If The Seas Catch Fire(43)

Eugenio had been crouching beside the ruined tire, and rose, shielding his eyes as he cautiously faced Dom.

“You need some help?” Dom asked.

Eugenio lowered his hands, and with them, his guard. “Yeah. Must’ve hit something. The back tire’s all—”

Dom shot him.

No warning. No hesitation. Two to the chest, one to the face.

Eugenio crumpled to the pavement and didn’t make another sound. Just to be sure, Dom put another bullet through the man’s temple. If by some chance he’d survived the first three, there was no need to make him suffer.

Then Dom got in his car and drove back toward Cape Swan. He begged his stomach to stay where it belonged. Gripped the wheel for dear life. Held his breath until his vision started to sparkle.

He made it two miles before the acid in his throat told him he wasn’t going any farther. He pulled over, braked hard, jumped out of the car, and just made it to the grass before he puked. Once. Twice. A third time. When he was sure nothing else would come up—that there was nothing left to come up—he spat in the grass and leaned against the car. His mind was reeling, spinning, his knees threatening to shake out from under him.

Fuck this life. Fuck this world. Why God had seen fit for him to be born into a family of Sicilians so he could be made, he’d never understand. And damn every f*cking person who knew him for not telling him to blow it when Uncle Corrado had asked him to prove he was the crack shot he’d bragged about being. The kid who’d been desperate for approval had made sure to shoot his very, very best when Corrado had come to watch. If he’d known what he was getting himself into, that his uncle would secretly begin grooming him—at fourteen—to be a hitman, he’d have made sure no bullet went near the target. He might’ve even eaten one.

He glanced at the passenger seat. In the darkness, he couldn’t see the gun, but he knew it was there. Only four rounds were missing. All he needed was one.

Yeah. And after he pulled the trigger, Corrado would find someone else to fill death warrants. Someone who probably wouldn’t let terrified truckers walk or make sure gay cousins just went to sleep and never woke up.

Dom cursed into the night, his mouth still burning with acid. He could only save so many people. The occasional immigrant who he quietly let out of his debt. The rare and fortunate mark he could justify sparing.

He couldn’t save himself, though. Corrado had proven he could and would find apostates, and that punishment would be anything but swift. Even those who’d gone into witness protection would, sooner or later, find themselves back in Cape Swan.

Eyes closed, he exhaled, wincing at the taste of bile still on his tongue. He spat into the grass. There was no point in staying out here. A made man this close to a murder scene? Not good.

Though maybe they’d arrest him. Take him to prison and leave him there until one of Corrado’s men—or a Cusimano, or some random felon—shanked him in the recreation yard.

That bullet was sounding better and better.

With shaky hands, he pulled back his sleeve and checked his watch. It was after midnight. He was exhausted and he felt disgusting. Sleep and a shower were the only things marginally more appealing than suicide.

On trembling legs, he went back around to the driver side, got in, and pulled back onto the highway again. He made it home on autopilot, showered on autopilot, dressed on autopilot, and before he knew it, he was back in the car.

Once he realized where he was heading, though, he didn’t turn around.

He drove faster.





Chapter 13


Sergei leaned against the bar, sipping some water and waiting for a stage to open up. Some of his regulars were lurking nearby, watching the other dancers, but keeping an eye on him too. He’d memorized that body language a long time ago—fidgeting, rocking from heels to the balls of their feet, twitching as they eyeballed the men already seated at the stages. When the stages cleared, it would be like the running of the bulls—everyone vying for a handful of seats.

He grinned to himself. The men here wouldn’t actually go to blows over a seat unless they were really drunk, because none of them wanted the cops getting involved. Even if fists flew, the other men would shut it down, and the bouncers would finish it off.

So he wasn’t worried about anything getting out of control. Let them pant and froth at the mouth. The more eager they were, the more money they’d toss at his feet.

The bead curtain at the end of the bar moved. Sergei turned his head.

Dom walked in. And scanned the rom. And looked right at him. And Sergei’s heart skipped.

It wasn’t panic or irritation, or wondering why the f*ck he was risking anyone seeing them together in public. The second they locked eyes, his gut clenched.

My God. What’s wrong?

Though the flickering strobes made it impossible to tell for sure, he thought Dom was shaking. He was definitely paler than the last time Sergei had seen him in this light.

Sergei was getting used to seeing Dom. In fact, he was starting to get a little excited whenever they were in the same room because it meant sex. It meant good sex. Except they’d agreed not to meet here anymore. Dom hadn’t been back to the club since the first night they’d slept together. Since then, they’d text, exchange a few seemingly benign messages, and a meet at a cheap motel.

But Dom was here now, and something in his eyes hit Sergei from all the way across the room. Sergei wasn’t supposed to care about him, but that look on Dom’s face definitely had him concerned. Had something happened? Had someone found out about them? What the hell was going on?