If The Seas Catch Fire (24 page)

Because he needed one last kick in the balls before he left.

He smiled tightly. “I just came in to help you with your meds.” He patted her arm. “The nurse will be in later to take you to physical therapy.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “All right.” Once again, she looked out the window.

He sighed and left the room. As soon as he was out in the hall, he stopped to collect himself. He’d never had any illusions that this would get easier, but he hadn’t bargained for how much harder it could get.

“You all right, sweetie?” Brittany’s voice turned his head.

He rolled his shoulders. “Yeah, I’m just…” He held her gaze, and realized she’d probably heard it all before. Even if she didn’t know precisely what had happened, what Sergei and Mama had seen that horrible night, she worked with dementia patients. As much as anyone in the world could without knowing the specifics, she understood. He didn’t need to explain it. For that, he was more grateful than she could imagine.

He exhaled hard. “It’s tough.”

“I know it is.”

They fell into stride together, and walked partway down the hall in silence before she finally spoke again. “It’s good that she has you, Sergei. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but your visits really do make a difference.”

“How can they? She doesn’t know who I am.” He looked back toward Mama’s room, and shook his head. “She doesn’t recognize me as an adult. She doesn’t even know who I am.”

“No, but I think, on some level, she does know. And even if she thinks you’re one of your brothers, honestly, it does her good. She gets lonely sometimes, and whenever you’re here, she’s good for at least a couple of days before she starts getting depressed again.”

“She doesn’t even know why she’s depressed.”

“Doesn’t matter. She still feels it.” Brittany gestured toward the room. “And whenever you’ve been here, she feels better. She’s much calmer.”

“That’s good, I guess.” They walked on, and were nearly to the lobby when he slowed to a stop. She halted beside him too, and after a moment, Sergei said, “I’m curious about something.”

“Sure.”

“Does she have…” Sergei chewed the inside of his cheek. “Nightmares?”

Brittany’s eyes darted away. “Sometimes.”

His heart clenched. “Does she ever say what she dreams about?”

Without meeting his gaze, Brittany shook her head. “She never says what they’re about. By the time she’s calmed down enough to talk, she’s…”

“Forgotten?”

The nurse nodded. “We do everything we can to calm her down, though. I promise.”

“I know you do.” He forced a smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll, um, let you get back to work.”

“Okay. See you next week.”

“Yeah. See you next week.” And the week after. And the one after that. How long did something like this go on?

Hands stuffed in his pockets, gaze fixed on the ground, he wondered how the Catholics in town explained situations like Mama’s. What exactly their god’s “plan” was when it came to a woman traumatized within an inch of her life and left to stare at windows and walls until some ailment finally came along and silenced the nightmares she didn’t understand.

He wasn’t even out to the car yet before he had to wipe his eyes. He slid into the driver seat but didn’t start the engine. Instead, he covered his face with a shaking hand and tried to compose himself. He never fell apart here. Not while he was still out in front of the home. He could always make it somewhere—a beach, an abandoned lot,
somewhere
—before it all came crashing down, but not today.

And he didn’t really care. If people saw him, then they saw him. He doubted he was the first person to cry in this parking lot, and he doubted he’d be the last.

He wasn’t surprised Mama had nightmares. He’d just hoped for all these years that she didn’t. There was a reason it had taken him this long to ask for confirmation, and he wished he’d waited longer.

Mama probably dreamed of the same things he did, though hers would be worse because she’d seen more that night than he had, but she wasn’t lucid enough now to know
why
. To know that the dreams were memories. When she woke up, the fear probably lingered, and then it was gone and so were the things she’d seen and felt in her sleep.

For that, Sergei envied her. He knew what the dreams were, what was real and what wasn’t, and woke up every day with renewed rage toward the men who’d destroyed his family. Teeth clenched, he balled his fists at his sides. Maybe his encounters with Dom softened him toward Dom himself, but the Maisanos? The families in Cape Swan? The fucking Mafia?

Not a chance.

They were going down.

All of them.

