If The Seas Catch Fire(66)

Felice scowled and shook his head. “It’s hard to even put my finger on it, to be honest. But when I’ve been to his house and his offices recently, I’ve seen people coming and going who seem… suspicious, I guess.”

“In what way?”

“He has a lot more of these people”—Felice gestured flippantly at the two Koreans who were pulling up another crab pot—“working for him than I realized.”

Dom scowled. “So he’s got some immigrants on his payroll?” Maybe he’s even paying them properly, instead of exploiting them like you do, *.

“Except when I’ve asked, he doesn’t say what they’re for. What are they doing?” Felice folded his arms. “Why aren’t their pay slips in the books?”

Dom chewed his lip. Undocumented immigrants were hardly unheard of. And it wasn’t at all unusual for men to take the immigrants who were under contract, and have them do some work under the table—anything from pulling weeds to transporting drugs. Most of the contractors were desperate to make ends meet and pay off their debts, so they eagerly took the work. Dirt cheap labor for the Italians, extra money for the immigrants—in a perverse way, everybody won. Luciano had never seemed to approve of that practice, but even if he’d changed his tune, it didn’t seem that out of the ordinary.

Dom shifted his weight. “What do you think his game is?”

“It’s hard to tell. He’s operating something on the sly, though. I can f*cking feel it. And the thing is, well, let’s face it. We all know that if something happens to my father, or he retires, Luciano’s taking his place.” Felice took a deep breath. “I’m just worried he might make a play to get that inheritance sooner than later.”

Dom studied him. “That doesn’t sound like Luciano.”

“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” Felice muttered into his glass.

“Luciano’s the one who tries to talk your father out of calling in hits.”

“He is.” Felice set the glass down and rested his hands on the railing. “Which means he’d be the last one anybody would suspect of taking out a hit of his own. Especially one on Dad.”

Dom pursed his lips. “I suppose that’s—”

A panicked shout made them both jump. They turned as one of the workers rushed up onto the deck, screaming something in his own language.

“What?” Felice snapped. “What are you saying? English, *.”

The man stopped, took a few breaths, and in broken English, said, “Downstairs. He’s…” He drew a finger across his throat.

Felice and Dom exchanged glances. Then, with Felice’s soldiers hot on their heels and their pistols in hand, they rushed down to the lower deck and out onto the stern.

“Oh, my God.” Felice covered his mouth and turned around. “Fuck.”

Dom stared, swallowing hard to keep his breakfast where it belonged.

On the sun lounge, Privitera lay as if he were sleeping, his hands folded on his stomach, his hair and tie fluttering in the gentle sea breeze. He even had a wine bottle lying across his lap, as if he’d been about to settle in for a drink.

The only problem was that gaping wound across his throat and the blood trickling between the chair’s plastic slats and pooling on the deck like rainwater.

“Get the f*cking Koreans out here,” Felice snarled. “Now!”

One of the security goons hurried inside.

“They did this,” Felice said. “They f*cking killed—”

“That’s insane,” Dom said. “They’ve been in here working.”

“Yeah?” Felice gestured at the body. “Then who the f*ck did do it? Because the crew is all upstairs and this doesn’t look like a f*cking suicide, Dom!”

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t them. It could have been—”

“Which one of you killed him?” Felice bellowed as the men were shoved out onto the deck.

They all balked, staring at him and gaping.

“No, no!” The one who’d sounded the alarm said. “I saw blood.” He pointed a shaking hand at the pool, which had extended far enough across the deck to be visible from inside. “Saw blood! Didn’t kill!”

“Uh-huh.”

“The hell you—”

“Felice,” Dom said in Italian, “you don’t know it was one of them!”

“And you don’t know it wasn’t.”

“For God’s sake—”

“All right. Fine. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. But somebody on this boat did, so he can be a f*cking example in case they’re thinking of trying it again.” With that, Felice turned and calmly unloaded a single round into the gut of the man who’d sounded the alarm.

The poor man howled in pain and crumpled to the deck.

The other two surged toward him, but Felice’s men stopped them.

“Get back to work,” Felice snarled. “Or you can have one too.”

Shaking, the men looked at each other.

“Back to work!”

They scattered, hurrying back to their staging area.

Felice scowled at the writhing, moaning man, and stalked back inside. “Security. We’ve got someone on board, and I want him alive.”