If The Seas Catch Fire (30 page)

He probably wasn’t in any state to be driving, but he didn’t know what else to do. Gripping the wheel tightly, he drove around with no particular destination. He just needed to move. To not be sitting still where a laser dot might find him.

Eventually, he found one of the beaches where he often came to compose himself after visiting Mama. No amount of venting his emotions would fix this, though.

Corrado’s hit was the one he’d been waiting for. The big contract, the one he’d use to topple the three families’ precarious house of cards. Launch the Maisanos into the chaos that was inevitable with Felice in charge. With a psychopath like him on top, the muzzles would come off, and the Maisanos would shake off that businesslike, diplomatic front Corrado had maintained. When they started killing each other, other carefully-positioned men—the stupid ones with no sense of strategy or reason—would move into place. The Cusimanos would take advantage of the internal strife and chaos and bring the Maisanos to their knees. Before long, the violence would bring the Passantinos into the mix.

Then the coup de grace: a folder full of names, names, and more names—not to mention the locations of bodies—mailed anonymously to the police with a copy sent to the FBI. Then the house of cards wouldn’t just topple, it would go down in flames, and Sergei would be smoke in the wind. Gone before anyone knew it was burning at all.

Corrado Maisano’s younger son was supposed to become the boss. That was how it worked, and Sergei’s plan had hinged on it, and he had no doubt Felice had been banking on it too. If things had worked out that way, the pieces would have gone down as planned.

But Corrado had played a wild card. Now Dom was a target because Felice didn’t have the power he needed to unwittingly put Sergei’s plan into action.

Secretly, behind closed doors, Dom had been named the heir. Now it was he, not his volatile cousin, who would ascend his uncle’s coveted throne.

And now, this contract. The one that would restore the equilibrium he had so carefully orchestrated so his plan could move forward.

The pressure would be on, too. Everything was touchy right now, everyone edgy from the recent violence, even more so than they’d been after bodies had started washing up earlier this summer. No one, least of all the snubbed Maisano heir, had any patience left.

There was no way out. Dom was marked. Sergei was contracted. For all intents and purposes, the bullet had already been fired.

Sergei slumped back against the driver seat, struggling to find his breath. His heart pounded, blood surging through his veins. He’d spent the last several years moving these pieces into place. Setting up the endgame on a bloodstained chessboard. Piling up kindling so he could watch the whole thing topple and burn.

And now he had the torch.

And the torch had been lit.

And there was no blowing it out.

A police investigation was unavoidable. Gunfire in a public place, murder in broad daylight at a funeral—there was no escaping legal attention.

The cops were undoubtedly left frustrated, since no one in attendance had anything to say to law enforcement. Every last mourner was questioned, and as soon as they could, left the area of the church currently cordoned off by yellow tape.

Now, hours after Corrado’s death, every Maisano in town was at Felice’s place. Still dressed for grief and visibly rattled by Corrado’s death, they spoke in hushed tones while every woman in the family alternated between consoling Dom’s aunt and putting out food and wine.

Dom stayed away from everyone. The day had started out hellish. Between grieving Biaggio, killing Luciano, and leaving Sergei, he’d been a reeling mess before he’d even arrived at St. Leo’s. The service had been grueling as he forced himself to be stoic and strong for Biaggio’s wife.

And then… fuck. It was the second time in a matter of days that a bullet had missed him by a wire-thin margin. He and Felice could’ve easily been killed today. Thank God Felice had only been hit but not killed. It was still a hell of wound, but nothing life-threatening. A blessing in the form of a well-placed bullet hole.

Right now, Felice was upstairs with Dr. Rojas, who’d treated the wound earlier and had come back to change the dressings. If he knew what was good for him, he’d brought more painkillers this time.

Dom drained his wine and went upstairs to see how his cousin was doing. Several of Felice’s associates were on their way down the hall, and they all looked right at Dom, locking their gazes on him for a few seconds and eyeing him coolly before they passed him by.

He paused and looked back, watching them leave. His stomach churned. Did Felice know yet? Had someone told him that Corrado had left the family in Dom’s hands?

He gulped. Hopefully, they’d give the man a chance to grieve his father and recover from his wounds first. Felice didn’t need to know the truth. Not today.

As Dom approached Felice’s bedroom, Dr. Rojas stepped out and closed the door behind him.

“How’s he doing?” Dom asked.

“He’ll be all right.” Dr. Rojas glanced over his shoulder, then scanned the hallway. He gestured for Dom to come closer. “You need to be careful right now, Dom.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Dom muttered.

