He was curious about the hit, especially since it seemed to be coming awfully quickly on the heels of Barcia’s contract, but he wasn’t terribly surprised. There’d been an uptick in violence among the families over the last few months. From all three sides, men were sending up smoke signals to each other in blood and gun powder. There was a war brewing. A big one.
Sergei had played a role in that. None of the families had yet caught on that for the past few years, he’d been methodically arranging them like chess pieces. He’d long ago learned what could mark a man for death. By strategically setting someone up—framing him for embezzlement, planting conspicuous bugs in homes and vehicles so it appeared someone was in cahoots with the law—Sergei could virtually guarantee that the powers that be would issue a contract on that man’s head. Getting that contract himself was a plus, and the money certainly never hurt, but as long as it ended with one more Mafioso in a body bag, Sergei was pleased.
The most important part was that when the right people were killed—either by Sergei directly or because he’d set them up—then other people moved into power. With time and patience, he had, for all intents and purposes, sculpted the leadership of all three families until they were, without even realizing it, moving themselves into checkmate. He’d cleared the way for men with bloody grudges to rise to power opposite each other. Removed the more sensible, diplomatic ones in favor of the hotheads and sociopaths. The ones who could be manipulated into going to war with each other and, ultimately, bring all three organizations down in flames.
Causing the right people to move up in the ranks at the right time was like throwing gas-filled water balloons at a bonfire—explosions were inevitable. For a hundred grand, Sergei could arrange for one of those explosions to happen sooner than later.
He exchanged nods with Roy and then stepped into a private booth with Baltazar.
Baltazar didn’t sit down. They faced each other across the small booth, and the man slipped his hands into his pockets as he said, “I’ve got an invite to a party, Dmitry.” Even Sergei’s Mafia contacts didn’t know his real name. He carefully kept it that way.
“When and where?” he asked.
Baltazar pulled out a photo and handed it to Sergei. On the back, the mark’s name, Nicolá Cannizzaro, was handwritten. He knew the name—a member of the Maisano clan. The brother of Luciano Maisano’s wife, if he recalled correctly. Sergei committed the name to memory, then studied the photo for a moment until it, too, was well burned into his mind.
He handed it back. He didn’t want that photo anywhere near him when the body was found.
Baltazar tucked the photo in his pocket again. “I’d also like to bring a friend.”
Sergei nodded. That was code for killing two birds with one stone. “Who’s your friend?”
Baltazar handed over a second photo. That was a face Sergei had seen before. Eugene Cusimano, a soldier who answered to one of the Cusimano lieutenants.
He handed back the photos. “Are they both getting in on it? Or does one want to watch?”
“My friend only wants to watch, but not participate.”
So Eugenio Cusimano needed to be framed, but left alive. Why they didn’t want Eugenio taken out too, or why this needed to be on him, or what would happen to him once Nicolá’s people got their hands on him, was none of Sergei’s business. What was his business was the fact that Eugenio would be marked after this, which would probably mean another contract for Sergei, but more importantly, Eugenio would be out of the picture. That would remove a worthless drunk from the chessboard and leave room within the Cusimano ranks for one of the hothead newly made men to move up. Perfect.
“I’m in.” It wasn’t like he could say no even if he wanted to, but he rarely objected to culling Mafiosi. “When’s the party?”
“Sunday.”
Sergei raised his eyebrows. “That’s a bit tight for a party with this much going on.”
Baltazar gave a tight shrug. “It’s what’s offered. Take it or leave it.”
“Logistics are what they are. If I can’t do it by Sunday, I guarantee no one else in this town can.”
Baltazar scowled. “Get it done in ten days, or it’s both our necks in ropes. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Baltazar handed him an envelope. “This plus what I gave you earlier is twenty grand upfront. The rest on completion.”
Sergei quickly thumbed through the bills, and then closed the envelope. “See you at the party.”
Chapter 4
“You look much better than you did last time I saw you.” Rojas smiled like he meant it. “How are you feeling?”
Dom eased himself onto his plush leather sofa. “Amazing what a week can do. I finally don’t feel like I got hit by a truck, so I think I’ll pull through.”
“Looks like you will.” Rojas sat beside him. He checked Dom’s various injuries, most of which had faded to angry but harmless bruises. The concussion had left Dom with the odd headache, and his ribs were still sore, but with each passing day, he felt more human.
“Do you need any more pain pills?” Rojas asked.
Dom shook his head. “No. I haven’t even had to take them the last day or so.”
“Good. Very good. Well if you—”
Footsteps turned their heads.