If The Seas Catch Fire (13 page)

Certain he was alone, Dom hid two devices on Eugenio’s car. Beneath the front bumper, a GPS tracker. Beneath the rear passenger side wheel well, a small explosive.

Then he went back to his own car, drove a couple of miles, and waited.

Sitting on the shoulder of a back road, he watched the little green dot on the GPS screen and waited for it to move. He tried not to think about the chain of events that would be set into motion when Eugenio left his girlfriend’s place. It was unavoidable. Just like he did every time he was on a job like this, Dom had already run through every possible alternative at least a dozen times.

In the past, Dom had tried to convince his uncle that a situation could be resolved without bloodshed, but Corrado had made his decision, and Dom had his orders. And when he was seventeen, he’d nearly learned the hard way what happened when he didn’t obey a command like this.

“Don’t let this happen again, Domenico,” Corrado had warned him over the top of a nine millimeter, the muzzle digging painfully into Dom’s forehead. “Understood?”

Yeah. He’d understood.

But just for good measure, Corrado had pulled him aside a few months later, and without any explanation, taken him to a concrete-walled garage in the back acres of his property.

There, a middle-aged man had been bound and gagged on his knees on the floor, and across from him, a younger man who couldn’t have been more than twenty. The faces, the eyes, even the hair—they were quite obviously father and son.

To Dom, Corrado said, “Stand there.” He pointed to a place a few feet away from the terrified men. “And learn.”

Both tied men had looked at Dom, eyes wide with palpable fear and unmistakable pleas for help. Dom hadn’t helped. He’d stood there, as ordered, and he’d watched.

And God, he’d learned.

He’d learned just how much a man could scream around a gag, and how loud a room could get when a person was trying to scream in pain while the other tried to beg for mercy. How much a punch could reverberate through the air when a fist made contact with the younger man’s gut. How sickening it was when the impact of a pistol shattered teeth. How much a man had to struggle to spit out teeth fragments, blood, and vomit with a gag pulled tightly across his mouth.

And how much damage Dom’s calm, calculated uncle could do with a knife without killing someone. Blood smeared on Corrado’s arms. Splattered on his shirt. Pooled in the lap of the younger man. Spread on the floor around his knees. Every cut of Corrado’s knife made the son whimper in pain and the father cry out with an entirely different breed of agony.

Eventually, Corrado cut off the younger man’s gag.

“Please,” the son moaned through tears. “Kill—” He vomited, nearly hitting Corrado’s shoes before croaking, “Kill me. Please.”

The father’s agonized sobs would stay with Dom until the day he died.

Finally, Corrado killed both of them—first the father, then the son—each with a bullet between the eyes.

Afterward, he’d casually wiped down the gun and his hands like a chef who’d finished preparing a meal.

Dom hadn’t been able to breathe. He’d witnessed violence before—some far too close to home—but never torture. Not until that day.

His uncle’s hand had been heavy on the back of Dom’s neck, and though Dom was still partially deaf from the gunshots, he’d heard Corrado say, “Do you want to know why I brought you here, Domenico?”

Dom had been petrified. Shaking. Ready to puke. But he’d nodded anyway because he was pretty damn sure that was the only right answer.

Corrado had put an arm around Dom’s shoulders, the smell of blood coppery on his skin and clothes, and herded him toward the two bodies. “This man had a job to do, and he decided not to do it. He undermined my authority and disobeyed me.” He gestured at the son. “So this was his punishment—the last thing he knew saw in this world was his son screaming and begging for death.”

Dom couldn’t make himself ask what exactly the job was that the man’s disobedience warranted this punishment, or why the son deserved to suffer for his father’s sins. After all, then Corrado might remember that Dom’s own father had betrayed the family, and that he’d only punished Papa, not Dom. Traumatized the hell out of Dom, but hadn’t
punished
him. Not like that, anyway.

“So.” Corrado had looked him right in the eye. “I assume we won’t have any repeats of that incident last winter, will we?”

That moment, even more than the gun pressed to his head that past winter, had given Dom the deepest, most profound understanding of what fear was. Knowing his uncle wouldn’t hesitate to kill him was one thing. Knowing he would torture him and anyone close to him?

All these years later, he relived that moment in his nightmares more often than he cared to admit;
message received, Uncle Corrado
.

To this day, the memory made him ill. He squirmed in the driver seat and swallowed the bile in his throat.

