If The Seas Catch Fire (19 page)

Biaggio laughed as he reached for the door to Corrado’s office. “You and me both, Domenico. You and me both.” He pulled open the door but went no farther.

A private meeting, then. Just what Dom needed today.

His uncle was at his desk, perusing the contents of a thin file folder. When the door closed behind Dom, Corrado looked up. Closing the folder, he said, “How did your evening go with Ms. Passantino?”

Dom stopped in front of the desk, hands behind his back. “You called me in here to ask me about my date?”

“I couldn’t care less about your date, Domenico.” Corrado’s features hardened as he and Dom locked eyes over the desk. “But your intentions with her are important. An alliance with the Passantinos would be… timely. Because things are getting hot all over. There is
definitely
a war brewing—I can smell it.”

Dom nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Which means men are going to start questioning loyalties. Smoking out potential moles.”

And killing them to be on the safe side. Dom shuddered. When things got hot in this town, it wasn’t at all out of the ordinary for people to shoot first and ask questions later.

“Anything that can be used against you will be used against you.” Corrado’s eyes bore right into Dom. “And we’ve discussed this—being unmarried at your age? It doesn’t look good. It doesn’t look good at all. A man of your stature who hasn’t settled down and committed to a woman…” He shook his head. “You’ve got too many decks stacked against you to—”

“I get it. I do.” Dom sighed. “But I’ve never met a woman who—”

“That’s part of the problem.” Corrado’s voice was low and
almost
threatening. “Even Felice has found a wife. And yet you’ve barely given any woman a second look. You’re barely showing a bit of interest in a lovely, connected woman like Brigida.” His gray eyebrows pinched together. “I don’t need to tell you what kind of rumors
that
produces.”

Dom’s heart dropped. “People think I’m—”

“Yes.” Corrado shifted, nose wrinkling slightly. “And remember, this organization is more than a business. This is a family. If the men don’t think of you as a family man, then you’ll never make it.”

I don’t suppose bowing out gracefully is an option
.

“Understood,” he said flatly.

“I need you and Brigida to make a decision.” Corrado folded his long fingers. “Sooner than later, Domenico.”

Dom nodded despite the ball of lead in the pit of his stomach. “I’ll see her again soon. And we’ll… we’ll discuss it.”

“Good.” The word was made of both approval and dismissal.
We’re done here—get out
.

“I’ll keep you updated,” Dom said, and started for the door. His uncle didn’t stop him.

Out in the hallway, he paused, wiping his hand over his face. Just what he needed. More pressure to marry, and more pressure to marry this woman specifically.

Sure, Brigida was a nice woman, but the chemistry was nonexistent. Even if she were attracted to him—and maybe she was; he had no idea—he didn’t have even the slightest bisexual tendencies. He was as gay as he was Italian. Any woman unfortunate enough to be his wife would be treated well, and she certainly wouldn’t want for anything that money could buy, but the nights might get cold, and he hated that he wouldn’t be able to give her what she needed. Enough to have children, he hoped, but passion?

And like Luciano and Felice’s wives, she’d be in a certain degree of danger simply by taking the Maisano name. If Brigida Passantino married him, she could be deemed a traitor by the men within her father’s fold who loathed the Maisanos. That was to say nothing of the Cusimanos. Very, very few of them would be willing to target a woman or a child, but all it took was one. Or her being in the wrong place at the wrong time when someone shot at him.

He wanted out of this life. Out of his own skin. But short of death, there was no escaping this. He was, and forever would be, a straight Mafioso.

Any wife or lover of his would be in a certain amount of danger.

And that included Sergei.

Guilt twisted beneath his ribs. Though Sergei was fearless—even ruthless—when it came to Mafia men, he was made of the same flesh as anyone else. A bullet would stop him as surely as it would Dom.

And if Sergei took a bullet that was meant for Dom…

Dom shuddered.

He wouldn’t allow that to happen. But if he kept seeing Sergei, he was inviting it to happen.

Well, Dom—what are you going to do?

Three hours before sunrise on Saturday, Sergei parked a mile down the road from the marina. He stepped out of the car and immediately started sweating beneath his wetsuit. Pity the water wouldn’t be as warm as the night, especially since he was only wearing a half suit. His arms would be exposed from above the elbow, his legs from above the knee, and even this time of year, the Pacific was fucking cold once you dropped below a meter or two.

The suit wasn’t ideal for the conditions, but it was the best thing for the job. A dry suit would have been too unwieldy on land. Even a full wetsuit would limit him too much—the half suit didn’t do a damn thing to keep him warm in the water, but it would give him the mobility he needed later on.

He slung his tanks over his shoulder, carried the rest of his gear in a net duffle bag, and made his way toward the marina. Just outside the fence line, he waded into the water and bit down on a string of curses. Despite the warmth of the evening, the water was, as he expected, cold as balls.

Chest deep in water, he attached the bag to the tanks and secured the tanks to his shoulders but left the regulator out of his mouth. Instead, he put on his mask and used a snorkel. He put on his fins, and then swam toward the marina. The heavy load on his back was cumbersome and annoying, but left his hands free to guide himself through the gently rolling surf.