“How about the fact that there’s already a contract with your name on it.”

Dom stared at him, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “What are you talking about? How do you know?”

“Because I heard—” Rojas’s eyes flicked past Dom. Louder, he said, “The stitches will come out in a few days, and then he should make a full recovery as long as the wound is kept clean and doesn’t get infected.”

Two of Felice’s men walked past them, pausing to give Dom a respectful nod before continuing into the room where Felice recovered.

When they were gone, Rojas led Dom a ways down the hall. “Listen, I know Felice. I’ve been treating him long enough to know how he works. What he’s like when he’s upset. And he just lost his father, his brother, and Biaggio, so…”

“So he’s bound to be upset.”
Hopefully someone’s locked up anything fragile or valuable.

Rojas chewed his lip. “Today, though… he was weird.”

“How so?”

The doc glanced around again, and whispered, “I thought at first that he was just numb over what happened to his father. He was quiet but didn’t seem all that upset.”

That was unusual for Felice—the slightest shift in his emotional status quo made him violent.

Rojas went on, “But then one of your uncle’s associates came in. And he told Felice that you’ll be inheriting the family, not him.”

“Oh shit.”

Rojas grimaced. “He hit the roof, Dom. Barely a twitch over his father, but when he found out you were the new boss, he flipped out so bad I had to re-stitch three of his sutures.” Even quieter now, he added, “After he calmed down, he told an associate to get in touch with another associate in Atlanta.”

“Atlanta? What?”

“
Georgia
, Dom.”

Dom’s stomach fell into his feet. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

Rojas put up his hands. “I could be wrong. And I hope to God I am. But if I were you, I’d be watching my back right now.

“Yeah. I was… I was planning on it.” Watching his back was one thing. Having the Georgian on his tail was another matter entirely.

“I’m sorry.” Rojas put a hand on his shoulder. “If you need anything, call me.”

“I can’t ask you to help with this. It’s family.”

“I know. But if there’s anyone in this family who’s worth helping…”

Their eyes met.

“Thanks,” Dom whispered.

Rojas squeezed his shoulder, and then let him go. “I should get out of here.”

“Yeah. I should, uh…” He gestured at Felice’s door. “See how he’s doing.”

The doc’s lips pulled tight. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Rojas left, probably getting the hell away from this place as fast as humanly possible. Lucky bastard.

Dom regarded Felice’s door warily. He should’ve gone in there. Shown his face. And he would.

But first, he needed a moment to himself, so he wandered the hallways of Felice’s enormous house, hands in his pockets and eyes down.

He’d expected a hit. He’d known it was coming. But so soon? And from
Felice
? Jesus. Corrado’s body wasn’t even cool yet, and Felice was already arranging a hit on Dom. And, assuming Dr. Rojas had understood the coded talk correctly, that hit was contracted to none other than the Georgian.

The back of his neck prickled. The Georgian was a relentless hunter and a brutal killer. Legend had it, he aspired to be the west coast’s Richard Kuklinski—the prolific hitman all the New York City families had come to in the 70s and 80s to for their most valuable hits that needed to be taken out in the most brutal fashion. Dom didn’t know what was true and what was myth, but he knew they didn’t call in the Georgian unless they meant business.

He could go in there right now and shoot Felice, but Felice was surrounded by his crew and security. There were too many people here. All it would take was one of them who believed Felice should’ve inherited his father’s place, and they’d shoot him for killing Felice.

Any action he took, he couldn’t do it here. Not now. Had to stay calm even when he was shaken and betrayed. Put on the stoic face. Image, image, image.

And really, what action
could
he take? The fact was, there was no escaping it now. Dom’s number was up. He knew how this game was played, and certain things were inevitable. The only variables were how they killed him and when. This was one of those moments like when the doctor says to go home and get your affairs in order. Especially because it was the doctor himself who’d delivered the news.

He could either stand and fight…

Or he could quietly take his fate with dignity. It’s what Luciano had done. It was what Papa had done. He’d known when they were coming for him. Dom never forgot that day. Papa had come home early, and he’d disappeared with Mama for a little while. When they’d returned, there was saltimbocca alla Romana and his favorite wine. It had almost seemed like the family was celebrating, except the somber air between his parents had told him that something was terribly wrong. So wrong that, to this day, he couldn’t eat saltimbocca.

Then Papa had kissed them both and told them he wouldn’t be coming back.

“Take care of your mother, Domenico,” he’d said.

And then he was gone.