*              *              *

It took a few hours, but Sergei collected himself enough to go the club. Though he didn’t really need the money from this job—it was peanuts compared to what every bullet earned him—this was where his contacts came to find him.

Which one of them did, not two hours into his shift.

It wasn’t Baltazar this time. It was Lorenzo, a goon directly connected to some of
the
most powerful men in town, which meant this was a big job.

On the one hand, great—a big job meant a lot of money, and it also meant removing a key player. A huge step toward completing his grand plan.

On the other, he hated this motherfucker, because although their meetings were always quick, they were anything but painless. They didn’t even bother going back into the booth because the conversations didn’t require much time. That, and Lorenzo could barely handle coming into the club—going back into a private booth was enough to make him break out in homophobic little hives.

When this asshole showed up, it meant Santo Tumino wanted to arrange a meeting with Sergei. Tumino was a Maisano underboss, nearly as powerful as Luciano or Felice Maisano themselves, and he was the only wise guy who Sergei would meet outside this club. It meant he had a contract for him. Usually a lucrative one—Sergei charged him an extra ten large just for making him come to him, and he gladly paid it.

Tumino never came to see Sergei directly. From what Sergei had heard, he never really left his house for more than an hour or two at a stretch. Even bosses and underbosses came to him instead of the other way around. Rumor had it that it was because he had one of the worst cases of Irritable Bowel Syndrome any doctor in this town had ever seen. Fucker was so vile and miserable, even his own shit couldn’t stand to be around him.

Much as Sergei didn’t want to face him or his condition tonight, he didn’t expect he had a lot of choice.

After he’d wrapped up a stage dance and a private lap dance, he came back out to the bar and found Lorenzo clinging to a bottle of Coke.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Sergei said.

Lorenzo glared at him.

“I assume you’re not here for a dance.”

The man gulped like he was trying not to retch. “Of course not.” He reached into his pocket and handed Sergei a card. “The boss wants to see you.”

Sergei looked at the card, on which someone had handwritten:
$5M.

Whoa. This was big. Fucking huge.

His pulse shot upward. Things were really about to get crazy, weren’t they? All that patience was about to pay off, wasn’t it?

Keeping his excitement and nerves beneath the surface, he met Lorenzo’s gaze. “Tonight?”

“Yes. As soon as possible. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Sergei nodded. “Tell him to give me two hours.”

Lorenzo scowled.

“Two hours,” Sergei said through gritted teeth.

The man tried to stare him down, but finally grumbled, “I’ll let him know.”

*              *              *

Tumino always waited for him in the guest house behind his massive estate, and Sergei never entered through the front door. It was understood that Sergei would do a perimeter check first, ensuring none of Tumino’s goons—especially the security assholes—were anywhere near the place.

“Anyone sees my face,” he’d warned Tumino a couple of years ago, “I’ll put a bullet in theirs, and in yours for good measure. Are we clear?”

“Clear. Absolutely clear.” The fact that Sergei’d been pressing a pistol to his forehead had probably made him reconsider arguing. That was the last time Tumino ever tried to sneak any of his people into the house.

Tonight, Sergei checked through the various windows, making sure the only person in the guest house was Tumino, who was reclining on the sofa with a glass of wine. Sergei had long ago placed tiny motion sensors in the hedge outside the house, and after he’d gone inside the perimeter, he activated them. No one would get near the guest house without him knowing about it.

Once he was sure the coast was clear, Sergei let himself in through the back door, and moved from the kitchen to the living room where Tumino waited for him.

As Sergei stepped into the room, the beast of a man grinned. “Dmitry! Right on time.”

“Of course I am.”

He gestured at an armchair. “Have a seat.”

Sergei didn’t move.

Tumino studied him for a moment, then sat back on the sofa, grimacing as he did. Even from here, Sergei could hear the man’s stomach gurgling and groaning.

God, please, don’t let him be having one of his “episodes” while I’m in the room again. I may have to shoot him this time.

A few of the Italians in Cape Swan were on the large end, especially the Tumino clan, but this guy always seemed bloated in a sickly way that made Sergei cringe. Not heavy, but distended and swollen, as if everything beneath his skin were battling over who could kill him first. How he’d lived this long was a mystery.

