If The Seas Catch Fire(2)

Especially now. It had only been three days since Lorenzo Barcia’s body washed up by the docks, and up until tonight, everybody in Cape Swan had been laying low, keeping their heads down while the cops hunted for anyone who might be connected. Shit like that happened here all the time—violence was unavoidable with three Cosa Nostra families vying for dominance—but when a murder was clearly set up to send a message, it got attention. After all, though the saltwater had f*cked the * up good, it was a safe bet he hadn’t died of natural causes. Not with his balls torn off and shoved into his fat mouth.

In the days since he’d been found, the town had been as quiet as the July heat had been oppressive. Tensions were running hot, someone was going to get blamed for that murder, and nobody wanted to be anywhere around when any bullets started flying.

Least of all the man who’d stuffed Barcia’s balls in the guy’s own screaming mouth before shoving him off the pier for the crabs to snack on.

But Sergei wasn’t in charge of what went on in this twisted little world, and now, before the shit had even begun to die down, some f*cknuts were beating up some wise guy in the wrong alley. Of all the times and places, they’d decided to rough up the * here, on the outer edges of Cape Swan, just a few blocks down from the Pacific waterfront, behind the wrong f*cking strip club.

Sergei shut the back door and barricaded it with the folding chair that his coworkers sat in whenever they smoked. This was the windowless club’s only rear exit, and he didn’t want anyone following him outside. At least the other businesses along the alley were closed this time of night. As long as a roving police officer didn’t happen by, he was in the clear to shut this bullshit down.

As soon as he’d stepped outside, Sergei knew exactly where the *s were, as if there’d been any doubt. Their Italian-accented shit-talking made his teeth grind—way to be subtle, guys. Two men had a third backed up and bloody against the bumper of a late model Cadillac, and they weren’t done with him. A punch doubled the poor f*cker over, and he grunted and wheezed as they hauled him upright again.

Gun in hand, Sergei strode across the gravel. He knew he hardly cut an imposing figure—he was half their size, for one thing, and his skintight red leather shorts and crop top weren’t exactly the stuff of nightmares. Fine. They didn’t need to be intimidated.

One turned and did a double take. He snapped his fingers and pointed toward the club, as if Sergei were a stray dog who’d come to investigate the noise. “You! Get the f*ck outta here, fag.”

Sergei continued his approach. “How about you idiots get the f*ck out of here.”

The second man muttered something as he lowered his fist, which he’d probably been about to shove into the third guy’s gut. “You got a problem, fag?”

“Yeah, I do.” Sergei stopped, keeping the gun at his side. “How about you *s take this somewhere else?”

The first rolled his eyes. “Or what?”

Sergei nodded toward the unfortunate * pinned to the bumper. “Or you both get to bleed more than him.”

Both men glanced at the pistol, but laughed.

“Get out of here, fag.” The second turned and balled his fist, drawing back to punch the goon again.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Sergei raised the .22 and put a bullet through the Italian’s knee.

The first guy jumped back. “Holy shit!”

The second howled in agony and dropped to the ground.

The third, with no one to hold him up, crumpled to his knees. His head lolled a bit, and he blinked a few times, probably trying to stay conscious. He’d taken a hell of a beating. Sergei couldn’t tell how much of the blood on his knuckles was his, but it looked like he’d given as good as he’d gotten. And he was alive. That said a lot.

The one with the bullet in his knee whined and writhed on the ground beside his own victim, blood seeping through his fingers. “Pezzo di merda! Figlio di—f*ck!”

Sergei faced the man still standing. “Weapons?”

“I…”

“Don’t f*ck with me. Weapons on the ground, or bullet through the dick.”

The uninjured Italian’s eyes widened. Hands shaking, he withdrew a pistol from inside his jacket, and a set of brass knuckles.

The man he’d been beating saw the brass knuckles and gulped.

“Put them on the ground.” Sergei gestured at the man he’d shot. “Out of his reach.”

The Italian glanced at his wounded partner, then crouched and laid his weapons where the other guy couldn’t reach them. Hands up, he stood again.

Sergei nodded sharply toward the car. “Open the trunk and get in.”

“What?” The guy laughed, a borderline hysterical sound. “You crazy? I’m not—”

Sergei leveled the gun at the goon’s face. “Get in the f*cking trunk.”

His eyes widened, and his tanned Italian complexion paled. Then he shoved his would-be victim aside, sending the man crumpling the rest of the way to the ground, groaning and clutching his chest. The goon eyed Sergei and the open trunk, and then he climbed inside.

With his foot, Sergei nudged the one he’d shot. “You too. Get in.”

“What?” The Italian blinked up at him. He clutched his knee, blood soaking his pant leg and streaming from between his fingers. “I can’t walk, you f*ck!”