That would’ve been it. In fact, it should’ve been. A week later, Dom had knelt beside his mother in St. Leo’s, listening to her quietly sobbing. No one else had been there. Just Dom and his mother and the priest, and he’d struggled not to be sick as his mother prayed for Papa’s body to be found so he could at least have a proper burial. He’d sinned, he’d betrayed the family, but he was still a good man. Couldn’t he at least go to God the way every man good man should?

And Dom had had no choice but to kneel there, wiping tears away and trying not to throw up because he knew what Mama didn’t know. He’d been warned to keep quiet, and the gunshots were still ringing too loudly in his ears for him to even think of defying his uncle’s orders. So while Mama begged God for guidance, she had no idea her only son knew exactly where Papa was and exactly who had put him in that shallow grave. It was why he’d sobbed that morning when she’d yelled at him for having dirt on his good trousers. He couldn’t explain it. Not without telling her what he’d promised not to tell.

She’d gone to her grave not knowing where her husband’s body was or that her son had been there. He’d never been able to tell her that, yes, Papa had been given last rites before he died because then he’d have to tell her how he knew.

He shuddered at the memories. It was just as well he had no wife or children now, and he’d already walked away from Sergei. There’d be no one left to ask God where his body was or grieve him the way Mama had grieved for Papa until the day she too had died, or worry if he’d been given a proper send-off to the Lord.

The only question that remained was how long he could elude his fate, and if he should bother. He could either run and keep looking over his shoulder, or accept the inevitable with the dignity instilled in him by his father. He could run, or he could sip a glass of wine and know it was likely his last.

Dom wiped a hand over his face. What he needed to do was think. Disappear somewhere, collect his thoughts, and figure out what to do next.

And as long as he was having that last glass of wine…

He texted Sergei.

I need to see you.

And then he went in to check on Felice.

Sergei stared at the text.

Dom had no idea, did he? No fucking clue. But then, how could he? Sergei had carefully kept his name and face hidden from all but his select few liaisons. He’d given Dom no reason to suspect him.

Maybe it would be easier this way. Dom could come to him, and Sergei could finish the job quickly. Dom didn’t have to know who’d filled the contract. He didn’t need to have that moment of terror, that split second of understanding that death was imminent.

He didn’t want to do this, but there was no backing out of a contract. Not unless he wanted to be skinned alive. And God knew what would happen to Dom if Sergei failed to complete the hit—some of the other hitmen in this town weren’t nearly as humane as he was when he wanted to be.

I can make it quick. So he doesn’t know what hit him.

Sergei closed his eyes.

He deserves that much.

Holding his breath, Sergei wrote back with shaking fingers:
Come to my place
.

After that, he sent his address.

They’d never been to either of their places before. It was always motels. But tonight, Sergei wanted absolute control over his environment.

His phone vibrated:
I’ll be there shortly
.

While he waited, Sergei pulled a footlocker from his closet and popped the latches. The lid creaked on its hinges, and Sergei scanned his options. A .22 would do the job without making much noise, but a higher caliber stood a better chance of finishing him off with a single shot.

A million emotions tangled in his chest, but he had to force himself to be strictly business about this or else he’d break. He’d crumble. He’d earn them both a much worse fate than a bullet to the head.

Sergei withdrew a .45. It would be loud, but people in Cape Swan didn’t ask questions. Even if they did, Sergei’s neighbors were all shift workers. The place was almost entirely empty during the day—it was why he’d moved in here, since he too worked late hours most of the time.

He screwed the suppressor onto the pistol. It wouldn’t do much—what he wouldn’t have given for Hollywood’s silencers to actually exist—but if he had to fire indoors, it would take the edge off enough to hopefully not do permanent damage to his hearing. Or attract any neighbors who happened to be awake.

He didn’t keep the gun on his person, though. As much as it sickened him to think about it, the bedroom was the place where Dom would most likely let his guard down. All Sergei had to do was get him in here, and he’d be able to get the drop on him. No fuss, no fight—wait till he was good and distracted, and end it with a well-placed round before Dom had a chance to—

Sergei sniffed sharply and wiped his eyes.

Come on. Get it together. You don’t have to like it. But you have to do it.

Dom, I am so sorry…

He left the pistol with the suppressor in the bedroom, between the mattress and box spring where it wasn’t obvious, but it was accessible. Couldn’t be too careful, just in case things got out of his control.