And Sergei had no desire to be here any longer than he had to be, so he held up the card Lorenzo had given him. “Let’s get down to business. You asked me here for a big job, I assume.”

“A very big one.” Tumino grinned again, despite his brow still pinched with discomfort. “This is the one that’ll make you a legend, kid.”

“I’d just as soon not be a legend. That means people know who I am.”

“They know you by reputation. And that reputation’s going to be immortal after this one.” He gestured at the chair again. “You really ought to sit down and get comfortable. We’ve got a lot of details to go over.”

Sergei planted his feet. “One question.”

“All right?”

“Who’s the mark?”

They locked eyes.

Sergei’s heart sped up.

Tumino’s lips pulled back across his teeth. “I think you know.”

Sergei swallowed. He’d had his suspicions. A dollar figure like that could only mean a handful of people. But he hadn’t wanted to get his hopes up. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

Sergei took a seat, resting his elbows on his thighs and leaning forward. “All right. Let’s talk.”

He could barely contain the giddiness fluttering his gut. This was the contract he’d been waiting for. Checkmate was no longer close—it was inevitable.

This is it, Mama. They’re all going down.

Whenever Dom met with Sergei, he woke the next morning feeling blissed out and happy, with a side order of depressed as fuck. It was impossible not to be almost giddy after a night like that, but reality was never far behind, always coming in and reminding him how short-lived this arrangement would be.

Last night had been different. He’d spent most of the night beside Sergei, worrying about him, watching for signs that the decompression sickness was getting worse. They’d barely touched.

And yet, a hint of that giddiness was there. Relief that Sergei was all right, no doubt. Nothing else made sense.

Today, Dom’s day had been a roller coaster. It started out well enough. Maybe none of that post-coital ache in every muscle of his body, without that stupid grin that always seemed to start before the coffee had even brewed, but like most mornings after, he was pretty damned certain the dark “this isn’t gonna last” cloud would catch up with him eventually.

So far so good, though. Maybe things with Sergei wouldn’t last—of course they wouldn’t—but just being in the same room with him for a while, sharing the company of someone who wasn’t caught up in the same spider web he was, did wonders for what was left of Dom’s sanity.

Then Corrado called him in, and the day went downhill fast. Dom had fully expected to be raked over the coals for not being here yesterday, front and center while Corrado tried to work out what had happened to Privitera, but his uncle skipped right over that part.

Instead, he went straight to pushing for a decision about Brigida Passantino.

“In light of the incident on my son’s boat,” Corrado had said over his immense desk, “I have to accept the possibility that we have traitors on the inside. Which means the Maisanos need all the allies we can get.”

“Understood,” Dom had responded quietly.

“We need the Passantinos as a friend, and the fastest, most effective means for sealing that friendship is with a marriage between our two families.”

The sick feeling had already taken up resident in Dom’s gut, and it just kept getting worse.

“Her father’s giving his blessing,” Corrado went on. “And Brigida herself is willing to go through with it.”

Great. Just what Dom always wanted. A marriage to a woman whose enthusiasm came down to being willing to go through with it. Wouldn’t they be an apathetically well-matched pair?

But what could he say that hadn’t already been said? Especially with Corrado’s warning in the back of his mind, that bachelors who showed no interest in beautiful, connected women like Brigida raised
questions
.

So he’d released a breath and held his uncle’s gaze. “Can I have some more time to think about it?”

“Domenico.” Corrado closed his eyes, rubbing his temples as if this conversation were giving him a migraine. “How much time do you need? You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

And I’m not exactly ready to be put out to pasture either.

“Give me a week.” He felt like a fucking hostage negotiator. “One week from today, I’ll have an answer for you.”

His uncle lowered his hands and locked eyes with him again. “One week, Domenico.”

Dom nodded. “Okay. I’ll, um, give Brigida a call. We’ll do dinner as soon as she’s available. And we’ll talk about things.”

Corrado studied him for a moment. Finally, he nodded. “All right.”

