Lovely son you have there, Maisano. Be a shame if something happened to him.
Sergei wasn’t ready to make that move yet, though. As twitchy as he was about carrying out tonight’s plan—c’mon, Eugenio…—he was a patient man when it came to his larger goals. He had to be absolutely sure that all of the families were in checkmate, not just check, before he took out Luciano and Corrado Maisano. He had to be absolutely certain that Felice would take over and all other potential heirs had been eliminated. Once Felice did take over, Sergei would make sure Old Man Passantino “retired,” leaving his son in power. Putting those two opposite each other was like dropping a pair of rabid wolverines into a cage together. Except these two rabid wolverines would have an army of made men and the authority to sic them on each other. Then all that remained for Sergei was to skip town while the families finished each other off.
And once again, as he drummed the steering wheel and watched for Eugenio, Sergei’s mind wandered back to a particular Maisano. One who hadn’t ever played any role in his plans because he never seemed to play a significant role in anything besides the family’s bookkeeping.
And getting his ass beat, apparently.
Sergei didn’t know who had decided Domenico Maisano needed a beating, never mind why, but it didn’t matter. Mafia royalty or not, Domenico didn’t seem like much more than a pawn. On the other hand, Domenico’s father had left a shameful enough legacy to taint his son’s name as well as his own, and although Domenico was apparently a savvy businessman and a made man, there were plenty of people in all three families convinced that he was a rat waiting to happen. Though it was unusual for someone quite so high up in the ranks to be roughed up by a couple of goons, that night behind the club may very well have been a warning.
Whatever the case, Domenico wasn’t Sergei’s problem. He wasn’t even sure why he kept thinking back to that night, besides the intrusion on his territory by idiots who didn’t know how to be discreet. Somehow, though, Domenico kept creeping into the back of Sergei’s mind.
He shook himself, focusing on the black Lincoln parked outside the bar. The only piece of the Maisano clan he needed to worry about tonight was currently tied up and tripping balls in the trunk.
And what the hell? When it came to Mafia-connected Italians, Sergei didn’t have a sympathetic bone in his body. Yet he was curious if Domenico had recovered.
Of course he was. A man like that getting fucked up by goons like those was a sure sign that the war was about to begin. It was entirely possible that he’d been meant to be the Archduke Ferdinand for the Maisanos—the nobleman whose assassination ignited years of bloodshed that had been a long time coming.
Did that mean Sergei had inadvertently doused the fire that he himself had been trying to start for the past few years?
He thumbed the grip of the pistol beside his seat. Maybe he needed to finish the job. It had been a necessity, offing those two assholes and moving the would-be crime away from the place where he did business, but Domenico Maisano’s survival had been collateral damage.
Right. Which is the only reason you helped him get his ass to a park bench so he could wait for help.
Sergei tapped his gloved finger on the gun. Every bullet he ever fired was part of the plan. When he spared a life, it wasn’t compassion or even mercy. He’d spared Domenico Maisano because that was how this business worked. You didn’t just kill a made man because he was there. Fulfilling a sanctioned hit was one thing—the person who called in the hit would be blamed and punished if anyone felt compelled. The hitman was doing his job. But killing a made man without a contract put the blame squarely on Sergei’s head. If Domenico’s death was ever somehow traced back to Sergei, the punishment would be severe and anything but swift. