If The Seas Catch Fire (26 page)

It was impossible to say how much time passed. They backed off for a little while. Started making out again. Backed off again. And then started kissing like there was no turning back—hungrily, tongues deep in each other’s mouths, fingers pressing into flesh and bodies subtly starting to mimic the motions of thrusting and rubbing. Sergei’s dick hardened. Then Dom’s did.

When Dom broke the kiss this time, he murmured, “Fuck me again.”

“You won’t be able to move tomorrow.”

“Can’t move now. Please…”

Sergei was hardly going to tell him no, so he nudged him to turn over, and then he wrapped an arm around him and molded his body to Dom’s. He wasn’t inside him, but he held him as if they were fucking, as if he were one thrust away from making
sure
Dom couldn’t move tomorrow.

“Don’t want to stop,” Sergei slurred. “Condoms are—”

“Don’t care about condoms.” Dom rubbed back against him. “I really don’t. Just… please. Fuck me.”

Sergei kissed the side of his neck. They’d agreed to go bareback when Dom was on top, since he hadn’t been nearly as promiscuous as Sergei over the years, but what were the odds either of them had anything that would kill them before this life killed them both?

To hell with it. Dom needed this and Sergei knew damn well why.

You don’t want to think anymore tonight, do you?

He pressed into Dom’s already slick, stretched hole.

I’ll make sure you don’t think have to.

*              *              *

Sergei jerked awake with a gasp.

“Sergei?” Dom squeezed his arm, and Sergei realized that was what had woken him up—Dom’s touch. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I…” Closing his eyes, Sergei suppressed a shudder. He ran a shaking hand through his sweaty hair. “I’m good.”

“You sure?” Dom’s fingers trailed down his arm, making Sergei shiver. “You sounded like you were—”

“Just… dreams. It’s nothing.”

“Does that happen often?”

Not these dreams, no.
“Pretty much every night.”

“Jesus…”

“Guess I should’ve warned you.”

“I don’t think you planned on us falling asleep any more than I did.”

Well, that much was true. They’d fucked until there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of either man getting hard again, and then Sergei must’ve dozed off. Dom too.

If he had a brain, he’d leave. But this was comfortable. The warmth of another man pressed up against him, arm slung over Sergei’s waist, breath cool on his neck—even Sergei’s conscience couldn’t talk him out of enjoying that for a little while longer.

Especially since he was so damned tired.

His eyes slid closed and he rested his hand on top of Dom’s. Before long, Dom was asleep, snoring softly in Sergei’s ear. Any other time, Sergei would’ve been annoyed, but this time, he couldn’t help listening, fixating on the slow, steady rhythm of Dom’s breathing.

He’s alive. The dream wasn’t real. Dom is alive.

He shuddered.

They weren’t the dreams he was used to. Not that he could ever get used to reliving that night over and over and over, but he knew it was coming. And he’d had those dreams tonight, but there were others. New dreams. They were fragmented now, coming back to him only as emotions—guilt and fear, mostly—rather than actual images. He remembered blood on his hands. Everything else was hazy.

This had never happened before. He did his job, and he felt nothing. No shame, no guilt, no remorse. Did exterminators have dreams about squashed cockroaches and poisoned vermin? Of course not.

So what the fuck is my problem?

He was getting too soft. Too close to Dom.

He should have left. He had no business being here in the first place, and actually sleeping together? What the hell was he thinking?

He needed to get up, get dressed, and get the hell back to his own apartment.

But he didn’t.

Sergei was exhausted. Dom was exhausted. Sergei didn’t let him go, and Dom didn’t pull away. He let himself be wrapped up in Dom’s arms, let the warmth of Dom’s body bring his goose bumps and heart rate down.

The fact was, this thing with Dom was only going to last so much longer. Wheels were turning. Things were happening. Soon, Dom would be much too preoccupied to spend nights in the arms of a stripper.