There
were
situations where he could change the rules and take care of things his own way. When it was a minor offense, usually some idiot who’d crossed the family—a dockworker keeping some of the stolen merchandise for himself, a desperately indebted immigrant trying to skip town without paying the family what he owed—then Dom had other options.

Just last year, Corrado had ordered him to take out a trucker who’d been letting the Cusimanos in on Maisano territory. Turned out the guy was getting it from both sides—threats and promises alike. He couldn’t say no to a Cusimano, not even when it meant crossing a Maisano, because that put a target on his back. He’d tried to play both sides, not out of any attempt to screw both families at once, but out of a panicked attempt to placate both sides and keep him out of the crosshairs. What choice did he have?

When Dom couldn’t talk his uncle out of having that trucker killed, he’d tracked the guy to a deserted truck stop south of Redding, and cornered him up in the men’s room. The man never saw his face, but he hadn’t questioned the .357 barrel pressing in beneath his ear while he faced the wall with his hands behind his head.

“You’ve fucked with the wrong family,” Dom growled at him, slowly drawing the hammer back and making damn sure the man heard every click. “You know that, right?”

“I’m sorry.” The man was shaking badly, his fingers turning white as he laced them together tighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I was scared! Please, it won’t—”

“No fucking excuse,” Dom snarled. “You agreed to work for the Maisanos. Is it true you’ve been working for the Cusimanos too?”

“Yes! Yes! I’m sorry.” The guy was quickly becoming a blubbering mess. “Please, don’t hurt my family. Whatever you have to do to me, do it, but please don’t—”

“I’m not going to touch your family.” Dom nudged him slightly with the gun, and then pulled it back. “I’m going to let you go too.”

“You… you are?”

“I am. And if you show your face in Cape Swan again, I promise you, you’re a dead man. Am I clear?”

The trucker nodded profusely. He also didn’t need to use the restroom anymore.

Dom had given him some strict instructions, laced with some threats he prayed he wouldn’t have to carry out, and left, leaving the man to clean himself up. It was a risk, letting a mark walk, but guys like this, they weren’t part of the families. They weren’t hardened criminals or made men. To his knowledge, the handful of marks he’d allowed to live had taken him at his word. Within days, their families had left town and were never seen again. A few bribes and threats later, Dom had convincing death certificates and police reports, and the marks were as good as ghosts. If Corrado ever found out, Dom would have a bullet in him for every man he’d ever left alive, but it was a risk he was willing to take in order to sleep at night.

But Eugenio Cusimano wasn’t someone he could threaten and send packing. Not after he’d run down Nicolá like that. It was either him or Dom. Just like the gay cousin Dom couldn’t let walk away. Corrado had insisted that his body be found, that there be proof of death. Disappearance wouldn’t do, and so Dom had taken his cousin by surprise—a stealthy break-in, a bullet to the head, and he’d never known what hit him.

The green dot on the tracker started moving. Dom watched it, and once it was well into the middle of nowhere, out another winding highway where cell phone reception was spotty and few cars just happened by, Dom pushed the button on the detonator.

The dot slowed, then stopped.

Dom didn’t have to hurry. The explosive hadn’t been a big one, but he’d made damn sure it was enough to fuck up more than the tire. Unless Eugenio had a spare axle and a set of brakes in his trunk, he wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

Sure enough, there was his car, its hazard lights blinking above a couple of glowing pink flares.

Dom slowed to a stop behind him. He kept his high beams on, and while the car idled, he got out.

Eugenio had been crouching beside the ruined tire, and rose, shielding his eyes as he cautiously faced Dom.

“You need some help?” Dom asked.

Eugenio lowered his hands, and with them, his guard. “Yeah. Must’ve hit something. The back tire’s all—”

Dom shot him.

No warning. No hesitation. Two to the chest, one to the face.

Eugenio crumpled to the pavement and didn’t make another sound. Just to be sure, Dom put another bullet through the man’s temple. If by some chance he’d survived the first three, there was no need to make him suffer.

Then Dom got in his car and drove back toward Cape Swan. He begged his stomach to stay where it belonged. Gripped the wheel for dear life. Held his breath until his vision started to sparkle.

He made it two miles before the acid in his throat told him he wasn’t going any farther. He pulled over, braked hard, jumped out of the car, and just made it to the grass before he puked. Once. Twice. A third time. When he was sure nothing else would come up—that there was nothing left
to
come up—he spat in the grass and leaned against the car. His mind was reeling, spinning, his knees threatening to shake out from under him.