So he had a week. Seven days. Enough time to come to terms with this marriage, maybe. Perhaps the best way to spend that week would be with Brigida so they could both be damn sure they were “willing to go through with it.”

But no.

The door to Corrado’s office hadn’t even closed before he’d texted Sergei.

How are you feeling?

Moments later:
Much better. Meet tonight?

Yes. Oh God, yes. Dom pounded out his response so fast, he thought his phone was going to burst into flames:
Name the time & place.

They’d made plans. Dom had gone back to work, where he spent the day counting down until Sergei would be off work and checking his watch every time he finished even the tiniest task in the office. At home, he’d showered and shaved, texting Brigida about dinner while he made sure he had condoms for tonight, and—

Then Sergei bailed.

At a quarter past eleven, the message came:

Can’t make it—sorry
.

Dom stared at the text. Seriously?

Well, shit.

He lounged back on his bed and unbuttoned his collar. Now what?

It was a bit late to see if Brigida wanted to meet sooner than later. On the other hand, maybe Brigida had a spontaneous side. If she was the type who’d drop everything and go out for midnight coffee, then maybe that would give them a little more in common. And maybe they could both compare notes on men they fantasized about.

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. This was going to be a fucking nightmare. A great political move, but a marital disaster.

No, he wouldn’t bother Brigida tonight.

He did, however, text Biaggio.
Could use some advice—free for lunch tomorrow?

Biaggio didn’t answer immediately. That wasn’t surprising. Dom was pretty sure the man never slept, and he was almost always busy with something.

About twenty minutes later, though, the response came:
Come by the house tomorrow. 11am.

Typical Biaggio. Yes, he was free, and they’d meet up on his terms. At least they were meeting at Biaggio’s place instead of Corrado’s—Dom needed a little breathing room for once. God help him if Corrado overheard the conversation he planned on having with Biaggio.

Eventually, Dom went downstairs and flicked on the TV. It had been a long time since he’d lounged in front of some mindless television, and that sounded like exactly what he needed tonight.

Halfway through the third or fourth episode of some ridiculous sitcom, Dom’s phone vibrated on the end table.

To his surprise, it was a text from Sergei.

Change of plans. Free after all. Still on?

Dom’s heart sped up. He quickly texted back,
Definitely
.

Did that smack of desperation? Probably. But he was desperate at this point. In a week’s time, he’d most likely be engaged to the woman of his uncle’s organization’s dreams, so he planned to take advantage of every possible opportunity to get Sergei—
men
—out of his system. Once he and Brigida sealed the deal, that was it. He didn’t foresee himself being a particularly passionate husband, but he would be a faithful one. Which meant… no Sergei.

Tonight, though, he was all Sergei’s. He went upstairs, grabbed the condoms and lube, and got the hell out of there.

*              *              *

The drive from his neighborhood to the shady district with all the no-tell motels seemed to get longer every time. Anticipation made every mile drag out until Dom was climbing the walls, gripping the wheel and willing his heart to slow down.

Tonight was no exception. And thank God, Sergei already had a room—Dom was a few blocks away when Sergei texted him with a room number.

No waiting. No check-in. Just park. Walk. Knock.

And there he was.

As soon as the door was closed, they were wrapped up in each other’s arms.

“Sorry for bailing,” Sergei whispered between kisses. “Something came up, and then—”

“It’s okay.” Dom cradled his face and kissed him lightly. “You’re here now. I don’t care about anything else.”

Sergei’s whole body seemed to relax, and he melted against Dom.

“Are you feeling better tonight?” Dom asked between kisses. “After—”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” Sergei claimed another hard, demanding kiss. “You brought lube, right?”

“Absolutely. Are you in any hurry? To get anywhere?”

“Not anymore, no.” Sergei ran the tip of his tongue along the inside of his lip. “Are you?”

“I was. But now that I’m here…”

Sergei grinned.

Dom combed his fingers through Sergei’s short hair. “God, this is insane. What we’re doing.” He paused. “But I think it’s the only sane part of my life right now.”

Sergei laughed, his devilish eyes sending a shiver through Dom. “I think this is the first time someone’s considered me a sane part of anything.”

