If The Seas Catch Fire(98)

“That wasn’t our deal,” Sergei snapped. “Pay me for—”

“This is a big one, son,” Tumino said. “And it needs to happen fast. Wrap that one, and your salary’s doubled for today’s show.”

Sergei resisted the urge to whistle. That was a metric f*ckload of money. Still, he didn’t want to be played. “Have your contact bring fifty percent of today’s pay. He shows up with that, we’ll talk about the next show.”

Tumino grunted. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You want to tell your boss we’re not doing business?”

Silence for a moment. And then, “I’ll send him with cash. But be there. He’ll be coming your way at ten o’clock.”

“Fine.”

Sergei hadn’t planned to go to the club tonight, but apparently he was going after all. He finished cleaning and reassembling his rifle, and then showered, dressed, and headed to the club.

And right at ten o’clock, a very uncomfortable looking guy in a suit wandered in. Uncomfortable guys weren’t unusual, but this type, they stood out.

Sergei sidled up to him. “Hey, sugar. You want a dance?”

The man scowled, but nodded. “I’ve got… cash.”

“That’s what I thought.” Sergei gestured toward the back. “Let’s go.” The man followed him into the hallway. Sergei gave Roy a nod, and he turned his back just before they stepped into the booth. Almost immediately, the music started.

“Cash?” Sergei held out his hand.

The man produced an envelope. “Fifty percent of today’s show. As requested.”

“Good.” As Sergei thumbed through it, he asked, “Where’s Baltazar?”

“He’s no longer employed by the production company.”

Sergei’s eyes flicked up. Baltazar was dead? Whoa.

He tucked the money into his waistband and folded his arms. Stomach roiling, he asked, “So, I understand there’s a problem?”

“Yes.” The man shifted uncomfortably, eyeing his surroundings. “Mostly a change in the line-up.”

“Yeah? So what do you want from me?”

“The full Monty.” He lowered his sunglasses and looked Sergei in the eye. “Happy ending and all.”

A big hit that needed to look like a hit. Of course.

Sergei nodded once. “How much?”

“Five million for the whole production.”

Whoa. “Who’s the star?”

The guy glanced past Sergei, then pulled his jacket open, revealing the pocket on the inside before he slipped two fingers in and withdrew a folded photo. Smart man—he knew better than to let Sergei think for even a second that he might be pulling a gun.

He held out the photo, and after Sergei took it, the man fidgeted nervously.

Sergei unfolded the photo.

And his stomach dropped straight into his feet.

Dom.

Shit. Oh shit. Cold water flowed through his veins, and he held the photo tighter to keep his hands still.

“Another five million? For this guy?” He forced a laugh. “He’s not even a star.”

The guy shrugged. “He is now. Inherited the production company.”

Oh. No. Fuck!

Corrado had left the organization to Dom? Dom was the boss now?

No. No, no, no. No, that—

“You got a problem?”

Sergei’s stomach lurched. If he declined the contract, he’d be rolling in with the tide before sunrise. If he took it but failed to fill it, he’d be hunted down and given a bloody lesson in what happens to people who cross the Mafia.

“Hey.” The goon straightened. “I asked you a question. You got a—”

“There’s no problem.” Sergei met his gaze, and just as he’d hoped, the guy drew back. Sergei held out the photo. “This will take some planning. It isn’t going to happen overnight.”

The contact huffed and snatched the photo back. “But you’ll make the arrangements?”

Sergei nodded. “It’s… it’s going to take time.”

The goon’s expression hardened. “Boss wants this one to go forward as quickly as possible.”

“That’s fine and good.” Sergei held up the photo. “But a production this big takes work.”

He scowled. “You ain’t getting paid to take your time.”

“No, I’m getting paid to make sure everything is done right.” Sergei narrowed his eyes. “Unless you’d like to tell me how to do my job.”

The man gulped but then set his shoulders back. “Just get it done, kid.”

“Will do.” Sergei’s voice barely made it over the music.

His contact left. Alone in the booth, Sergei raked a hand through his hair. This was bad. Real bad.

He needed to get the f*ck out of here. The booth. The club. The town.

But he couldn’t. Because getting out of town wouldn’t do him any good unless he got out of this contract first. By knowing the hit even existed, he knew too much, and if he didn’t join into the solemn pact of silence—committing a capital crime, and thus being disinclined to rat out the others—then he’d be a liability. The Maisanos would hunt him down like they hunted down apostates, and the punishment would be…