hand. “We’ll take care of him when I say we do, and that won’t be until after we’re certain of his connection to Nicolá’s death.”

Felice’s expression darkened. “Cusimano was found almost half a mile up the road in a ditch. With blood on the windshield
and
on the bumper. If that blood doesn’t match Nicolá, I’ll eat my hat.”

“Wait.” Dom grimaced. “A half mile up the road? So, he hit him and kept driving?”

“Yes,” Luciano said. “Don’t know if it was an accident or deliberate, but there’s no way he didn’t notice when he hit Nicolá. My contact says it wasn’t just a sideswipe.” An angry undercurrent was slowly working its way into Luciano’s voice. “He didn’t clip him—he hit him dead-on. Took him up on the windshield and tossed him into a ditch.”

“Then why are we fucking around and not offing this asshole?” Felice snapped. To his brother, he said, “For God’s sake, this is the man who keeps trying to fuck your wife, and—”

“I’m aware of that,” Luciano snarled back. “But I’m not shooting anyone until—”

“Until I give the order.” Corrado glared at both of his sons. “No one makes a move without my say-so.”

Felice clenched his jaw but didn’t speak. He’d been closer to Nicolá than Luciano—regardless of Corrado’s decision or permission, this would
not
go unanswered.

Corrado met Dom’s gaze, and the subtle arch of his eyebrow told Dom everything he needed to know. Indeed, Nicolá’s death would not go unanswered, but it wouldn’t be Felice who carried out the sentence.

Dom responded with a nod that was just as subtle. Though neither of them said a word, he understood all too well what his task would be. There were plenty of hitmen in this town who worked as contractors, but no one suspected that Dom was Corrado’s hired gun. His own royal assassin, as he’d somewhat jokingly called him after his second or third hit.

Beside him, Felice bristled. “Dad, we need to be proactive. Even if that idiot didn’t kill Nicolá, the Cusimanos are out of control. They
need
to know we aren’t going to tolerate—”

“The Cusimanos know where I stand on their encroachment of our businesses,” Corrado snapped. “I will not have blood spilled over trade relations until it’s clear we’ve exhausted all other means for resolving our differences.”

Felice cursed in Italian under his breath.

Dom and Luciano exchanged uneasy glances. The Cusimanos had been aggressively elbowing their way into Maisano stakes in both immigrant processing and cocaine distribution, not just eroding their bottom line but taking it in chunks. Several of the more business savvy and diplomatic members of the family’s leadership had been killed in the last couple of years, replaced by these psychos who would stop at nothing to claim a monopoly in Cape Swan. Things were going to get violent sooner or later. It was just a matter of who drew first blood. Or if Nicolá had been that first blood. If not him, then someone else, and it was up to Corrado to decide who.

Assuming, of course, that Felice didn’t take matters into his own hands.

“We’ll wait until the investigation is complete,” Corrado said. “With the police involved, every eye is going to be on us, just as they were after Barcia washed up. No one makes a move until I order it. Am I clear?”

Luciano, Felice, and Dom all nodded and muttered, “Yes.”

“Good. Out of my office.” He paused. “Dom, you stay here.”

Dom planted his feet. His cousins shot him looks—a puzzled one from Luciano, an undeniably hostile one from Felice—but quickly vacated.

Alone with his uncle, Dom waited.

“Eugenio Cusimano is becoming a problem,” Corrado said at last.

“So you’re sure he did this?”

“Of course.” Corrado steepled his fingers. “I should have taken him out before he killed Nicolá. He’s becoming a thorn in my side.” He exhaled. “Felice didn’t tell me until tonight, but that bastard Eugenio made an attempt on Luciano a few nights ago.”

Dom’s gut flipped. “What?”

“Someone fired through the front window of his house, but no one inside was hit.”

Wow. Luciano’s house, like Corrado’s and Dom’s own, was walled off and set far back from the road behind a couple of hills, guarded by everything from cameras to Dobermans. Getting a bullet through a window of that house meant firing from a sniper perch
well
within the walls.

“Fortunately,” Corrado went on, “the children were out with their mother.” He slid a small envelope across the desk. “Even though Luciano was unharmed, this was clearly meant to either kill him or send a message.

Dom nodded and took the envelope. The families were getting more and more violent lately. Slights were answered with murder, and murder was answered with more murder.

Dom opened the envelope and pulled out the photo. It was grainy surveillance footage of a sniper in a perch near Luciano’s house. Dom couldn’t see the guy’s face very well, but the rifle was obvious, and he recognized the poplar tree beside Luciano’s long driveway.

“And you’re sure this is Cusimano?”

Corrado nodded. “Felice was there that night. Got a good look.”

“But he’s just now saying something about it?”

Shaking his head, Corrado sighed. “He thought he’d take care of it himself. God knows what he would’ve done to Eugenio if last night’s… incident hadn’t happened.”

“Maybe we should let him.”

“Absolutely not. If he starts thinking he can take things into his own hands, there’ll be no reining him back in.”

“Good point.” Dom eyed the photo for a moment, then looked across the desk. “I’m surprised Luciano hasn’t tried to fuck up Eugenio for trying to sleep with Serafina.”

Corrado’s lips pulled into a bleached line, and he nodded. “Indeed. And I suspect that’s part of why Eugenio took a shot at Luciano. Remove the husband, and the woman becomes available.”

“She’d be quite the merry widow too,” Dom grumbled.

Corrado glared at him, but didn’t argue. Everyone knew Luciano’s wife had affairs all over Cape Swan. Leaping into bed with a Cusimano right after her own husband’s funeral wouldn’t be a tremendous stretch for her, but she knew better—as far as they all knew—than to bed a rival Mafioso while Luciano was still alive. The woman was lucky her father-in-law drew the line at taking out hits on women.

“We’ll see what conclusion the medical examiner comes to,” Corrado said coldly. “And then… well.”

Dom nodded. His insides twisted and knotted. Eugenio Cusimano was a made man, a soldier who was close to both sons of the boss, Raffaele Cusimano. High enough in the ranks to know better, close enough to the upper echelon to matter.