The Italian’s nostrils flared and his jaw tightened, but he nodded.
Slowly, they both stepped out of the car. Sergei waved him around to the back of the car and popped the trunk.
Nicolá balked. His eyes darted this way and that, but he didn’t move—apparently he wasn’t going to challenge Sergei’s marksmanship. Good. He needed Nicolá alive for the time being.
Sergei put on a pair of thin leather gloves. Then he pulled a foil sheet out of his pocket. It was dotted with gray-blue lumps of a dried paste, and he popped two off. They were a mix of Ecstasy and God knew what else. His poison guy, Katashi, had been selling it to him for the past couple of years, and it worked wonders for subduing marks who needed to stay alive but compliant for a little while.
“Put these under your tongue.”
Nicolá arched an eyebrow. “How about you put them in your—”
The pistol pointed at his forehead shut him up.
“Under your tongue.” Sergei held out the tabs. “Now.”
Nicolá took them, but eyed them. “What are they?”
“They’re not bullets. Put them—”
“How do I know they aren’t—”
Sergei lowered the weapon and jammed the muzzle against Nicolá’s balls. “Both of those under your tongue, or one of these in each nut. Got it?”
Nicolá slipped the tabs under his tongue. He grimaced, probably at the taste.
“Don’t swallow it,” Sergei said sharply. “And just to make sure you don’t spit it out.” He held up a roll of duct tape.
The Italian’s grimace turned murderous, his lips blanching and nearly vanishing, but he didn’t stop Sergei from taping his mouth. If looks could kill…
But they couldn’t.
Sergei nodded toward the car. “Into the trunk.”
Nicolá hesitated for a split second. A muzzle tap against his dick got the message across, and he climbed into the back of the car.
Sergei bound his hands and ankles with tape. Then he slammed the trunk and went around to the driver side. He wasn’t worried about the mark getting loose back there. There were no sharp edges or anything in the trunk—he’d made sure of that. And even if he’d overlooked a potential escape route or a weapon, the drug would keep Nicolá from noticing anything beyond whatever blissed out hallucinations kept his subconscious occupied for the next few hours.
With Nicolá safely getting high in the trunk, Sergei drove over to the clubs that Eugenio frequented. He wasn’t at the first two, but the third time was the charm—the goon’s car was parked just outside.
Sergei parked nearby. Then he glanced around, made sure no one was looking, and quickly jimmied the man’s car door open. He cut a tiny slit into the leather interior of the driver seat, and tucked a needle and small syringe beneath it, with the needle sticking up so Eugenio wouldn’t be able to avoid sitting on it and injecting himself with the poison. Once everything was in place, he wiped the car for prints, locked the doors, and returned to the stolen car, which was parked where he could easily see when Cusimano came out.
And then he waited.
Elbow pressed beneath the window, he rested his head on his hand and drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. This was the boring part. Waiting. There were only so many times he could play out his plans in his mind before he wanted to fucking go.
He was impatient with short term plans, but he was pacified by the knowledge that his longer term plans were beginning to come to fruition. These days, the Cusimanos appeared to be solid, but the in-fighting was slowly unraveling their entire power structure. The Passantinos just needed their elderly boss to retire or die, and he’d be succeeded by his second-in-command, a vicious Sicilian-born con artist with the Cusimanos in his back pocket.
And the Maisanos were nearly there too. Corrado was in good health and was well-respected by the Passantino boss, not to mention his own family. If something were to happen to him, he’d be succeeded by his equally well-respected son, Luciano. There’d been rumors that Corrado had other men in line for his position in case Luciano died before him. After all, no one wanted Corrado’s psychopath younger son, Felice, in power. But a series of tragic accidents, tips to the cops, and blatant executions had removed nearly everyone fit to fill the senior Maisano’s shoes. Everyone except for Luciano.