Fuck this life. Fuck this world. Why God had seen fit for him to be born into a family of Sicilians so he could be made, he’d never understand. And damn every fucking person who knew him for not telling him to blow it when Uncle Corrado had asked him to prove he was the crack shot he’d bragged about being. The kid who’d been desperate for approval had made sure to shoot his very, very best when Corrado had come to watch. If he’d known what he was getting himself into, that his uncle would secretly begin grooming him—at
fourteen
—to be a hitman, he’d have made sure no bullet went near the target. He might’ve even eaten one.

He glanced at the passenger seat. In the darkness, he couldn’t see the gun, but he knew it was there. Only four rounds were missing. All he needed was one.

Yeah. And after he pulled the trigger, Corrado would find someone else to fill death warrants. Someone who probably wouldn’t let terrified truckers walk or make sure gay cousins just went to sleep and never woke up.

Dom cursed into the night, his mouth still burning with acid. He could only save so many people. The occasional immigrant who he quietly let out of his debt. The rare and fortunate mark he could justify sparing.

He couldn’t save himself, though. Corrado had proven he could and would find apostates, and that punishment would be anything but swift. Even those who’d gone into witness protection would, sooner or later, find themselves back in Cape Swan.

Eyes closed, he exhaled, wincing at the taste of bile still on his tongue. He spat into the grass. There was no point in staying out here. A made man this close to a murder scene? Not good.

Though maybe they’d arrest him. Take him to prison and leave him there until one of Corrado’s men—or a Cusimano, or some random felon—shanked him in the recreation yard.

That bullet was sounding better and better.

With shaky hands, he pulled back his sleeve and checked his watch. It was after midnight. He was exhausted and he felt disgusting. Sleep and a shower were the only things marginally more appealing than suicide.

On trembling legs, he went back around to the driver side, got in, and pulled back onto the highway again. He made it home on autopilot, showered on autopilot, dressed on autopilot, and before he knew it, he was back in the car.

Once he realized where he was heading, though, he didn’t turn around.

He drove faster.

Sergei leaned against the bar, sipping some water and waiting for a stage to open up. Some of his regulars were lurking nearby, watching the other dancers, but keeping an eye on him too. He’d memorized that body language a long time ago—fidgeting, rocking from heels to the balls of their feet, twitching as they eyeballed the men already seated at the stages. When the stages cleared, it would be like the running of the bulls—everyone vying for a handful of seats.

He grinned to himself. The men here wouldn’t actually go to blows over a seat unless they were really drunk, because none of them wanted the cops getting involved. Even if fists flew, the other men would shut it down, and the bouncers would finish it off.

So he wasn’t worried about anything getting out of control. Let them pant and froth at the mouth. The more eager they were, the more money they’d toss at his feet.

The bead curtain at the end of the bar moved. Sergei turned his head.

Dom walked in. And scanned the rom. And looked right at him. And Sergei’s heart skipped.

It wasn’t panic or irritation, or wondering why the fuck he was risking anyone seeing them together in public. The second they locked eyes, his gut clenched.

My God. What’s wrong?

Though the flickering strobes made it impossible to tell for sure, he thought Dom was shaking. He was definitely paler than the last time Sergei had seen him in this light.

Sergei was getting used to seeing Dom. In fact, he was starting to get a little excited whenever they were in the same room because it meant sex. It meant
good
sex. Except they’d agreed not to meet here anymore. Dom hadn’t been back to the club since the first night they’d slept together. Since then, they’d text, exchange a few seemingly benign messages, and a meet at a cheap motel.

But Dom was here now, and something in his eyes hit Sergei from all the way across the room. Sergei wasn’t supposed to care about him, but that look on Dom’s face definitely had him concerned. Had something happened? Had someone found out about them? What the hell was going on?

He pushed himself off the bar and slipped through the thin crowd to Dom’s side.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…” He met Sergei’s gaze, and swallowed. Shaking his head, he whispered so softly it almost didn’t carry over the music: “I don’t… I don’t want to talk.”

“What
do
you want?”

As soon as the words were out, Dom’s eyes answered in no uncertain terms.

You. Sex. Now
.

Sergei gulped. He glanced around. Two of the other dancers were negotiating private lap dances. Their stages would be clear in a matter of seconds. He could feel the gazes of his eager customers prickling his neck.

Shit. He couldn’t just disappear into the back. That was a good way for some vindictive asshole to drop an anonymous tip to someone in Dom’s circles, and they’d both be fucked.

