If The Seas Catch Fire(15)

Maybe that was why he was itching to see the stripper again—a chance, however slim, to revisit that delicious past before he surrendered to respectability.

He couldn’t do it, though. It was too risky.

Much, much too risky.

No matter how tempting it was.





Chapter 5


Sergei didn’t need as much time as he’d thought to arrange the hit.

Framing Eugenio Cusimano would be easy. He was notorious for drinking himself senseless and taking his expensive cars out speeding on the highways while he was drunk off his ass. Though he spent two or three weeknights at his mistress’s condo in Crescent City, every Friday and Saturday, like clockwork, he showed up at Dame Kelly’s bar at eight o’clock sharp and stayed there until last call. Then he’d hit the road and, by the grace of God, always managed to make it home alive. Sergei just hoped the booze didn’t kill the man—and the man didn’t kill anyone else—before he’d had a chance to complete the job.

Nicolá Cannizzaro didn’t make it quite so easy. He wisely varied his habits and his routes. He didn’t drink to excess—few Mafiosi did, and Corrado Maisano frowned on it especially hard. Nicolá wanted the favor of his sister’s father-in-law so badly it was pathetic, to the point he toed the line like nobody else in the family.

Sergei stalked the pristine motherf*cker for three days before he found a weakness he could exploit. Every man had one, and Nicolá was no exception. In his case, a god and a girl. One he was devoted to as publicly as possible, no doubt to impress the boss. The other, a closely guarded secret, probably because the boss would be decidedly unimpressed.

As Sergei parked his stolen sedan in the lot outside St. Leo’s during Wednesday Mass, he felt a tiny bit guilty. His father would’ve been horrified if he’d lived to see Sergei stalking a murder victim at a church. Then again, if Papa had lived this long, Sergei wouldn’t have been killing Italians in the first place, so he didn’t let the thought linger.

Mass finally came to an end. Sergei watched closely as the parishioners filed out the front door, each pausing to exchange a few words with the priest. It was strange, watching Cusimanos, Passantinos, and Maisanos coming out of the same church without giving each other a second look. There was only one Catholic church in town, and even avoiding enemies wasn’t a good enough reason for these wise guys to slum it at the Russian Orthodox church downtown. So they’d agreed upon a holy ground ceasefire some years ago. No one discussed or carried out business here.

Which made this the perfect place to abduct Nicolá. Though he wouldn’t be taken right from the church steps, it would be the last place anyone saw him alive, which meant it was entirely possible there’d be a rumor that someone had broken the sacred agreement. Just another gust of wind to fan the fire Sergei had been stoking. Then he—

A man emerged from the church, and Sergei did a double take so hard he nearly snapped his neck.

Was that—

On second glance, no. It wasn’t Domenico. Fine features, but not fine enough. Broad shoulders, but a little too soft around the midsection. No, no. He was all wrong.

Sergei shook himself. Why the f*ck did he care? He had a job to do. Domenico Maisano had nothing to do with it. He had nothing to do with anything.

He rubbed his eyes and focused on watching for his target, not the man who’d inexplicably occupied space in his brain lately.

Nicolá didn’t leave until everyone else had cleared out. Hands in his pockets, eyes down, strolling down the steps and across the parking lot without so much as a glance around him. Funny how he was so good at varying his routine, so vigilant about situational awareness, and yet here and here alone, he let his guard down. Sergei wasn’t sure if Nicolá’s faith was admirable or stupid.

The pious wise guy was alone, which Sergei had expected. The rest of the family was a little more half-assed about attending church, and Nicolá didn’t dare show his face with that pretty Mexican girl no one knew about yet. Maybe Sergei was doing him a favor by eliminating the need for that conversation.

The mark walked toward his car. Gaze down, brow furrowed, keys spinning around his finger. Deep in thought, apparently. The priest must’ve had something profound to say tonight. Good—Nicolá could chew on that while he waited to meet God.

Sergei grabbed a map off the passenger seat, and got out. Effortlessly adopting that perfect American accent he’d honed ages ago, he called out, “Excuse me? Sir?”

Nicolá turned around. “Yes?”

Sergei waved the map. “I’m completely lost and my GPS battery is dead. Could you show me how to get back to the highway?”

“Which highway?” Nicolá dropped his keys into his trouser pocket and started toward him. “The 101 or the 103?”

“103.” Sergei spread the map across the trunk lid. “I’ve been driving around for twenty minutes, and I think I’m going in circles.”

The Italian chuckled. “Easy to do in this part of town. All right.” He tapped the map. “You’re right here, and you want to go—”

He froze. Slowly, his gaze slid downward toward the pistol Sergei had pressed in beneath his ribs. “What the—”

“Get in the car.”

The mark’s lips tightened. “You’re doing this here? In a church parking lot?”