He was mostly hidden by shadows, and he wasn’t worried about the cameras spotting him. He’d already addressed that issue—the men watching the screens in the security shack would be watching an infinite loop of last week’s footage and wouldn’t see him. As long as he didn’t draw the attention of the occasional man patrolling the marina on foot, he’d be in the clear.

Under cover of darkness, he glided along the surface, soundlessly and slowly, following the breakwater that protected the boats and the docks. The duffle bag was cumbersome, the tanks a pain in the ass while he was near the surface, but fortunately he didn’t have far to go. When he was within the breakwater, and thus in sight of the goons patrolling the docks this time of night, he took a deep breath and went under, kicking hard and rocketing through the icy water toward the row of gently bobbing hulls. He didn’t use the tanks—every second of air needed to be conserved for later, not wasted on a short swim.

A short swim that took plenty of work thanks to the bulky equipment on his back creating drag. Between the exertion and holding his breath, his lungs were burning by the time he broke through beneath the dock. Still, he didn’t allow himself to gasp for air. Calling on every ounce of control he possessed, he exhaled slowly, then took in a long, deep breath. And another. And another. Though he’d been here earlier to make sure every electronic security device had been compromised, that wouldn’t do him any good if one of the roving guards heard him panting.

Little by little, his heart slowed down and the burn receded. No one wandered down this way.

Now, to find the boat.

As soon as he zeroed in on the slip number, and saw the gigantic profile of the boat, he realized this wasn’t just any yacht—this was Felice Maisano’s superyacht.

Well, that answered the question about who the
highest
ranking man aboard would be, assuming Felice didn’t unwittingly bring Daddy along that day. Good—Felice Maisano was an asshole, and Sergei didn’t mind rattling his cage with a “message” by way of a dead second-in-command. Shooting him would be gratifying too, if the opportunity ever presented itself.

What would Dom think if I killed his—

No, no. Don’t go there. Business, Sergei. Business.

The craft was hard to miss. This section of the marina was filled with luxury yachts, but Felice’s stood out. The ninety-foot, triple deck power catamaran was even more ostentatious than the boss’s extravagant boat, or Raffaele Cusimano’s monstrosity three slips over. It was huge and flashy with all the bells and whistles imaginable. The boat of a man so rich he couldn’t bear anyone not knowing how rich he was. The watercraft equivalent of a diamond-studded Rolex.

As Sergei stealthily cut through the water, he caught a glimpse of the boat’s name on the hull, but couldn’t read it in the low light. If it wasn’t a Sicilian euphemism for “please don’t notice how tiny my dick is,” it should’ve been.

Carefully, he swam between the catamaran’s dual hulls. Toward the middle—safely away from the props and well out of sight from anyone who might look—he went to work, starting with his escape route. There was no way he could drill into the fiberglass hull without drawing attention, but he’d brought several strong suction cups that, when attached to the hulls just below the surface, weren’t coming off for anything. He put them into place, spacing them about two feet apart, and hung off each one for a moment, yanking as hard as he could to make sure they didn’t move. They stayed. Perfect.

With some karabiners and a rope, he secured the tanks and all of his gear to the hooks on the suction cups. Finally, he took off his fins, replaced them with a pair of scuba booties. Then he secured the fins to the pack of gear, pushed off gently, and swam to the dock.

He paused for a long moment, holding his breath, and listened. There were footsteps on planks—unhurried men on patrol—but they were far away. In his immediate vicinity, the only sounds were lines and hulls squeaking against wood, and water lapping lazily against pylons.

He released his breath. Took a few more. Then he hoisted himself up onto the dock. He crouched low so the water dripping off him wouldn’t make much noise. Once the majority of the water had run off, he rose, glanced around again, and boarded the boat. He didn’t worry about leaving wet footprints on the dock or the deck. Any he did leave would be dry by sunrise, any droplets left behind dismissed as a natural consequence of being this close to the water.

Baltazar had taken care of the security and surveillance systems. He’d even had the radar compromised to make sure it didn’t show Sergei swimming between the hulls. The crew would have no idea there was anything wrong—the radar would just show some pre-programmed blips. How? Sergei didn’t know. Baltazar was the technical wizard.

The Greek had also given Sergei a code to get past the security system and onto the boat. According to Baltazar, the system had been quietly compromised. The alarm would still chirp, and the doors still wouldn’t open without the code, but when the cameras and login records were played back, they’d be blank.

Still, Sergei had sneaked onto the marina yesterday and made sure it actually worked—punching it in, then waiting to see if cops or Mafiosi showed up—and it was clean. Good. Couldn’t be too careful. He never knew when a job might be the one where Baltazar decided to sell him out.

Sergei looked around again, making sure he was still alone. Then he entered the code and let himself onto the boat. Jesus fuck—this thing was even larger on the inside. Gaudy, ostentatious, and perfect for Sergei’s mission. There were ample places for him to lay low and go unnoticed until it was time to make his move. And, for that matter, enough space for him to make that move, get off the boat, and
still
go unnoticed.