He turned to Dom. “Meet me in the back. Ask the bouncer to show you to booth seven. Got it?”

Dom blinked a couple of times, as if he didn’t quit understand. Then he nodded. “Right. Booth… booth seven.”

“Good. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Dom disappeared into the back. Sergei watched him go, gnawing the inside of his cheek. He should’ve sent Dom on his way. Or at least told him to meet at a motel like they always did.

And that was perfect. Two weeks into it, Sergei enjoyed the routine already. He had to admit, he looked forward to the nights he spent with Dom. It wasn’t even the little thrill he got from sleeping with the enemy.

The sex was… God, it was amazing. And Dom had a way of not just turning Sergei on, not just making him feel like the only man in the world, but making him feel…
worshipped
. There wasn’t a man alive who couldn’t learn a thing or two from Dom about how to rock a lover’s world.

A lover?

No. Definitely not. Strictly speaking, maybe—they were sleeping together, after all. But it was just sex. Nothing more than a means for Dom to sow his wild gay oats before settling down like a good little Mafioso.

Having him show up here? Risky.

And Sergei still wasn’t sure why Dom hadn’t just told him to meet at a motel. Dom should’ve gotten the fuck out of here so Sergei could work, and they could blow off whatever steam they needed to later. Except Dom didn’t seem like he needed to blow off steam. Just thinking about the look on his face made Sergei’s gut clench.

“Hey.” Paco nudged him. “You gonna dance or not?”

Sergei swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah. I…” He shook himself. “On my way.”

Paco stopped him with a big, calloused hand on his shoulder. “You okay, kid?”

“Yeah.” Sergei shrugged out of his boss’s touch. “I’m good.”

He didn’t wait for Paco to stop him again, and hurried to the center table.

Immediately, half the men around the sidelines were on the move, damn near sprinting across the room to claim one of the seats. Those who weren’t fast enough stood behind them, and Sergei guessed they’d be extra aggressive when it came time to bid on a private dance.

The deejay kicked on some techno. Sergei grabbed onto the pole, took a deep breath, and started dancing. He thrust his hips. Undulated his abs. Shook his ass. He was absolutely convinced that one of the men watching him would catch on that he was distracted, so he poured himself into this even more than usual. He bent farther than he usually did, causing more than a few jaws to drop, and leaned closer to the men watching him. The effect was exactly as he’d hoped—the men squirmed as erections strained against zippers, and they threw twenties on the stage as if they were ones. By the end of his dance, Sergei had to be careful so he didn’t slip on a pile of bills and break his neck.

The music ended. All the regulars immediately started thrusting hundreds at him. The men who’d been standing behind the chairs leaned over the others, shoving thick stacks of bills at Sergei.

He forced a grin as he egged them on so they’d up the ante and outbid each other, but his mind was already back in the private booths. In one booth in particular. The thought of getting through a private dance made his stomach turn. Not because he couldn’t stand being on a horny stranger’s lap—he loved what he did and made no apologies for it—but because he needed to be in that room with Dom. What the fuck was going on? Why did Dom suddenly need him badly enough to risk showing his face in this club again?

He shook himself and focused on the men bidding for a dance. Thank God, they all backed off one by one until there was a last man standing. He didn’t think he had it in him to dance on two men out here before finally taking the highest bidder into the back. There was a clear winner, so Sergei stepped off the stage, grinned, and beckoned to the tall black man with the stack of hundreds in his hand.

On the way back to the booth, he glanced at booth seven.

The knot in his gut tightened. What was going on? Why—

Didn’t matter now. He had work to do.

Resisting the urge to even lean into booth seven to make sure Dom was all right—
why the hell do I care?
—he led his customer into the booth directly across from seven.

He tried to shove every thought of Dom into the back of his mind as he shimmed out of everything but his G-string. As focused as he could be, he climbed onto the customer’s lap. The music thumped hard enough along his bones to remind him of the tempo, but his thumping heart drowned out the rest. All he could think of was Dom. In the other booth. In a chair just like this one. Turned on in a way Sergei had never seen him. Not just needy, but
needy
.

Focus. Dance.

Like he had on the stage, he threw himself into this dance as much as he could. Grinding against the customer’s thick erection, rubbing all over him until the man’s breath was coming in hot, heavy huffs. The client bit his lip, shifting in the chair. A rush of breath rushed across Sergei’s abs.

Just like Dom’s did when—

Sergei bit down on a curse. Every lap dance customer who could breathe did that. It wasn’t just Dom.