“Their loss,” Dom whispered, and pulled him closer.

Sergei lifted his chin, and when their lips met, he wrapped his arms around Dom. As the kiss went on, as it deepened, they gathered handfuls of each other’s shirts but made no move to peel off any layers quite yet.

He had no idea who was leading or if their bodies were simply moving, but they inched toward the bed. And then they were on it—lying across the mattress, Sergei straddling Dom—and Dom finally managed to push Sergei’s shirt up and off. Christ, they were still mostly dressed and he was already lightheaded.

These nights with Sergei were unreal. It went beyond the sex, too. In here, within the walls of whatever cheap motel they’d chosen for the evening, nothing else existed. In here, Dom found a temporary escape from his bloody, violent world.

Sergei had undoubtedly saved his life that first night, but Dom was starting to think he did that every time they were together. He’d become a drug. Not a recreational one, but one that kept everything functioning the way it was supposed to.

I’m going to lose my mind without you.

He pulled Sergei closer, deepened the kiss, and held on. Sergei didn’t need to know that their arrangement’s days were seriously numbered. They’d both known there’d be an end to this at some point, but Dom had held out hope they’d have more time.

It wasn’t to be, though. The pressure was mounting, the end approaching too fast. Whether he liked it or not, this would be over very soon.

So Dom fully intended to do the one thing he could do—enjoy every second he had left with Sergei.

“We still have too many clothes on,” he murmured against Sergei’s lips.

Sergei pushed himself up and grinned. “We should do something about that.”

*              *              *

Biaggio spent most of his days at Corrado’s mansion, and many nights there, too, so he’d never really gone all-out with his own place. It was a modest Spanish-style villa overlooking the water, not far from where Corrado lived. No doubt so he could be at the boss’s front door within moments if needed.

Dom arrived a few minutes before eleven, and Biaggio’s maid showed him to the shaded terrace where he was waiting.

“Your uncle needs me this afternoon,” Biaggio said as Dom took a seat and the maid poured them some wine. “I’m afraid we’ll have to make this a somewhat short meal.”

“That’s fine. I still have some bookkeeping to catch up on.”

Biaggio nodded, holding Dom’s gaze. They both knew what “catching up on bookkeeping” really meant—cycling money through offshore accounts and various other channels until it came back, clean as a whistle. Luciano was set to receive almost three million dollars this afternoon for a massive shipment of cocaine and various contraband that had “disappeared” from Naples while a Chinese cargo ship was in port. By the time Dom had finished routing and rerouting that money, no one would ever be able to trace it back to its origin.

The maid offered them each their glasses, and after they’d thanked her, she went inside, presumably to finish preparing lunch. They were alone out here. Biaggio’s security presence was minimal, just a handful of men strategically stationed around the property. His bodyguard, Sal, stood back beside the sliding glass door, scanning the yard while Dom and Biaggio relaxed.

“Well, I suppose we should use what time we have, then.” Biaggio watched him over the top of his glass. “You said you needed some advice.”

“Yeah.” Dom absently ran his thumb along the edge of the wrought iron table. “It’s about Brigida Passantino.”

Biaggio nodded slowly. “I understand you’re going to give your uncle a final decision in a week.”

“He told you, then.”

“Yes.” The consigliere folded his hands in his lap. “Your uncle is concerned about you, Domenico.”

Dom gritted his teeth. “My uncle is concerned about my
image
.”

“But such is the reality of the circles we move in.” Biaggio shrugged tightly. “Alliances are necessary for survival. Sometimes the best way to seal those alliances are with marriages.”

“Arranged marriages are a little out of date, don’t you think?”

Biaggio laughed and reached up to pat Dom’s forearm. “Not in our world, Domenico. Not in our world. And besides, you could have married any woman you chose. If Luciano or Felice were still unmarried, their father would be pushing them into this arrangement. It just happens that you’ve been single long enough to raise eyebrows, and there’s an opportunity to use that to the organization’s advantage.”

Dom pushed out a breath, gazing out at the ocean far beneath the cliffs. “You’re probably right. And, I mean, if this is what the family needs, then I’ll do it.”