Then Papa had kissed them both and told them he wouldn’t be coming back.
“Take care of your mother, Domenico,” he’d said.
And then he was gone.
That would’ve been it. In fact, it should’ve been. A week later, Dom had knelt beside his mother in St. Leo’s, listening to her quietly sobbing. No one else had been there. Just Dom and his mother and the priest, and he’d struggled not to be sick as his mother prayed for Papa’s body to be found so he could at least have a proper burial. He’d sinned, he’d betrayed the family, but he was still a good man. Couldn’t he at least go to God the way every man good man should?
And Dom had had no choice but to kneel there, wiping tears away and trying not to throw up because he knew what Mama didn’t know. He’d been warned to keep quiet, and the gunshots were still ringing too loudly in his ears for him to even think of defying his uncle’s orders. So while Mama begged God for guidance, she had no idea her only son knew exactly where Papa was and exactly who had put him in that shallow grave. It was why he’d sobbed that morning when she’d yelled at him for having dirt on his good trousers. He couldn’t explain it. Not without telling her what he’d promised not to tell.
She’d gone to her grave not knowing where her husband’s body was or that her son had been there. He’d never been able to tell her that, yes, Papa had been given last rites before he died because then he’d have to tell her how he knew.
He shuddered at the memories. It was just as well he had no wife or children now, and he’d already walked away from Sergei. There’d be no one left to ask God where his body was or grieve him the way Mama had grieved for Papa until the day she too had died, or worry if he’d been given a proper send-off to the Lord.
The only question that remained was how long he could elude his fate, and if he should bother. He could either run and keep looking over his shoulder, or accept the inevitable with the dignity instilled in him by his father. He could run, or he could sip a glass of wine and know it was likely his last.
Dom wiped a hand over his face. What he needed to do was think. Disappear somewhere, collect his thoughts, and figure out what to do next.
And as long as he was having that last glass of wine…
He texted Sergei.
I need to see you.
And then he went in to check on Felice.
Chapter 29
Sergei stared at the text.
Dom had no idea, did he? No fucking clue. But then, how could he? Sergei had carefully kept his name and face hidden from all but his select few liaisons. He’d given Dom no reason to suspect him.
Maybe it would be easier this way. Dom could come to him, and Sergei could finish the job quickly. Dom didn’t have to know who’d filled the contract. He didn’t need to have that moment of terror, that split second of understanding that death was imminent.
He didn’t want to do this, but there was no backing out of a contract. Not unless he wanted to be skinned alive. And God knew what would happen to Dom if Sergei failed to complete the hit—some of the other hitmen in this town weren’t nearly as humane as he was when he wanted to be.
I can make it quick. So he doesn’t know what hit him.
Sergei closed his eyes.
He deserves that much.
Holding his breath, Sergei wrote back with shaking fingers: Come to my place.
After that, he sent his address.
They’d never been to either of their places before. It was always motels. But tonight, Sergei wanted absolute control over his environment.
His phone vibrated: I’ll be there shortly.
While he waited, Sergei pulled a footlocker from his closet and popped the latches. The lid creaked on its hinges, and Sergei scanned his options. A .22 would do the job without making much noise, but a higher caliber stood a better chance of finishing him off with a single shot.
A million emotions tangled in his chest, but he had to force himself to be strictly business about this or else he’d break. He’d crumble. He’d earn them both a much worse fate than a bullet to the head.
Sergei withdrew a .45. It would be loud, but people in Cape Swan didn’t ask questions. Even if they did, Sergei’s neighbors were all shift workers. The place was almost entirely empty during the day—it was why he’d moved in here, since he too worked late hours most of the time.
He screwed the suppressor onto the pistol. It wouldn’t do much—what he wouldn’t have given for Hollywood’s silencers to actually exist—but if he had to fire indoors, it would take the edge off enough to hopefully not do permanent damage to his hearing. Or attract any neighbors who happened to be awake.
He didn’t keep the gun on his person, though. As much as it sickened him to think about it, the bedroom was the place where Dom would most likely let his guard down. All Sergei had to do was get him in here, and he’d be able to get the drop on him. No fuss, no fight—wait till he was good and distracted, and end it with a well-placed round before Dom had a chance to—