If The Seas Catch Fire(11)

But the message that needed to be sent couldn’t wait until Dom had recovered enough to send it, so Corrado would handle it. Who he’d send and what they’d do to whom, Dom had no idea, but with his uncle involved, the message would be received loud and clear that the Maisanos were not to be f*cked with. And although Dom wasn’t thrilled about the condition he was in at the moment, he was secretly relieved because being this f*cked up meant he wouldn’t be the one pulling the trigger this time.

“What about the guy who took them out?” Felice fidgeted in his chair. He was more agitated than usual, which said a lot. “We just gonna forget about that?”

Corrado shook his head. “No. I’ve got cops filling me in on what they know, and plenty of ears to the ground in case somebody talks. Domenico, if you remember anything, I want to know about it. Until then, he’s done us a favor and he did it for free.” He chuckled. “Perhaps we’ll find out who he is when he tries to send us a bill.”

Luciano laughed quietly.

Felice didn’t. “Dad, we need to find—”

“When your cousin remembers more details, we will.” Corrado shot his younger son a pointed look. “Until then, you’ve all got business to attend to.”

Felice swore in Italian, and then got up and stormed out of his father’s office. Corrado watched him, but didn’t try to stop him—he shook his head, muttering something about God blessing him with a bullheaded son, and then dismissed Luciano and Dom.

On the way out of Corrado’s office, Dom didn’t say a word to anyone. Nobody here needed to know that, once he’d finished licking his wounds and could breathe without pain, he had every intention of finding out who the stripper was and what he’d seen. That he fully intended to find out what this kid’s deal was.

But he wasn’t bringing the family into it. This he was doing on his own.





Chapter 3


A week after Domenico Maisano had his ass handed to him in the alley, Sergei still jumped every time someone came strolling into the club. On his way in tonight, going in through the back door since he’d gone in through the front last night, he glanced over his shoulder for the hundredth time, searching the shadows for gun muzzles and suited Italians.

He swore in his native tongue and stepped inside, pausing in the dim hallway to catch his breath for a moment. More and more, he regretted leaving Maisano alive. Killing a made man, taking out someone as high up in the ranks as Domenico, was suicide, but so was letting him live after he saw Sergei’s face.

On the other hand, so what if Domenico knew Sergei had killed the goons in the trunk? The gun would never be found, and even if it was, there’d be no connection between that weapon and any other killings. There was no way anyone would conclude this was anything but a random murder. A lifesaving one, for that matter—if nothing else, the Maisanos should’ve been rewarding him for saving Domenico’s life.

But someone else had wanted Domenico Maisano harmed, and they might not be too happy about that night’s interventions. Whatever the case, though, Sergei wanted to put the whole thing behind him. And over and over, as he wandered to the backstage dressing room to get ready for his shift, he berated himself for leaving that * alive. Dead men told no tales, after all.

As he changed out of his shorts and T-shirt and shimmied into some tight black leather, his stomach fluttered with nerves. In a few minutes, he’d be out there in the lounge, and he was certain one of the Maisanos would come in with questions. Or worse—Domenico himself would show up. Sergei wasn’t even sure why that was worse, but the thought of the battered Mafioso walking into his club made his skin crawl, as if that would cross lines and make worlds collide after he’d so carefully kept them separate. Even if Maisano just wanted to say “thanks for saving my ass” or something, Sergei didn’t like being in the same room as a Mafioso unless it was to accept a job or put a bullet through his brain.

But he didn’t want to see any of his contacts now. None of the Mafiosi. Not here. He was sure with every new arrival, though, that one of them would show up, and he was relieved beyond words every time it was just another lonely dude with a hard-on.

He usually got a little thrill out of seeing one of his contacts come in. Although their very existence—every one of the Mafia-connected Italians in this town—sickened him, there were a handful who came in here specifically to see him. They came promising him money in exchange for doing what he loved most: kicking Mafiosi off this mortal coil and, one body at a time, moving the families closer to their inevitable collapse.

Ever since the night Domenico Maisano had his ass kicked, though, Sergei had been more on edge than the town had been after Barcia’s body washed up with a mouthful of testicle. Sergei had covered his tracks well enough, but if anyone connected him to the dead men in the trunk, or to Maisano’s busted ribs, there was a good possibility he’d be silenced.

For the past week, Sergei varied his routes to and from work. He made sure Roy or one of the other giant bouncers stayed close for all of his private dances with non-regulars. He socialized more than he probably had in years, just to be around people who knew him so some goon didn’t surprise him.

But no one had come looking for him. The only people who asked for him were his regulars. Maybe Maisano didn’t remember him. Maybe they’d already taken out whoever had ordered the two goons to rough him up.