If The Seas Catch Fire(42)

Corrado had put an arm around Dom’s shoulders, the smell of blood coppery on his skin and clothes, and herded him toward the two bodies. “This man had a job to do, and he decided not to do it. He undermined my authority and disobeyed me.” He gestured at the son. “So this was his punishment—the last thing he knew saw in this world was his son screaming and begging for death.”

Dom couldn’t make himself ask what exactly the job was that the man’s disobedience warranted this punishment, or why the son deserved to suffer for his father’s sins. After all, then Corrado might remember that Dom’s own father had betrayed the family, and that he’d only punished Papa, not Dom. Traumatized the hell out of Dom, but hadn’t punished him. Not like that, anyway.

“So.” Corrado had looked him right in the eye. “I assume we won’t have any repeats of that incident last winter, will we?”

That moment, even more than the gun pressed to his head that past winter, had given Dom the deepest, most profound understanding of what fear was. Knowing his uncle wouldn’t hesitate to kill him was one thing. Knowing he would torture him and anyone close to him?

All these years later, he relived that moment in his nightmares more often than he cared to admit; message received, Uncle Corrado.

To this day, the memory made him ill. He squirmed in the driver seat and swallowed the bile in his throat.

There were situations where he could change the rules and take care of things his own way. When it was a minor offense, usually some idiot who’d crossed the family—a dockworker keeping some of the stolen merchandise for himself, a desperately indebted immigrant trying to skip town without paying the family what he owed—then Dom had other options.

Just last year, Corrado had ordered him to take out a trucker who’d been letting the Cusimanos in on Maisano territory. Turned out the guy was getting it from both sides—threats and promises alike. He couldn’t say no to a Cusimano, not even when it meant crossing a Maisano, because that put a target on his back. He’d tried to play both sides, not out of any attempt to screw both families at once, but out of a panicked attempt to placate both sides and keep him out of the crosshairs. What choice did he have?

When Dom couldn’t talk his uncle out of having that trucker killed, he’d tracked the guy to a deserted truck stop south of Redding, and cornered him up in the men’s room. The man never saw his face, but he hadn’t questioned the .357 barrel pressing in beneath his ear while he faced the wall with his hands behind his head.

“You’ve f*cked with the wrong family,” Dom growled at him, slowly drawing the hammer back and making damn sure the man heard every click. “You know that, right?”

“I’m sorry.” The man was shaking badly, his fingers turning white as he laced them together tighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I was scared! Please, it won’t—”

“No f*cking excuse,” Dom snarled. “You agreed to work for the Maisanos. Is it true you’ve been working for the Cusimanos too?”

“Yes! Yes! I’m sorry.” The guy was quickly becoming a blubbering mess. “Please, don’t hurt my family. Whatever you have to do to me, do it, but please don’t—”

“I’m not going to touch your family.” Dom nudged him slightly with the gun, and then pulled it back. “I’m going to let you go too.”

“You… you are?”

“I am. And if you show your face in Cape Swan again, I promise you, you’re a dead man. Am I clear?”

The trucker nodded profusely. He also didn’t need to use the restroom anymore.

Dom had given him some strict instructions, laced with some threats he prayed he wouldn’t have to carry out, and left, leaving the man to clean himself up. It was a risk, letting a mark walk, but guys like this, they weren’t part of the families. They weren’t hardened criminals or made men. To his knowledge, the handful of marks he’d allowed to live had taken him at his word. Within days, their families had left town and were never seen again. A few bribes and threats later, Dom had convincing death certificates and police reports, and the marks were as good as ghosts. If Corrado ever found out, Dom would have a bullet in him for every man he’d ever left alive, but it was a risk he was willing to take in order to sleep at night.

But Eugenio Cusimano wasn’t someone he could threaten and send packing. Not after he’d run down Nicolá like that. It was either him or Dom. Just like the gay cousin Dom couldn’t let walk away. Corrado had insisted that his body be found, that there be proof of death. Disappearance wouldn’t do, and so Dom had taken his cousin by surprise—a stealthy break-in, a bullet to the head, and he’d never known what hit him.

The green dot on the tracker started moving. Dom watched it, and once it was well into the middle of nowhere, out another winding highway where cell phone reception was spotty and few cars just happened by, Dom pushed the button on the detonator.

The dot slowed, then stopped.

Dom didn’t have to hurry. The explosive hadn’t been a big one, but he’d made damn sure it was enough to f*ck up more than the tire. Unless Eugenio had a spare axle and a set of brakes in his trunk, he wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

Sure enough, there was his car, its hazard lights blinking above a couple of glowing pink flares.

Dom slowed to a stop behind him. He kept his high beams on, and while the car idled, he got out.