From there, Sergei’s recovery had been up and down. What began as a minor fever quickly escalated into a massive infection that sent him to the ICU for three days. As a nurse put it, he almost met God a few times before that was over. By the time he was finally released from the hospital over a month later, he’d lost twenty pounds he couldn’t afford to lose and could barely stand. A week after that, he was back in the hospital with pneumonia.
But finally, he started improving, and the setbacks were fewer and farther between, not to mention less severe. He’d put weight back on. He didn’t get winded walking up the stairs to the second floor one-bedroom apartment they were renting in Hawthorne, a cruddy little neighborhood in Portland.
And a couple of months ago, after they’d spent the evening talking about flights and fake visas, Sergei had kissed him like he hadn’t kissed him in months. The kind of kiss that meant it was going to be one hell of a night. And it was.
Now, they were on their way out of Portland, leaving North America behind for a fresh start in another hemisphere. There was nothing left for them here, and Dom was fine with that. The Maisano name was no longer his. Using some of his connections with the state department, he’d bribed their way into new identities. Passports, driver’s licenses, the whole nine yards.
Beside him, Sergei stirred a little. Dom turned his head and couldn’t help smiling. Maybe Sergei hadn’t needed that painkiller after all—the plane had barely leveled out at its cruising altitude, and he was already snoring softly.
Dom slipped his fingers between Sergei’s and leaned across the armrest to kiss the top of his head, his spiky hair tickling his nose.
Though Sergei was out of the woods now, his recovery was far from over. He still had problems with his pectoral muscles on one side, and the concussion and whiplash had conspired to plague him with occasional blinding headaches. But he was okay. He was alive. Not a day went by that something didn’t remind Dom of how close he’d come to losing Sergei, and each time, he sent up a whisper of gratitude that he hadn’t.
Sergei hated what his wounds had done to his chest. The scars weren’t quite such an angry red anymore, but they were hardly inconspicuous. Thick scar tissue knotted around the place where the bullet had gone in, and a long, ropy line down his breastbone marked where the surgeons had opened his chest.
“Guess my stripping days are over,” he’d whispered the first time he’d looked at himself in the mirror.
Dom had put his hands on Sergei’s shoulders and kissed his cheek. Meeting each other’s gazes in the reflection beneath the hospital bathroom’s fluorescent light, he’d said, “They’ll fade. Give them time.”
Sergei had scowled and lowered his eyes. “They’ll always be there, though.”
“Maybe.” Dom had wrapped his arms around him. “But so will I.”
They’d locked eyes in the mirror again, and Sergei smirked. “You really are a sap, you know that?”
They both burst out laughing, but a grimace from Sergei brought the moment to a halt.
“Shit…”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” Sergei rubbed his chest gingerly. “Sense of humor’s still intact, but I may have to keep it on ice for a while.”
“Duly noted.”
Over time, though, the wounds had healed, and the bones and muscles mended enough that Sergei could laugh comfortably. Outside of physical therapy, anyway. He wasn’t in nearly as much pain these days, thank God. Still plenty of healing to do, still plenty of days that were worse than others, but he was going to be all right.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that Floresta and Mandanici had dragged Dom into a back alley, where Sergei had intervened and saved him. At the time, Dom had had no idea then that they’d become lovers, that they’d fall for each other, or that Sergei would put his life on the line to save him a second time.
And in the end, Sergei had not only saved Dom’s life but freed him from a world he’d never imagined escaping. A world that had managed to break them both but hadn’t broken them far enough to keep them from bringing the whole thing down before they got the hell out.
The men who’d survived the marina shootout and the wrecks on the highway were all in jail, awaiting trial. The families’ lawyers had attempted to work their magic, but that anonymously submitted package of damning evidence to the FBI put a stop to that. The Maisanos, Cusimanos, and Passantinos were all in shambles now.
Last Dom heard, the feds were still hunting for him, as well as the mysterious “Georgian.”
Good luck with that.
Dom grinned to himself, squeezing Sergei’s hand.
He didn’t know what to expect from this new life. Sergei had property on the coast of Tasmania, and even without new identities, Dom couldn’t imagine anyone finding them there.
It had been a rough road, but they were going to be all right. Between them, they had enough money to keep them going for years, but more importantly, they were free now. He had a new identity that wasn’t tied to the Mafia. He had the man he loved.
And against all odds, they’d made it out.
Together.