Sergei’s heart clenched. There was no way around it—Dom would also be in danger. The more things heated up between the families, the more danger every last Mafioso was in, especially the ones higher up the food chain. Things were going to get bloody, and it was entirely possible that Dom, like his brethren, would wind up dead.

Sergei brought Dom’s hand up to his lips and kissed it.

I can’t stop what I’m doing. I can’t let them go on, not even to save you.

But God, I hope you make it through this alive.

The next day, as the family was deep in the midst of planning Biaggio’s funeral, Dom was called into his uncle’s office. It was strange, getting the call from Corrado himself instead of Biaggio, and Dom couldn’t help getting a little choked up after he ended the call. Biaggio’s death hadn’t quite sunk in, but it was beginning to.

Still, there was business to attend to. Grief would be allowed at the funeral. Stoic, straight-faced grief, but grief nonetheless. Until then, the family had to show solidarity. They had to carry on and refuse to show their enemies the faintest hint of weakness.

So he collected himself, drove across town, and showed himself to Corrado’s office, ignoring the empty space beside him as he walked down that long hallway without Biaggio.

At the giant double doors, he paused. Took a breath. Tamped down his emotions.

When he was composed, he stepped into the office. To his surprise, only Felice and Corrado were there.

“Where’s Luciano?” he asked as he shut the door.

“That’s actually why you’re here.” Corrado leaned against his immense desk, hands folded loosely in front of him. His expression was blank, his tone level. “Felice says he has some information that involves Luciano.”

Dom turned to his cousin. Felice was usually ice cold and together, but he looked rattled this time. Unsteady. A little pale. Which might’ve been grief, but even that didn’t seem right—Felice was the type to grieve with fists and weapons.

“Well. We’re here.” Corrado inclined his head. “What’s this about, Felice?”

Felice took a deep breath. “I know who killed Biaggio. And… who ordered it.”

Both Corrado and Dom stared at him.

“Luciano had him killed.” Felice exhaled hard. “He didn’t pull the trigger, but he orchestrated it with—”

Corrado backhanded his younger son across the face, sending him stumbling backward. “
Vaffanculo!
Don’t you dare accuse your own brother of—”

“I didn’t want to accuse him.” Felice righted himself, dabbing at the blood welling up on his lip. “Do you think I would’ve come to you about this if I thought it could possibly be anyone else?”

“How do you know this?” Corrado asked through clenched teeth. “Speak up, or I will—”

“I tracked down the man who shot him.”

Corrado and Dom glanced at each other, then back at Felice.

“Who?” Corrado asked.

Gingerly rubbing his jaw, Felice said, “It was the Georgian.”

Corrado tensed. So did Dom. The Georgian was an independent contractor who would take any hit if the price was right, and he never missed his targets. Ever. There were rumors he was actually several people working under one name, that he was a team of crack shots and psychopaths, but only a handful of people knew for sure. And like the Mafia itself, the Georgian demanded his own form of omerta—strict confidence that, if broken, meant death.

Felice dabbed blood away from his lip. “I’ve hired him before. For other contracts. I don’t know anyone else who could get that close to a house that secure and make a shot without anyone ever seeing him. Nobody else could’ve pulled off that hit and made it out.”

Dom resisted the urge to fidget. He couldn’t make himself run through the logistics of Biaggio’s death and determine if he could’ve pulled it off as cleanly as the Georgian apparently had.

“So you’ve spoken to him?” Corrado asked quietly. “Directly?”

“No. He’s got a handful of liaisons and won’t speak to anyone but them. I’m not even sure there’s anyone else in town who’s seen his face and is still alive.”

“But he killed Biaggio.”

“Yes.”

“And he did it…” Corrado hesitated. “He did it at the request of Luciano.”

Felice nodded slowly.

His father studied him, then straightened and shook his head. “There’s no way to be certain. Not unless—”

“I can show you.” Felice pulled out his phone. He tapped it a couple of times, and then turned it so Corrado and Dom could see the video.

A man knelt on pavement, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and a gun pressed against his temple. Someone held a handful of his greasy black hair so tight it stretched his facial features, and though he struggled, he couldn’t move.