The luxury living area had likely been meant for lavish parties, watching movies on the giant HD screen, and lounging on the plush sofas. From what he’d been told, this room, when closed off, was completely soundproof. All the Mafiosi loved their boats with soundproof entertaining areas—ostensibly for movies and parties, but Sergei doubted that was the
only
reason.

And anyway, there’d be no movies or parties today. This was business. The sofas and tables had been covered in plastic and pushed to the sides, opening up the wide floor. He wasn’t entirely sure what went on in here during the voyages, but he had a pretty good idea.

He wasn’t making his move in this part of the boat, though. There’d be too much activity. Too many people. Instead, he went up to one of the sundecks. There’d be lookouts posted up here once people started arriving, but he’d be able to move below decks and into the bedroom to hide without being detected.

First things first, though, he wanted to make absolutely sure he could move undetected throughout the boat. He went into every room and compartment he foresaw using, and tested the hatches and greased the hinges so nothing made a single squeak.

Once that was done, he headed up to the sundeck. On his way up he pulled his .22 pistol free from the watertight bag and tucked it into his belt. He already had a serrated diving knife strapped to his thigh. When his mark boarded, he’d be ready.

All he had to do now was wait.

*              *              *

As daylight neared and he started nodding off, Sergei threw back a couple of pills Katashi had sold him. He couldn’t remember exactly what they were, but they worked like Red Bull’s steroid-addicted cousin. In minutes, he was wide awake, heart thumping as much from the chemical as anticipation.

Activity down on the pier told him people were heading this way. He wasn’t nervous. Everything was in place. Everything was going according to plan.

The only question that remained—who was the mark?

He knew the hierarchies of all three organizations like he knew his own apartment. After all, it was impossible to play chess without knowing what all the pieces were and how they could affect the game. When everyone was onboard, he’d know which piece was going down today.

How he’d make his move depended largely on who the mark turned out to be. Someone who knew how to work on boats? Sergei would fuck up an engine so the man would be sent in to fix it. A day drinker? Sergei would catch him by the immense, fully stocked bar on the second deck. Some poor sap with no sea legs? Sergei’d take him out while he was heaving over the side.

More variables than he liked when he was already on a job, but it couldn’t be helped. By the time he disembarked, one of the goons would be dead, and he’d have more money to add to his “get the fuck out of Cape Swan” fund.

Commotion drew his attention to the dock below. He craned his neck. At the end of the pier, near where the fishing boats came in, Felice was right in a fisherman’s face, stabbing a finger at him and shouting.

Sergei held his breath.

“How the fuck do you explain this?”

“It was… it was the crabs!” The man’s accent made Sergei’s skin crawl. He couldn’t put his finger on the exact nationality, but the man had clearly come from the same part of the world he was.

“The crabs.” Felice laughed humorlessly. “So now I have crabs getting into my merchandise and stealing it from me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I don’t… sir, I don’t know if—”

“What the fuck happened to my merchandise, Ivan?”

“I don’t know! When we pulled up the trap, all the other bricks, they were good. But this one… this one is no good. Cut open. Wet.”

“I can
see
that, asshole!” Felice barked. “Do you have any idea how much this is costing me, Ivan? This whole fucking kilo is ruined. That’s over a quarter of a million dollars. A quarter. Of a million.
Dollars
, Ivan.”

Ivan said something Sergei couldn’t hear.

“For that much money,” Felice bellowed, “I could sell your family to—”

“Please, please, Mr. Maisano! I’ll do anything!”

Their voices dropped, and Sergei couldn’t hear them anymore, but he’d heard enough anyway. Cringing, he fought the urge to get sick. It wasn’t unusual for the crabs to mess with the bricks, or it could have been sabotage from a competitor. Either way, it wasn’t the hapless Ivan’s fault.

Felice wouldn’t care. And Sergei had heard that the asshole had, on at least one occasion, sold a man’s family into a sex trafficking ring in Southeast Asia. No one was quite sure why—maybe to make a point to the man, or make an example of him to others—but it was a very persistent rumor.

This was exactly why Sergei never cut crab pot lines when he was diving. It was tempting, if only to kick the wops in the financial balls, but the hapless middlemen who were responsible for the merchandise left in those crab pots would feel the pain much more severely than their handlers ever would. Just last year, three of them were killed before Corrado Maisano realized it was scuba-diving Cusimanos stealing their coke, not the fishermen.

Which of course, meant that diving out in the harbor was more dangerous than ever. Some of the goons had taken to shooting divers for sport under the guise of protecting their “interests.” From what he’d heard, the scuba instructors in town were even starting to warn people not to surface until they were right next to a boat flying the diver down flag. Otherwise, the bubbles had a tendency to attract Mafiosi like blood attracted sharks.

And that meant today’s escape route was going to be dangerous as fuck, but there was no other way to off a man on a boat in open water and get away undetected. Once Felice found that body, he’d tear his boat to pieces looking for the killer, and Sergei had no intention of being anywhere near it when he did.

He looked down at the dock again. The commotion had died down, and Felice was on the way to the boat, flanked by his usual posse of assholes. As they boarded along with the boat crew, Sergei immediately zeroed in on one. Agosto Privitera, a lieutenant. Not a big fish, but the other two were no-name soldiers. Not even made men.