If The Seas Catch Fire(118)

“That’s what we needed.” Sergei pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “But before we go, I want to get one thing very, very clear.” He unfolded the paper and held it where Tumino could see it, and then pressed the gun to his forehead again. “You see this?”

Tumino shifted his gaze, holding his head perfectly still. “Yeah?”

“You recognize those addresses?”

Tumino squinted, and then the color rushed out of his face. “Those are my children’s addresses.”

“Uh-huh. They are.” Sergei slid the paper back into his pocket. “If I have even the faintest reason to believe you’re squealing to anyone about this conversation, or that you haven’t kept your mouth shut about any of this, I will—”

“I believe you!” Tumino showed his palms. “Just don’t hurt my kids.”

“Good. We understand each other.” Sergei looked at Dom and jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

They made a quick escape, hurrying off the property to where Sergei’s car was parked a half mile or so down the road.

As Dom buckled his seatbelt, he cleared his throat. “Would you… would you actually go after his kids?”

“No.” Sergei casually put the car in gear. “But as long as he believes I will, he’ll keep his trap shut.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He will.”



*



It took a few days to put their plan in motion.

While Sergei made sure weapons were in place and every aspect of security and escape routes were taken into consideration. Dom had to continue playing the role of newly minted boss. On the surface, it seemed dangerous, letting him go anywhere near the men who wanted him dead, but the truth was, Dom could walk safely amongst the Mafiosi. Not despite the contract on his head—because of it. If Sergei had been contracted to kill him, then only Sergei had been contracted. Otherwise, after the deed was done, the other contracted hitmen could go to the police and point to whoever had paid them to commit the same crime, while walking away scot free.

Odds were, no one knew Dom was a marked man except for those directly involved in assigning the hit, and none of them would make an unsanctioned move on a made man, never mind a boss. Dom was effectively bulletproof.

And his brazenly high profile was driving Felice Maisano insane.

“He’s getting antsy,” Dom said as he and Sergei sifted through papers in his office late one night. “He isn’t saying much, but he’s definitely not happy.”

“Let him squirm.” Sergei pushed a stack of folders across the desk. “He’s too much of a f*cking coward to meet me face to face even if I’d let him. I’m sure Tumino’s keeping him placated, though.”

Dom chuckled. “Good.” He stuffed some envelopes into a box that would be dropped at the post office tomorrow. In between planning their takedown, not to mention Dom going through the motions as boss, they’d been sneaking in here during the night, burning the midnight oil as they sent legal documents to the hundreds of immigrants on the Maisanos’ payroll.

With each sealed envelope, an immigrant family received their legal citizenship, and a letter stating their debt had been wiped clean. They owed the organization nothing. By the end of the last night, the entire payroll was gone and the ledger was blank. Now, even if Sergei and Dom were killed, they’d dealt a crippling blow. Without labor, the whole operation would fall apart. They needed desperate immigrants as drug mules to collect the coke bricks from the crab pots and smuggle them through the marina.

Dom wasn’t worried about anyone back-tracking and telling the people that, no, their debts were not canceled. They were too worried about their image, and for once, that would work in Dom’s favor—no one wanted to give the impression that the Maisanos went back on their word.

When they were finished with the last of the documents, they left the office and went back to Sergei’s place to rest, regroup, and make sure everything was in place.

Because tomorrow, the Maisanos were going down.



*



When Felice went out on his boat again the next day, Sergei was waiting. He’d slipped on board in the middle of the night, and after everyone had boarded, he kept his head down. Patiently, he rode all the way out to the cargo ship, to each crab pot, and back toward the marina. Tucked into a closet full of Felice’s wife’s clothes, Sergei waited, even as he had to endure the moans and cries of Felice f*cking his mistress.

Toward the end of the voyage, he and the woman exchanged some flirty comments and a few long kisses before he slapped her on the ass and promised to meet her outside as soon as he’d retrieved a few things from the safe.

The woman left. Oblivious to Sergei watching through the slats, Felice changed the bandages on his stitched wound, and then fixed his shirt and his hair, and exchanged a smug grin with his own reflection. Sergei rolled his eyes.

Get over yourself, *. I guarantee she’s more into your wallet than your “technique.”

Felice opened a panel in the floor beside the bed, revealing the safe beneath it. He entered the combination to the safe, and Sergei slipped soundlessly out of his hiding place.

The deck creaked beneath his foot, and Felice started to turn around, but Sergei was faster—he dug the gun into the back of his skull.