If The Seas Catch Fire(97)

*



Through the scope, Sergei watched the church’s double doors. A few people lingered outside on the steps, all looking just as somber as the people who’d filed inside at the beginning of the service. Several were armed. They scanned the parking lot, the street, the hills—any place where danger might be lurking.

A thousand yards away, safely perched on top of an apartment building, Sergei paid them little mind. An earpiece kept him abreast of the service going on inside, so he’d know when to be ready.

Unsurprisingly, there were only Maisanos at this service. Though the three families mingled peacefully at St. Leo’s most of the time, there was violence in the air right now. Blame being thrown around like New Year’s confetti. Too much potential for a sidelong glance or a misheard whisper to spark a fight, a gun battle right there in the pews. No one could take anything for granted these days. Not even the safety of holy ground.

Which meant that after Sergei was finished, the Maisanos would be out for blood. The Cusimanos and Passantinos would be blamed, and they’d be answering to a sacrilegious hit at a funeral.

The service began to wrap up. The people on the stairs turned toward the doors. Sergei shifted slightly and peered even more intently through the scope.

A pair of suited men pulled the doors open wide. Slowly, mourners emerged.

Six Italians held the casket on their shoulders, and carefully started down the steps, moving out of the crosshairs.

Behind them, several black-clad Italian women dabbing away tears. Family members, he assumed

And then…

There.

Corrado Maisano.

To his left, Felice. To his right, Dom.

Luciano was MIA. Sergei had heard on the radio that his body had been found by some unfortunate teenager early this morning. One less hit to line Sergei’s pocket, but one less piece to remove from the board before shit started going down. Had he and Dom been close? Was Dom grieving for his cousin? The consigliere?

The three Italians slowly descended the steps.

Sergei’s eye flicked toward Dom, and for a second, his heart clenched. Dom had been so passionate last night, and now he was somber. All in black. His face pale and his features pinched with grief.

The crosshairs landed on Dom’s throat.

Sergei tore his gaze away, covering his mouth as vomit lurched into the back of his mouth. He recovered quickly, swallowed hard, and looked through the scope again. He fixed the crosshairs on Corrado’s chest, and refused to let his gaze slide toward Dom.

They were too close together. An unexpected movement, even a change in the wind, and Dom could take the bullet meant for his uncle. Sergei was an expert marksman, but even he couldn’t control what happened on the target end. Once the bullet left the barrel, things were out of his hands, and he had to accept that Dom might not survive this.

And it didn’t matter, for God’s sake. He was one of them. No matter how good the sex was, or how much Sergei might’ve softened for Dom when the lights were low and all the guns and violence were elsewhere, he was a Maisano.

And besides, he’d left. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t given any warning, and was just… gone.

His eyes stung, and his vision blurred momentarily.

Get a grip. Take the shot.

Hit him, and he’s just another dead goon like the one he’s grieving.

And you’re almost out of time to take the shot.

Sergei quickly wiped his eyes and swallowed again, making sure the acid was well on its way back down, and then put his eye back up to the scope. The scope reduced his peripheral vision to almost nil, but in the background, he could still make out Dom’s shape.

Ignore him. Ignore him and focus. Focus on Corrado.

Sergei slowed his breathing. He stared at the crosshairs. At the man behind it.

And squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession.

The rifle jerked. Corrado dropped. Felice went with him, throwing himself over his father as if to both catch and shield him. Sergei squeezed the trigger again. Blood exploded onto the stairs behind them, and Felice jerked, grabbing his arm as his mouth opened with a cry that Sergei couldn’t hear.

The whole church yard erupted into chaos, but Sergei didn’t watch. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and ran like hell. Down the stairs, out the back, into his car. With the rifle covered up in the backseat, he drove away, driving calmly despite his heart pounding as much from the run as adrenaline. He couldn’t risk drawing attention.

All the way out of the neighborhood, he watched the rearview as much as he watched the road.

No one followed him. No one stopped him.

He casually cruised right through downtown Cape Swan, then off toward his apartment. A clean getaway, as always.

Normally, he’d be itching to go meet Tumino to get the rest of his money, but all he could think of now was Dom. Had he been hit? Was he okay?

Sergei shook himself and gripped the wheel.

He didn’t want to know.



*



He laid low for a few hours to let the dust settle, and then called Tumino from a burner phone.

“I’m on my way. It’s payday.”

“Not so fast.” The man muffled a belch, making Sergei wrinkle his nose. “There’s… a problem.”

“A problem?” Sergei exhaled sharply. “The show went as planned. What more do you want?”

“I need you at your usual place tonight. I’ve got a contact coming to see you about another show. Finish that one, and we’ll talk payment for this one.”