If The Seas Catch Fire(61)

“I get it. I do.” Dom sighed. “But I’ve never met a woman who—”

“That’s part of the problem.” Corrado’s voice was low and almost threatening. “Even Felice has found a wife. And yet you’ve barely given any woman a second look. You’re barely showing a bit of interest in a lovely, connected woman like Brigida.” His gray eyebrows pinched together. “I don’t need to tell you what kind of rumors that produces.”

Dom’s heart dropped. “People think I’m—”

“Yes.” Corrado shifted, nose wrinkling slightly. “And remember, this organization is more than a business. This is a family. If the men don’t think of you as a family man, then you’ll never make it.”

I don’t suppose bowing out gracefully is an option.

“Understood,” he said flatly.

“I need you and Brigida to make a decision.” Corrado folded his long fingers. “Sooner than later, Domenico.”

Dom nodded despite the ball of lead in the pit of his stomach. “I’ll see her again soon. And we’ll… we’ll discuss it.”

“Good.” The word was made of both approval and dismissal. We’re done here—get out.

“I’ll keep you updated,” Dom said, and started for the door. His uncle didn’t stop him.

Out in the hallway, he paused, wiping his hand over his face. Just what he needed. More pressure to marry, and more pressure to marry this woman specifically.

Sure, Brigida was a nice woman, but the chemistry was nonexistent. Even if she were attracted to him—and maybe she was; he had no idea—he didn’t have even the slightest bisexual tendencies. He was as gay as he was Italian. Any woman unfortunate enough to be his wife would be treated well, and she certainly wouldn’t want for anything that money could buy, but the nights might get cold, and he hated that he wouldn’t be able to give her what she needed. Enough to have children, he hoped, but passion?

And like Luciano and Felice’s wives, she’d be in a certain degree of danger simply by taking the Maisano name. If Brigida Passantino married him, she could be deemed a traitor by the men within her father’s fold who loathed the Maisanos. That was to say nothing of the Cusimanos. Very, very few of them would be willing to target a woman or a child, but all it took was one. Or her being in the wrong place at the wrong time when someone shot at him.

He wanted out of this life. Out of his own skin. But short of death, there was no escaping this. He was, and forever would be, a straight Mafioso.

Any wife or lover of his would be in a certain amount of danger.

And that included Sergei.

Guilt twisted beneath his ribs. Though Sergei was fearless—even ruthless—when it came to Mafia men, he was made of the same flesh as anyone else. A bullet would stop him as surely as it would Dom.

And if Sergei took a bullet that was meant for Dom…

Dom shuddered.

He wouldn’t allow that to happen. But if he kept seeing Sergei, he was inviting it to happen.

Well, Dom—what are you going to do?





Chapter 17


Three hours before sunrise on Saturday, Sergei parked a mile down the road from the marina. He stepped out of the car and immediately started sweating beneath his wetsuit. Pity the water wouldn’t be as warm as the night, especially since he was only wearing a half suit. His arms would be exposed from above the elbow, his legs from above the knee, and even this time of year, the Pacific was f*cking cold once you dropped below a meter or two.

The suit wasn’t ideal for the conditions, but it was the best thing for the job. A dry suit would have been too unwieldy on land. Even a full wetsuit would limit him too much—the half suit didn’t do a damn thing to keep him warm in the water, but it would give him the mobility he needed later on.

He slung his tanks over his shoulder, carried the rest of his gear in a net duffle bag, and made his way toward the marina. Just outside the fence line, he waded into the water and bit down on a string of curses. Despite the warmth of the evening, the water was, as he expected, cold as balls.

Chest deep in water, he attached the bag to the tanks and secured the tanks to his shoulders but left the regulator out of his mouth. Instead, he put on his mask and used a snorkel. He put on his fins, and then swam toward the marina. The heavy load on his back was cumbersome and annoying, but left his hands free to guide himself through the gently rolling surf.

He was mostly hidden by shadows, and he wasn’t worried about the cameras spotting him. He’d already addressed that issue—the men watching the screens in the security shack would be watching an infinite loop of last week’s footage and wouldn’t see him. As long as he didn’t draw the attention of the occasional man patrolling the marina on foot, he’d be in the clear.

Under cover of darkness, he glided along the surface, soundlessly and slowly, following the breakwater that protected the boats and the docks. The duffle bag was cumbersome, the tanks a pain in the ass while he was near the surface, but fortunately he didn’t have far to go. When he was within the breakwater, and thus in sight of the goons patrolling the docks this time of night, he took a deep breath and went under, kicking hard and rocketing through the icy water toward the row of gently bobbing hulls. He didn’t use the tanks—every second of air needed to be conserved for later, not wasted on a short swim.