If The Seas Catch Fire(119)

“Make a sound,” he said just loudly enough for Felice to hear, “and your brains are all over that safe.”

Slowly, Felice lifted his hands. “How much do you want?”

Sergei laughed. “Oh, that’s so cute. You think I came here for money.”

Felice tried to turn his head, but Sergei flipped the gun around and pistol-whipped him, sending him down onto his arms. As the Italian rubbed the back of his head, a little blood smearing on his fingers, he growled, “What the hell do you want?”

“I want you to sit there and not make a sound.” He paused. “You might want to cancel your evening plans.” Sergei chuckled. “Tell her you’ve got a headache.”

“Fucker,” Felice muttered.

The boat came to a gentle stop. Down below, there were voices and activity as the crew secured the boat to the marina.

“All I have to do is say the word,” Felice said. “And you’re a dead man.”

“Yeah? I’m out of things to lose.” Sergei nudged him with the gun’s muzzle. “You seem like somebody who wants to live, though.” He paused. “And now that I think about it, I don’t think I’d shoot you in the head.” Sergei stepped in front of him and pointed the pistol at his midsection. “I’m more inclined to aim for non-vital organs. Let you roll around and scream for a while before your own gut poisons you.”

Felice’s eyes widened.

“I think we understand each other. Do what I tell you, and you won’t get a hot lead injection.”

The Italian gulped.

Through the open window, voices made it into the bedroom:

“Afternoon, Mr. Maisano.”

“Good afternoon,” Dom said. “I’m taking the boat back out. Felice and I have a… meeting.” He spoke in that snarled, pissed-off-boss tone, and from the rapid footsteps on the decks, the men weren’t sticking around to watch the sparks fly.

At least one hung back, though. “You need security detail or someone to drive—

“This is a private meeting,” Dom snapped. “A family matter. I can drive the boat.”

“You got it, boss.” One more set of departing footsteps.

Felice closed his eyes and exhaled.

Doors opened and shut. People moved around. Someone told Dom the boat was gassed up, and someone else mentioned that an appliance in the galley wasn’t working. Business as usual, to anyone who might be listening.

Another door opened, letting out a conversation in progress:

“…make sure he calls you. It’s just business, hon. I’m sorry.”

Felice’s mistress huffed. “He didn’t tell me he had a business meeting.”

“It was last minute. These things come up.”

The woman snarled something, and then high heels thunked along the ramp and onto the dock.

Sergei chuckled. “I might be doing you a favor.”

“Kiss my ass,” Felice hissed.

Eventually, everything on the boat was quiet. Voices and footsteps faded into the distance, and Felice and Sergei seemed to be completely alone.

Then the door opened, and Dom stepped in.

“Really, Domenico?” Felice snorted derisively. “You’re working with the Russians now, cousin?”

“I’m not from Russia, motherf*cker,” Sergei said through his teeth. “I’m from Georgia.”

Felice lost what little color he had left. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.” Dom gestured at the door. “Now let’s get up to the helm. We’re going for a ride.”

“A ride? What are—”

Sergei jerked Felice to his feet, dragging a howl of pain from him.

“It’ll make sense as we go,” Sergei said. “Now walk.”

Felice glared at him, still wincing and gripping his wounded arm, but with Sergei’s pistol at his back, he walked.

Above decks, Dom fired up the engines.

“You driven this thing before?” Sergei asked.

“No, but it can’t be that hard.” Dom chuckled. “Out in open water, anyway. A few scratches won’t hurt it, right?”

Felice groaned. “You motherf*cker.”

Dom sobered, narrowing his eyes at his cousin. “How about you sit down and shut up for a little while?”

“Fuck you.”

Sergei kicked his knee out from under him, and Felice’s kneecaps hit the deck with a loud crack. Then he cuffed Felice’s hands and shoved him back against the bulkhead, where he bound him to a pipe. Felice’s face contorted with pain—the wound would definitely keep him from fighting while he was tied.

Meanwhile, Dom eased the boat out of its slip, and drove it out of the marina. There were quite a few boats out today, but Sergei wasn’t concerned about them seeing anything amiss. Felice was out of sight. This yacht turned a lot of heads in Cape Swan—it stood out like a cruise ship among kayaks—but no one had any reason to be suspicious.

“So how do we know which crab pots are yours and which are the Cusimanos’?” Sergei asked.

Felice swore in Italian.

“The buoys are colored,” Dom said. “Orange are Maisano. Blue are Cusimano. Not that it matters—we’re clearing out everybody’s supply today.”