If The Seas Catch Fire(92)

“How the f*ck do I get out?”

Luciano laughed dryly. “If I knew, do you think we’d be here right now?”

Acid rose in Dom’s throat. “Did you ever wish you could—”

“All my life, Domenico. All my life. Now…” Luciano released his hand. He sat straighter, eyes closed and expression fully relaxed. “Please. Just do it.”

There was no avoiding it. And the longer Dom tried to talk himself out of it, the longer he tortured his cousin with the inevitable.

He aimed the pistol at Luciano’s temple, angling it slightly toward the back to maximize the damage and minimize Luciano’s chances of surviving, even for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Luciano.”

“I know.”

Luciano was perfectly still. So was Dom’s hand.

Holding his breath, Dom closed his eyes.

And squeezed the trigger.

Dom had deliberately foregone earplugs, and the gunshot temporarily deafened him. Long enough to almost completely silence his cousin’s body hitting the sand at his feet.

Ears ringing and jaw clenched, Dom opened his eyes. His aim had been true—from the hairline back, there was almost nothing left of Luciano’s skull. Blood, bone, and brain matter clung to vegetation and soaked up sand for several feet.

Just to be sure, though, Dom leaned down and touched beneath his cousin’s jaw. The skin was still warm, of course, but there was no pulse.

A nauseating sense of relief flooded through him. He couldn’t stomach the fact that he’d just killed his cousin, but thank God, Luciano had died quickly.

He rose and walked away. In the car, he put the gun under his seat—he’d toss it in the ocean once he was safely away from here—and drove, not completely sure where he was going yet. He didn’t get sick this time. He was too numb. Too f*cked up in the head. His stomach would catch up once the booze started flowing, of that he was sure.

Tapping his fingers rapidly on the steering wheel, he drove away from the crime scene and didn’t look back. He didn’t speed. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t risk getting pulled over and having a record of his presence within close proximity to Luciano.

On one hand, he desperately needed the distraction only Sergei could offer. On the other, he couldn’t face him. Couldn’t touch Sergei with the same hand he’d used to pull the trigger, or the same hand he’d used to confirm Luciano’s pulse had stopped.

Not tonight. Tonight, he needed the longest, hottest shower he could stand, and then he was going to get drunk. As drunk as humanly possible. Until he blacked out. Then maybe he’d wake up and drink more.

For now, though, he had to get out of here. Away from Luciano’s corpse.

Luciano, I am so sorry.

Tears stung his eyes. He’d filled more contracts than he cared to think about, but this one was his own cousin. He’d killed a son on the order of a father. Tomorrow, he’d stand beside Corrado while the family grieved Biaggio for his longtime service and loyalty to the family.

There wouldn’t be much of a funeral for Luciano. He’d have a Catholic funeral—even disgraced members of the family were buried according to Catholic traditions. Corrado believed men could be judged and dispatched here on Earth, but it was up to God to decide where they went afterward.

It hurt to know that Luciano wouldn’t be given the lavish funeral of Maisano royalty, that he would be buried somewhere besides the family crypt, but Dom was admittedly grateful that he wouldn’t have to stand beside Corrado and pretend he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger at the orders of the “grieving” father beside him.

Would Corrado grieve his son? Dom suspected he would. After all, killing him was just business. It didn’t mean Corrado liked it. Even if Luciano had betrayed the family enough to sign his own death warrant, the father would still mourn his son. Dom hoped, anyway.

God, grant Luciano that much justice.



*



Heart thumping and stomach sick, Dom walked into Corrado’s office.

His uncle lifted his gaze. Dom stopped in front of the desk. They locked eyes, and neither spoke.

It was done. There was nothing left to say.

Dom fully expected a dismissal, but instead, Corrado cleared his throat as he pushed his chair back. Rising, he said, “We have a meeting, Domenico.”

Dom blinked. “A meeting? In the middle of all—”

“There are things that can’t wait.”

Not even long enough for me to take a f*cking shower? I just killed your son!

Hell, why not? Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone. Take a shower and rinse off his guilt and whatever came up during this meeting. With the way things were going these days, he couldn’t imagine this would be a benign discussion about crab pots and cargo ships. Especially if it couldn’t wait until Luciano was cooled and Biaggio was buried.

They moved into the dining room where Corrado held his larger meetings. The room was filled with familiar faces. Somber and serious, every one of them underbosses—the highest ranking members of Corrado’s inner circle. The uppermost echelon occupied most of the chairs around the table. Those lower on the food chain stood behind them.

Conspicuously absent were not only Luciano and Biaggio, but Felice.

Weird…

In front of them, the broad mahogany table was bare. No food had been laid out. No papers.