Get a grip, idiot.

Mercifully, though, the song eventually wound down. Sergei rubbed a few more times against the prominent hard-on, and then rose.

“OhmyGod,” the man slurred, and wiped a hand over his face. “Thank… thank you.”

Sergei grinned and held up the cash. “Thank
you
.”

Dazed and unsteady, the client left.

Sergei exhaled. Finally. He’d covered himself—no one in the club had any reason to believe anything was going on besides business as usual.

Quickly, he put on his clothes and straightened his hair, but before he moved to the next booth, he paused, holding his own gaze in the dingy mirror on the wall.

This was dangerous. Sergei was in Cape Swan to kill Mafiosi, not fuck them. Doing this at all, especially here, could get them both killed. Except he knew that wasn’t likely. Dom’s life depended on maintaining the illusion that he was straight. He was about the safest man in town for Sergei to fuck, because he relied even more on discretion than Sergei did.

He pushed his shoulders back and stepped out of the booth.

Before he’d reached number seven, Roy stopped him. “Hey, kid. That Italian guy, he asked for you. Said you—”

“He’s waiting in seven, right?” He gestured at the curtain.

Roy glanced at it, and nodded. “Yeah. So, you and he are cool?”

“We’re cool.” Sergei forced a smile. “Relax.”

“All right.” Roy backed off and returned to his perch near the end of the row, where he could see and hear if anyone needed his help. He was a bit overprotective, but Sergei appreciated it. Wasn’t like the strippers—even Sergei himself—were armed to the teeth when they were dancing in G-strings.

Heart pounding, Sergei stepped into the booth.

Dom rose unsteadily.

“Sorry it took so long,” Sergei said. “I—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dom wrapped his arms around him and kissed him, sending electricity right down to Sergei’s toes.

When they separated, Sergei whispered, “What’s going on? You’re practically shaking.”

“Yeah, I…” Dom avoided his eyes. Though the light was dim, it was enough to reveal the color blooming in his cheeks. “It’s not something I can talk about.”

Sergei chewed his lip. He was well-versed in
omerta
, the unbreakable code of silence within the Mafia, so it didn’t take much to figure out that whatever Dom couldn’t discuss was related to what he was. Which meant Sergei didn’t want to know.

And he shouldn’t have cared, but standing here in front of Dom, seeing how shaken he was by something he couldn’t talk about, tugged at something in Sergei’s chest.

“We can’t do this here,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“I know. And I… I should’ve just texted you. But…” Dom met his eyes. “I needed to see you.”

Why? Why me? What can I possibly do to fix whatever you just saw?

It didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know what had sent Dom here, only that he
was
here.

Sergei glanced at the curtain. Then he faced him and whispered, “You can’t make a sound, or I’ll lose my job.”

Gulping, Dom nodded.

“Sit.”

Dom obeyed, and Sergei turned up the music. Then he climbed onto Dom’s lap, straddling him, and claimed a deep, hard kiss.

Dom’s hands were immediately on him. All over him. They were unsteady, but not like they were the first time they’d fucked. It was as if he was no longer uncertain about touching a man, but uncertain about… everything. Like he needed an anchor. Or reassurance. Or
something
.

Between the two of them, they unzipped Dom’s pants, and as soon as Sergei’s fingers were around that rock hard cock, Dom broke the kiss and let his head fall back.

“Oh God,” he breathed almost soundlessly. “Yes.
Please
.”

Sergei stroked him, and leaned down to kiss his neck as he whispered, “Tell me what you want.”

“You. That’s… that’s all.”

“But, you’re—”

“Don’t.” Dom shivered, thrusting into Sergei’s hand as much as this position allowed. “Just need to… forget.”

Forget what?

But Sergei didn’t ask questions. He pumped Dom’s dick harder. He wanted to turn him around and fuck him, but he was certain the slap of skin on skin would attract one of the bouncers. Or someone would just
know
and they’d get caught and then he’d be out of a job in the place where his contacts came to give him the truly lucrative work.

And besides, no condoms. No lube.

Damn it, no space.

“Can you hear me?” Sergei whispered in Dom’s ear.

Another whimper, this one an obvious affirmative and the sound of a man about to come unglued.

“After this,” Sergei went on, “you’re going to meet me at a motel. You’re going to text me with an address and room number, just like always, and then you’re going to wait—naked, lubed up and ready for me. And I’m going to fuck you right.”