If The Seas Catch Fire(88)

“Does that happen often?”

Not these dreams, no. “Pretty much every night.”

“Jesus…”

“Guess I should’ve warned you.”

“I don’t think you planned on us falling asleep any more than I did.”

Well, that much was true. They’d f*cked until there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of either man getting hard again, and then Sergei must’ve dozed off. Dom too.

If he had a brain, he’d leave. But this was comfortable. The warmth of another man pressed up against him, arm slung over Sergei’s waist, breath cool on his neck—even Sergei’s conscience couldn’t talk him out of enjoying that for a little while longer.

Especially since he was so damned tired.

His eyes slid closed and he rested his hand on top of Dom’s. Before long, Dom was asleep, snoring softly in Sergei’s ear. Any other time, Sergei would’ve been annoyed, but this time, he couldn’t help listening, fixating on the slow, steady rhythm of Dom’s breathing.

He’s alive. The dream wasn’t real. Dom is alive.

He shuddered.

They weren’t the dreams he was used to. Not that he could ever get used to reliving that night over and over and over, but he knew it was coming. And he’d had those dreams tonight, but there were others. New dreams. They were fragmented now, coming back to him only as emotions—guilt and fear, mostly—rather than actual images. He remembered blood on his hands. Everything else was hazy.

This had never happened before. He did his job, and he felt nothing. No shame, no guilt, no remorse. Did exterminators have dreams about squashed cockroaches and poisoned vermin? Of course not.

So what the f*ck is my problem?

He was getting too soft. Too close to Dom.

He should have left. He had no business being here in the first place, and actually sleeping together? What the hell was he thinking?

He needed to get up, get dressed, and get the hell back to his own apartment.

But he didn’t.

Sergei was exhausted. Dom was exhausted. Sergei didn’t let him go, and Dom didn’t pull away. He let himself be wrapped up in Dom’s arms, let the warmth of Dom’s body bring his goose bumps and heart rate down.

The fact was, this thing with Dom was only going to last so much longer. Wheels were turning. Things were happening. Soon, Dom would be much too preoccupied to spend nights in the arms of a stripper.

Sergei’s heart clenched. There was no way around it—Dom would also be in danger. The more things heated up between the families, the more danger every last Mafioso was in, especially the ones higher up the food chain. Things were going to get bloody, and it was entirely possible that Dom, like his brethren, would wind up dead.

Sergei brought Dom’s hand up to his lips and kissed it.

I can’t stop what I’m doing. I can’t let them go on, not even to save you.

But God, I hope you make it through this alive.





Chapter 24


The next day, as the family was deep in the midst of planning Biaggio’s funeral, Dom was called into his uncle’s office. It was strange, getting the call from Corrado himself instead of Biaggio, and Dom couldn’t help getting a little choked up after he ended the call. Biaggio’s death hadn’t quite sunk in, but it was beginning to.

Still, there was business to attend to. Grief would be allowed at the funeral. Stoic, straight-faced grief, but grief nonetheless. Until then, the family had to show solidarity. They had to carry on and refuse to show their enemies the faintest hint of weakness.

So he collected himself, drove across town, and showed himself to Corrado’s office, ignoring the empty space beside him as he walked down that long hallway without Biaggio.

At the giant double doors, he paused. Took a breath. Tamped down his emotions.

When he was composed, he stepped into the office. To his surprise, only Felice and Corrado were there.

“Where’s Luciano?” he asked as he shut the door.

“That’s actually why you’re here.” Corrado leaned against his immense desk, hands folded loosely in front of him. His expression was blank, his tone level. “Felice says he has some information that involves Luciano.”

Dom turned to his cousin. Felice was usually ice cold and together, but he looked rattled this time. Unsteady. A little pale. Which might’ve been grief, but even that didn’t seem right—Felice was the type to grieve with fists and weapons.

“Well. We’re here.” Corrado inclined his head. “What’s this about, Felice?”

Felice took a deep breath. “I know who killed Biaggio. And… who ordered it.”

Both Corrado and Dom stared at him.

“Luciano had him killed.” Felice exhaled hard. “He didn’t pull the trigger, but he orchestrated it with—”

Corrado backhanded his younger son across the face, sending him stumbling backward. “Vaffanculo! Don’t you dare accuse your own brother of—”

“I didn’t want to accuse him.” Felice righted himself, dabbing at the blood welling up on his lip. “Do you think I would’ve come to you about this if I thought it could possibly be anyone else?”

“How do you know this?” Corrado asked through clenched teeth. “Speak up, or I will—”