If The Seas Catch Fire(64)

Behind the Mafiosi were three workers in dingy, threadbare clothing that contrasted sharply with the expensive tailored suits of the Maisanos. Sergei thought he heard the men speaking in hushed Korean, but he didn’t pay them much attention. They weren’t part of his agenda.

Privitera, however…

Sergei grinned as he headed down to the bedroom to hide. He had his target.

Cape Swan, California. Population: One less Italian motherf*cker than yesterday.

Question was, he thought as his grin fell, what to do about the Koreans? If Felice blamed them, he wouldn’t hesitate to punish them. Sergei couldn’t back out, though. He’d just have to make sure the hit happened while there was no possibility of the immigrants taking the fall. That would be easy enough. Just wait for—

“Hey!” Felice called out to someone. “Thought you weren’t gonna make it!”

When the response came, the voice turned Sergei’s blood to ice:

“I told you I was on my way.”

Sergei’s throat constricted.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

Dom?

That changed everything.

His orders had been clear—kill the second highest ranking man aboard the boat.

Which meant second in line was Dom. No one else on this boat came close to either of their statuses within the family. Being the son of the boss, Felice was the top dog unless Corrado showed up, and there wasn’t nearly enough security for that. Felice’s cousin-slash-adopted-brother? Easily second in line.

No two ways about it—Dom was the mark.

There was no getting off the boat. No getting out of this contract. He had to finish the job, or it would be his head.

Nausea swept over him. Oh God…

As the crew went to work above decks and the boat pulled out of the slip and cruised away from the marina’s protected inlet, Sergei didn’t dare stay in one place. He moved around as stealthily as he could, staying absolutely silent and out of sight, keeping tabs on everyone he could.

As he passed the living area at one point, he caught a glimpse of the three Koreans lugging empty crab pots in and staging them in neat rows. Felice supervised. Dom hung back in the shadows. Security loomed even further in the background.

And all the while, Sergei prowled around the boat, trying to keep his stomach from coming up his throat. This wasn’t seasickness. This wasn’t something he’d ever experienced during a hit.

He shook himself. Even if Dom was the mark, he’d come here to fill a contract. Which meant obeying the orders he was given. The fact that he’d been in bed with the man—or that he’d gotten way too close to him in other ways—was irrelevant. It was f*cking go-time.

The boat headed out of the harbor, and then hauled ass toward the open sea. For the moment, the three Koreans stood outside smoking, and the Italians were out of sight. Likely enjoying some early morning wine in the shade of one of the upper decks.

This much, Sergei had planned for. The boat had its own rendezvous point several miles off shore, and there was nothing for him to do now except use the time to figure out how to get his mark alone after the boat was back in the harbor.

But the game had changed. This wasn’t just a nameless, meaningless goon.

This was Dom.

Indisputably the second highest ranking man aboard.

Fuck.



*



A couple of hours after they left the harbor, the boat was far enough into the open sea that the land was a fuzzy gray-green line on the horizon. Up ahead, a red and black cargo ship bobbed in the waves.

The boat stopped beside the ship. A meeting was going on—Sergei couldn’t hear the specifics from his current hidey hole—a small alcove behind the galley—especially not with crew members moving boxes into the living area nearby.

Then everything wrapped up, and the boat was on the move again, but as it neared the harbor, stopped at one of the bobbing orange buoys. A crab pot. Then another. And another. Each time, they came to a halt, and the boat rocked gently in the water while the Koreans switched out a crab pot. Sergei memorized how long it took them to swap out the crab pots, calculating how much time he’d have to get off the boat and grab his gear before the propellers started again.

He was ready.

And as the boat approached another buoy, Dom was in the galley. Alone.

Around a corner, watching Dom in the reflection of a semi-tinted window, Sergei gnawed his lip. He drew his gun from his belt and rested it against his thigh.

It wouldn’t take much. Open the door. Put a bullet through his brain. Climb down off the stern. Grab his gear, dive, and swim like hell so no one saw him beneath the surface and the bubbles off his regulator didn’t give him away.

All he had to do was shoot Dom.

Right through the back of his head, so he never knew what hit him.

Shoot him. Let him drop. Watch him die.

Sergei closed his eyes and slowly, silently pushed out a breath.

I’m losing my damned mind. He isn’t Dom. He’s a Maisano. He’s the mark.

Except he is Dom.

He’s a made man. He’s one of them. He’s…

Dom.

Shit.

On the other hand, Baltazar hadn’t specified the mark’s name. The boat was huge, and Sergei could easily lose track of everyone on board.

This kind of job was meant to send a specific message. It was much like when the assassins of old would leave a knife in a sleeping king’s pillow, inches from his head, so that when he awoke, he’d know just how easily they could have killed him. This job was meant to tell Felice Maisano how vulnerable he was. For reasons Sergei didn’t need to know, someone was putting the squeeze on the man, and they were sending a very loud warning.