Felice’s voice was tinny through the speaker as he said, “You say you’re one of the Georgian’s liaisons.”

“Y-yes, sir,” the man stammered.

“And my father’s consigliere, who hired the Georgian to kill him?”

The man grimaced. “Please, I can’t—”

“Answer my fucking question, Baltazar,” Felice snarled. “Unless you want the Georgian to see this conversation on YouTube.”

The man’s gaze slid toward the camera, and his eyes widened. He mouthed something, a prayer maybe, and then said, “Luciano Maisano. He… he hired me. Said he’d kill my family if I didn’t take the job to the Georgian.”

“So you took the job?”

“Of… of course. I had no—”

The gun went off, and the man’s skull blew out. Dom winced and looked away, and thankfully, the video stopped a second later.

“You should’ve kept him alive,” Corrado barked. “He had a direct line to the Georgian, you fucking idiot.”

Felice scowled. “And you wanted him to stay alive after he took the order to the Georgian to kill Biaggio?”

“If it meant he could help us find the fucking Georgian, yes!” Corrado sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Your temper is going to get you killed, Felice.”

“I think my brother is more likely to get me killed,” Felice snapped. “If he’s willing to take out Biaggio, then he—”

“I’m aware of that.” Corrado lowered his hand. “But why? Why would Luciano do this?”

Felice shook his head. “Who knows?”

Dom chewed the inside of his cheek. This didn’t make sense. Luciano wasn’t the hothead in this family. Felice was. Luciano believed in diplomacy and resolving differences over a table, not a pile of bodies.

He cleared his throat. “Luciano loved Biaggio. I don’t—”

“You heard the video.” Felice gestured so wildly with his phone, Dom almost thought he was going to throw it in his face. “He hired the fucking Georgian to take out Biaggio.” He laughed bitterly. “Is that what you call love?”

“Of course not,” Dom ground out. “But something isn’t adding up. Why would he do this? If we don’t know that, then we can’t assume—”

“It doesn’t matter why,” Felice said.

Dom opened his mouth to protest, but Corrado spoke first.

“I’m afraid Felice may be right.” He absently rubbed his knuckles along the edge of his jaw. “With this war brewing, we…” Sighing, he dropped his hand and shook his head. “We may not have time to question the motives of every man who fires a bullet.”

“So, what?” Dom lifted his eyebrows. “We’re going to shoot back and ask questions later?”

“We can’t show weakness,” Corrado said quietly. “And we can’t let our enemies see that there’s strife within the family.” He wrung his hands gingerly, as if the slow movements hurt his bones. “This is a battlefield now, Domenico. We can’t risk a wound becoming gangrenous. Amputate and keep fighting.”

Dom swallowed. If not for the faint note of sadness in his uncle’s voice, he wouldn’t have believed this was a man contemplating giving the order to kill his own son. In the space of a conversation, the family’s relationship with Luciano had been reduced to a metaphorical wound, a gaping invitation for gangrene, and the only solution was to slice away the rotted flesh. To cut off the once useful limb, the piece that had once helped make up the whole, and move on.

“Say the word, Dad,” Felice said. “After what he did to Biaggio, I’ll—”

“You’ll continue running your businesses,” Corrado snapped. “And if I order it, you’ll take on your brother’s responsibilities until someone else can—” He closed his eyes for a second. Exhaling, he looked at his younger son. “Until someone else can fill his role.”

Felice pressed his lips together, eyes narrow and jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. Then he swore under his breath and turned away, and as he started pacing across the thick carpet, he snarled, “He can’t get away with this, Dad.”

“That’s for me to decide.” Corrado glanced at Felice’s back.

Then he looked at Dom.

And nodded.

And Dom’s heart sank.

He could barely find the strength to return the nod.

But there
has
to be another way.

Enough killing. God, enough…

*              *              *

If there was another way, Dom couldn’t find it. All mental roads led to the same conclusion—he had a job to do.

