If The Seas Catch Fire(5)

Maisano gingerly patted his pockets, and then shook his head. “Not… not anymore.”

“Of course you don’t.” Sergei looked around. They were pretty far from town, and no one would be wandering around here this late at night. “Don’t move.”

Maisano mumbled something about that not being a problem.

Still wearing the stolen gloves, Sergei made sure Maisano hadn’t bled on the backseat—he didn’t care if Maisano was connected to the *s in the trunk, but on the off chance someone happened by before he’d relieved himself of the limping Italian, Sergei didn’t want anyone connecting him to them.

Then he went to the trunk, opened it, relieved one of the dead guys of his phone, and slammed the lid. “Come on. We’re going for a walk.”

“Maybe you are,” Maisano said through his teeth. “Look at me.”

“Well, it’s up to you. The paramedics can find you over there”—Sergei gestured with the phone toward a park a few blocks away—“or they can find you here.” He tapped the trunk with his gloved knuckle.

Maisano’s eyes widened.

“So.” Sergei nodded toward the park. “Let’s go.”

Maisano cursed again. Then he carefully pushed himself off the car and took a few slow, painful steps. “Don’t expect me to walk fast.”

Sergei bit back his impatience. “Need a hand?”

Maisano eyed him suspiciously, but then nodded. “I could use one, yeah.”

Sergei took his elbow, and together, they shuffled toward the park.

On the way, Sergei expected questions. Who the hell was he? What the f*ck was he doing interfering with Mob business?

But Maisano didn’t ask. Maybe he was in too much pain to give a damn. Or he could’ve been silently thanking one of his Catholic saints for the leather clad angel who’d swooped in and saved his ass.

Good thing he kept his mouth shut. Sergei hated questions. And Maisano could thank all the saints he wanted—he didn’t need to know he was walking with an angel of death.





Chapter 2


Every step Dom took was agony. Thank God this kid had intervened when he did. Left to their own devices, Floresta and Mandanici may or may not have killed him, but they sure would’ve done some more damage.

Clutching his side and holding his breath, Dom stole a glance at the slight blond enigma walking beside him. He didn’t know what to make of this kid. Not a f*cking clue. He had to be around twenty-five, give or take a year, and judging by his accent, he must’ve been a Russian immigrant. There were a lot of those in Cape Swan. The way he was dressed—tight red leather and not a lot of it—he was either a stripper or a hooker. Nobody in this town dressed like that unless they were selling orgasms.

He obviously wasn’t a *. There was no telling what he’d done to Mandanici and Floresta. Dom had been on the verge of blacking out when the kid had shown up, and he’d only just been aware of the shot that had apparently hobbled Mandanici. Then Floresta had knocked Dom to the ground, and everything that happened after that was hazy at best. Next thing he remembered, he was being guided out of the car and onto his feet, and why the f*ck were they down by the marina?

“Here.” The kid gestured at a bench beside a bus stop. “Sit.”

Dom didn’t argue. With some help, he eased himself down onto the hard bench, groaning as blinding pain ripped through him. “Fuck…”

“You really need to see—”

“I’ll be fine.” Dom moistened his lips, pausing to gingerly tongue the sweet raw spot where a fist had apparently shoved the tender flesh against his tooth. It had stopped bleeding as near as he could tell. His mouth tasted metallic, so he couldn’t tell spit from blood anymore, but the wound didn’t seem too severe. And he hadn’t lost or cracked any teeth, so… He’d call it a win.

He lifted his head and blinked a few times, trying to bring his eyes into focus. Whoa. If this kid was selling sex, he was in the right line of work. He was slim and ripped, the contours of his muscles standing out thanks to the harsh overhead light. The blanched light made his bottle blond hair almost white but didn’t quite pick out the color of those intense eyes. Or maybe it was just because Dom couldn’t focus his own enough to tell if they were blue, or black, or… whatever. Piercing, that was for sure, especially coupled with those sharp Slavic features.

Dom gingerly drew a breath. “You never told me your name.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Who am I gonna tell? The cops?”

The kid glared down at him.

“You asked my name,” Dom said.

“Yeah. I did. Anyway, you’ll be good here till help shows up.”

Dom glanced at the phone in the stripper’s hand—those gloves didn’t seem like part of his ensemble—then at him. “You calling, or am I?”

“You are.” The stripper tossed him the phone. “I’m out of here.”

Dom eyed him. “You’re pretty tough for a hooker.”

He bristled. “I’m not a hooker. I’m a stripper.”

Dom didn’t laugh—his ribs wouldn’t allow it anyway, and he really didn’t want to piss off this kid till he had a better idea what he was dealing with. “My mistake.” He gestured at the piece tucked into the kid’s waistband. “Strippers always pack heat like that?”