If The Seas Catch Fire(83)

Dom pushed out a breath, gazing out at the ocean far beneath the cliffs. “You’re probably right. And, I mean, if this is what the family needs, then I’ll do it.”

“Good. With as much bloodshed as this town has seen recently, a wedding will be good for morale.” Biaggio folded his hands in his lap. “And knowing the Maisanos and Passantinos are allied this way might make the Cusimanos think twice about screwing with either family.”

“True.” Dom tapped his fingers on the table. “So you think it is a good move. Marrying Passantino’s daughter.”

“It makes business sense.”

“We barely know each other. What kind of marriage would that be?”

“Well…” Biaggio sat back, idly swirling his glass. “You’ve gotten along well enough so far, haven’t you?”

Dom nodded.

“Give it time, then.” Biaggio shrugged. “Don’t expect it to happen overnight, but the two of you can continue to get to know each other after you’re married.”

The ‘overnight’ part might be an issue…

“I do think this is a wise move, though,” Biaggio said. “The two families have been *-footing around an alliance for years. The two of you marrying will, in essence, marry the families to each other, so we’ll—”

Crack!

Biaggio jerked to the side as blood sprayed the wall behind him.

Dom leaped back, and right when he gasped, a stray droplet landed on his tongue. Before the saltiness had even registered, he turned and vomited.

He spat, and then, staying low in case more bullets came, he turned his head.

No…

Strong arms grabbed Dom, hauled him to his feet, and herded him inside.

“Are you all right?” Sal asked, shielding him with his body and keeping him away from the windows.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m…” Dom craned his neck enough to look outside. At the table, Biaggio’s motionless body was slumped in the chair, blood mingling with scattered pine needles by his feet. “Oh my God. Biaggio…” His throat tightened. What the hell? One second he was settling Dom’s mind over this upcoming marriage. The next…

This.

Jesus.

His eyes stung, and he hoped to God Sal blamed it on the puking.

No. Not Biaggio. God, no…

Below them, the yard had exploded with activity. Shouts. Dogs barking. Gunfire. More voices in the distance. He still had his hearing, so the shooter must not have been close by. A f*cking sniper.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Sal asked.

“Yeah.” Dom coughed and spat. “Didn’t hit me. Didn’t…” He trailed off as his gaze landed on Biaggio again. “Who the hell would…” He couldn’t even say it. Couldn’t verbally acknowledge what his eyes wouldn’t let him forget.

There wasn’t much he could do now. He was powerless. Useless. Biaggio was dead, so no amount of first aid or frantic 911 calls would change anything. It was over in the blink of an eye, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

He glanced down at his blood-splattered clothes. “I, uh, think I’m going to grab a shower, though.” That seemed pointless. Crass, even. But he desperately needed something mundane, something normal. Some way to get all this blood off his skin.

Sal withdrew his hand. “Good idea. I’ll have one of your staff bring over some clothes.”

“Perfect. Thank you. And, um…” Dom gestured out at the terrace. “Someone should call a priest. He’d… he’d want that.”

“Of course.” Sal gestured at the stairs. “I’ll take care of the calls.”

“Thanks.”

The whole place was eerily quiet, the stairs creaking softly beneath Dom’s feet as he trudged up to the third floor. By the time he came back down, there’d be activity, but he suspected the quiet would linger. There’d be no sirens. No flashing lights. The police weren’t needed and neither was an ambulance. The coroner would, as always, be discreet—his balls were in the same vise as anyone else in this town whose services a family might require.

While calls were made to Corrado, Luciano, Felice and anyone else who needed to know, Dom went upstairs to shower. It felt strange to use Biaggio’s shower to clean off his blood, but the consigliere would have insisted.

“Clean yourself up,” he could almost hear the old guy grumbling. “Doesn’t do a man any good to be seen like that.”

He’d have been especially horrified if Dom met the priest like this, so Dom soaped and rinsed until blood no longer swirled in the water at his feet.

And even then, he didn’t get out. Not yet.

Eyes closed, he let his head fall forward so the water rushed through his hair and down his neck. He didn’t feel anything yet. No grief. No fear. The adrenaline had settled, and now he was just… numb. The rest would be along once the truth settled in, but at the moment, he felt nothing.

Now what?

Death was part of this life, but the body count had been rising at an alarming rate for the last few months. And bullets were coming unnervingly close, hitting not just the family, but his family. His uncle and cousins were all he had left, and any of them—hell, Dom himself—could be in the crosshairs at any moment.

Without Biaggio, Corrado was the closest thing Dom still had to a father. He was a brutal man. He’d traumatized Dom, taken people and safety and sanity away from him, but he’d also been the man who’d taken Dom in and raised him, even after he’d been the one to calmly end Papa’s life.