He made sure Luciano’s wife and kids weren’t home. His cousin’s staff and security knew him well enough that they didn’t bat an eye when he let himself into the house.

He waited for Luciano upstairs in the bedroom, sitting in the antique chair beside Serafina’s white bureau. This was the part he hated most about every job—waiting. So much opportunity to think about why he shouldn’t do this, and come up with possible alternatives, and dwell on just how far out of reach those alternatives were. This wasn’t a trucker or an indebted immigrant who could be scared into leaving Cape Swan and never coming back.

This was Luciano. A made man. Someone whose death was not ordered lightly and whose execution couldn’t be stayed. Corrado wanted this body found.

This was Luciano. For all intents and purposes, the brother he’d never had.

But Luciano had orchestrated the death of the man who’d been Dom’s surrogate father. By all rights, Dom should have been pacing the floor and cursing his cousin’s name, and he should’ve been looking forward to making this death slow and painful.

But he wasn’t. He couldn’t. As he mentally replayed the video Felice had shown him and Corrado, he couldn’t make sense of it. The man had been threatened and tortured into confessing that he’d conveyed the death sentence from Luciano to the Georgian. And while Dom fully believed the Georgian had pulled the trigger, he wasn’t convinced by the rest of it.

He didn’t need to be, though. This wasn’t a federal court. The man had confessed. No cross examination was necessary. And the murder had all the hallmarks of a Georgian killing. Why would a man accuse Luciano if he hadn’t ordered the killing?

Why
would
Felice indict his own brother like that unless it was true? Felice and Luciano butted heads like any brothers, but they loved each other, and Felice would’ve burned Cape Swan to the ground if anyone had laid a hand on Luciano. If Felice had no choice but to accept that his brother had arranged Biaggio’s death, then neither did Dom. Especially since Corrado had also accepted it and expected Dom to dispense justice accordingly. Whether agreed with it or not, whether he believed in his cousin’s guilt, Dom couldn’t refuse the hit.

Footsteps in the hallway sent his heart into his throat.

A second later, the door opened. Luciano walked into the room, fiddling with his wallet as he did, but then he froze. Slowly, he turned toward Dom. Even slower, his gaze slid downward to the pistol in Dom’s lap. For a long moment, he studied his cousin and the weapon.

Finally, he toed the door shut behind him with a quiet click, sealing them into the master bedroom.

“They’re blaming me, aren’t they?” His voice was heavy with resignation. “For what happened to Biaggio?”

Dom nodded. “You hired the Georgian to kill him.”

Luciano released a long breath. He sounded exhausted as he asked, “Why would I do that?”

Swallowing hard, Dom resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably.

Luciano showed his palms. “Never mind. If you’re here with that”—he nodded toward the pistol in Dom’s hand—“then the verdict has been read.”

Their eyes met. Dom’s heart sank a little deeper. Corrado would never rescind the hit. The man would let his own son take a bullet rather than raise questions about his ability to lead, to determine guilt or innocence. A dead son was better than friends or enemies believing he was gullible.

Luciano’s lips curled into an odd smile. Sort of amused, maybe even a bit proud. “I always wondered who my father had for his big jobs. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Dom glanced at his pistol. “I wish I didn’t, to be honest.”

“No, it’s probably just as well.” Luciano’s gaze rested on the weapon for a moment, and then met Dom’s. “You’re not a psychopath. If there’s a man alive who could be a hitman without torturing his marks, I’d lay money on that man being you.”

Dom didn’t know what to say to that.

Luciano pulled in a breath and pushed his shoulders back. “Would it be too much to ask for a favor?”

“That depends.”

Luciano eyed the gun, then met Dom’s gaze. “Take me somewhere else. Where my wife and kids won’t be the ones to find me.”

Dom’s throat tightened. All the way to the grave, Luciano was going to have faith in that woman, wasn’t he? Dom would’ve preferred Serafina be the one to find him, that she see that image in her mind every time she got on her back for a Cusimano.