He closed the footlocker and pushed it back into the closet. From the bottom drawer of his dresser, he took out the kit full of poisons. Immediately, his gaze flicked toward the poison he’d just bought from Katashi. It was supposed to work immediately. Little if any pain. Seconds at the most. One spritz in Dom’s face, and it was all over.

He turned the vial between his fingers. He’d had other plans for this stuff, but he had plenty. There was no reason he couldn’t use it on Dom. Put him out quickly and painlessly. Maybe let him go to sleep first. He’d drift off and never wake up. Peaceful. Painless.

Sergei could count on a bullet to get it done, but just in case, he measured out the dose for Dom’s height and weight, and then put the poison into the spray bottle Katashi’s supplier had included. He slipped it into the top drawer of his nightstand.

When all was said and done, he had weapons strewn strategically around the house, something within easy reach no matter where he was.

Outside, a car door slammed. Sergei looked out the window, and took a deep breath. Oblivious to what he was walking into, Dom came up the path to Sergei’s front door. Sergei’s heart was pounding so hard he almost didn’t hear Dom knock, but he was on the way to the door anyway.

At the door, he paused to compose himself. There was no turning back, no pretending this could end any other way.

I am so sorry, Dom.

Heart pounding, he turned the deadbolt, opened the chain, put on an unassuming smile, and opened the door.

One look at Dom, and Sergei’s breath was gone. Just… gone.

God, I’ve missed you.

Sergei moistened his lips. He stepped aside to let Dom come in. Neither of them said a word until after he’d closed the door, and it was Sergei who softly broke the silence: “Didn’t think I was going to see you again.”

Dom grimaced. He pulled Sergei into his arms. “I’m sorry. For disappearing.”

“It’s okay. You’re here now.” Sergei winced. In the back of his mind, he heard himself a lifetime ago, shakily whispering “You’re here” that night when he’d needed Dom, and Dom had come.

Tonight, Dom needed him, and what was Sergei going to do?

I can’t. I don’t want to. I have to.

“I need you to do something for me,” Dom said.

Sergei gulped. “Okay.”

Dom pulled a thick envelope out of his back pocket. “Take this. Get out of Cape Swan. Get out of California.”

“Take—” As soon as the envelope was pressed into his palm, Sergei knew exactly what it was. “Why are you giving me money? What—”

“Things are about to get really bad in this town. There’s a contract on my head, and…” He shook himself. “Listen, this should be enough to get you out of here and on your feet somewhere.”

“But it’s—”

“Please, Sergei.” Dom kissed his forehead. “And I… I won’t be able to see you again after tonight.”

If you only knew how right you were
.

“Then let’s—” Sergei’s voice caught. He dropped the cash on the sofa beside them, and managed a hard-won smile as he said, “Let’s make it count.”

Dom kissed him, and Sergei, despite his conscience tearing him to pieces, put his arms around Dom and let himself be kissed.

They stumbled into the bedroom. Keeping his guard up was his default setting when he was on a job, but tearing off clothes was his default with Dom, and stripping down won. Hungrily, breathlessly, they kissed and groped in between pushing off shirts and kicking off trousers. Every time Dom broke away—to take off a sock, to slip off his boxers—Sergei’s body ached and his skin tingled until those warm broad hands were on him again. As they sank onto the bed, with Sergei on his back and Dom right on top of him, he didn’t feel the least bit unsettled beneath Dom’s larger frame. He clawed at him, pulled at him, tried to bring him down even closer to him, no matter what that might do to his ability to breathe.

They rolled one way. Then the other. Sergei was on the bottom again, and—

Shit
.

The .45 and its suppressor were right beneath him. Though they were separated from his flesh by the thick mattress, the shape was undeniably
there
. Every time he or Dom moved, the pistol dug into the base of his spine. He couldn’t get comfortable. Couldn’t concentrate on anything but that annoying lump beneath his back, like he was the star of a fucked up version of
The Princess and the Pea
.

The Stripper Hitman and the Piece
.

Even that thought couldn’t amuse him. He tried to put himself in that cold, predatory state of mind where nothing existed except the need to finish a job. The drive to put a bullet through a Mafioso’s brain should’ve been enough to banish the need to make love to a man who was scared and stoic at the same time. He hated Mafiosi. He hated the Maisanos. He was supposed to hate Dom. Combing his fingers through Dom’s hair, though, arching beneath his body and losing his mind despite the gun beneath him, he couldn’t hate anything except the way this thing had to end.

Except it didn’t have to end that way now. Not yet. Not until…

Dom pressed his hips against Sergei’s, unknowingly pushing Sergei harder against the weapon.

