If The Seas Catch Fire(48)

Dom sighed. “It’s hard to explain. All I can offer you is sex, so that’s all I can ask for too.” I need so much more from you. But I can’t ask for what I can’t give. “Is that enough?”

“Of course,” Sergei said without hesitation. “It’s all I want too. I like the arrangement we have. You text me when you want me. Tell me where to meet you. And we f*ck.”

It sounded so crude. Little more than hiring a prostitute. Except he didn’t see Sergei as a prostitute. He should have—it would’ve made it a lot easier to walk away when the time came—but he didn’t. Far from it.

Dom swallowed. “It goes both ways. If you want me…” He hesitated to finish the sentence. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear him say that wouldn’t be an issue. “Look, this doesn’t have to be one-sided.”

Sergei studied him, and then shrugged. “Well, I can’t say it’s been one-sided when we’ve hooked up.”

“But the hook-ups don’t have to always be at my whim. They can—”

Sergei kissed him. Not just a light kiss, or an attempt to shut him up. He kissed him hard—forcing his lips apart, curving his hand around the back of Dom’s neck, pulling the breath right out of him.

Dom didn’t protest. Screw talking if this was the alternative. He wrapped his arms around Sergei, and opened to his kiss without any resistance at all.

Sergei drew back enough to murmur, “Didn’t I tell you I’d f*ck you again and make it hurt?”

Dom moaned against Sergei’s lips. “You did.”

“Uh-huh.” Sergei let him go. “Maybe you’d better get me a condom, then.”

Dom didn’t argue. They could talk about all this another time. For tonight, he had Sergei, and Sergei wanted to have him.

And Dom was definitely glad he’d brought plenty of condoms.




*



“You wanted to see me, Mr. Maisano?” Kirill, a middle-aged Russian widower and father of three, stared warily at Dom from the doorway.

“Yes, Kirill. Come in.”

The man took a timid step forward, and shut the door behind him. “Was there a problem with my payment?” Kirill’s accent was stronger than Sergei’s, but every syllable reminded Dom of the man he’d been with last night. “I made sure it was on time. Early, actually!”

“There’s no problem with your payment. Have a seat.”

Kirill did as he was told, and gripped the armrests tightly, knuckles blanching as if he were on the verge of a full-on panic attack. He was right to be nervous. After all, he was part of the complex racket that Dom’s family ran on the backs of Russian, Chinese, and Latin American immigrants. For a fee, the immigrant was given a job and, eventually, citizenship, but none of it came free. Not only were they required to work their fingers to the bone to pay down thousands of dollars in debt to the Mafia, but they were sworn to secrecy about their duties, which for an unfortunate few meant playing a dangerous role in smuggling cocaine through Cape Swan’s deceptively quiet marina. Once the person had worked off his debt to the family, he and his would be given their documents, all of which had been acquired through the proper, legal channels, but held until the debt was paid. It was something Dom could only think of as indentured servitude with a side of human trafficking.

Dom hated it. He hated his role in the whole thing. He hated being the one who’d send out soldiers to put the squeeze on anyone who wasn’t making regular payments, or those suspected of leaking information to the feds.

But it had become his job when Corrado had made noise about putting Felice in charge of this particular industry. Felice had no qualms about doing more than putting the squeeze on people. Threatening a man’s wife and kids was not below him.

So Dom had taken it on, if only to be the humane voice of reason.

Dom gazed at the terrified Russian. “How is the family?”

Kirill eyed him. He clutched the armrests tighter. “Please, don’t hurt my children.”

“I’m not going to hurt them.” Dom leaned forward, ignoring the aches and twinges in his lower body and folding his hands on the blotter. “I need you to listen very closely, Kirill.”

The Russian nodded vigorously.

“I have your papers,” Dom said quietly. “Full citizenship for you and your family. Social security, passports, driver’s licenses for you and your sister.”

Kirill gulped, and sat straighter, but he didn’t speak. He’d been at the family’s beck and call long enough to be wary of the strings that would be attached.

Dom pulled a couple of envelopes from a drawer. He slid the manila one across the desk. “These are all your documents.” Then he held up a sealed white envelope. “And this is three thousand dollars in cash.”

Kirill blanched, eyeing the white envelope like it was a venomous snake. It didn’t take a psychic to read his mind. You didn’t say no when a Mafioso offered you money, even if the terms were cruel or impossible. And if he was like any of the other immigrants currently indebted to the Maisanos, he needed that money no matter what came with it.

Dom set the envelope on top of the larger one. “I’m erasing your balance from the ledger. You owe nothing. This”—he tapped the envelope—“is a gift. From me.”