What am I
doing
? I’m supposed to
kill
him
.

He should’ve been hiding the body already.

But he wanted him alive. And here. And under him.

He pushed Dom onto his back and kissed him, and goddamn, every kiss made the guilt burn hotter. Guilt didn’t belong on the same room as a marked Maisano, but Sergei couldn’t help feeling like a cat toying with a mouse.

Except he wasn’t toying with him. He wasn’t torturing him. Tonight, Dom wanted sex, and Sergei would give him that. The rest… didn’t matter right now.

Dom pulled Sergei closer. “I need you to fuck me.”

The next shiver was Sergei’s; if Dom’s tone was to be believed, he wasn’t joking about the word
need
. He was trembling, holding on to Sergei as if he were holding on for dear life, as if he were on the brink of breaking down.

“Let me get the lube,” Sergei breathed. “Then I’m all yours.”

“Please.” Dom’s arms slid off Sergei’s shoulders.

Sergei got up off the mattress, ignoring the outline of the gun that still seemed seared into his back, and opened the nightstand drawer. The vial full of cloudy liquid caught his eye but only for a second. That time would come. Not now.

He made quick work of putting some lube on both of them. Then Dom got on his hands and knees, and Sergei was already out of breath before he’d even pressed against him.

I want you. I’m supposed to want you dead, but I just
want
you.

Dom was tighter than usual, even tighter than the first couple of times they’d fucked.

Sergei leaned down, wrapping an arm around Dom. “Breathe, Dom,” he whispered against his neck. He withdrew a little, and pressed in again. “Remember to breathe.”

Dom exhaled. Gradually, he relaxed and yielded to Sergei, completely unaware he was letting in the man who was going to kill him. Moaning with unmistakable pleasure, he rocked back and forth, drawing Sergei deeper.

Sergei leaned over him, hissing as his nipples brushed Dom’s back. God, he was going to miss this. The way Dom’s breath hitched when Sergei moved inside him. The way their bodies just fit together. The faint scent of aftershave that had become
Dom
in his mind.

Still rocking his hips and sliding his cock in and out in a smooth, steady rhythm, Sergei curved his hand around the front of Dom’s throat. Dom’s pulse beat against his palm.

Sergei’s heart sped up. He could do it now. Quick. Painless. Dom would never know what hit him, and he’d die with a hard-on.

Dom swallowed. His Adam’s apple pressed against Sergei’s palm, and a shiver went down Sergei’s spine. He leaned closer, rocking his hips a little faster as he kissed the back of Dom’s neck.

Maybe let him come first, let an orgasm be the last thing he ever felt. Then a snap of the neck, and he’d be gone, still smiling. Sergei wasn’t going to risk a sleeper hold or try to strangle him. Dom was stronger than he was—if fight or flight kicked in, he could too easily overpower Sergei before Sergei knocked him out, and the gun was out of reach.

He could…

There was always…

Sergei squeezed his eyes shut as he fucked Dom faster. He couldn’t think like this. Not while he was this deep inside him. He’d fuck him now, give him a little more of what he’d been craving so badly, and then he’d end it for him in a blink. Make sure he never knew what hit him.
Who
hit him.

For now…

He sank his teeth into Dom’s shoulder and thrust harder.

“Shit,” Dom groaned. His whole body jerked beneath Sergei, and he clenched around Sergei’s dick. “I’m gonna… come…”

Sergei gritted his teeth and fucked Dom as hard as he could. As Dom groaned, trembling beneath him, Sergei shuddered. His eyes rolled back. His body took over, moving of its own volition and trying to get him as deep inside Dom as possible, and as his orgasm rocked him from his curled toes to the hair standing on the back of his neck, he damn near blacked out.

As he came down, taking in gulps of air while his head spun and his limbs trembled, he held on to Dom’s hips for balance.

“Oh my God,” Dom murmured. “Shouldn’t…shouldn’t be surprised anymore.”

“By what?”

“How amazing it is when you fuck me.”

Sergei laughed softly and kissed the back of his shoulder. Guilt, shame, even some fear… he was too deep inside a man to feel this way, but nothing made sense anymore.

When he was sure his limbs would at least try to hold him up, he pulled out, hissing sharply as the gentle motion overwhelmed his hypersensitive nerve endings. He got rid of the condom, and after they’d cleaned themselves up, they collapsed together in Sergei’s bed. They kissed for a little while, and then shifted around until they got comfortable. Eventually, Sergei was on his side with Dom cuddled up against him, and like that, they lay in silence for a while.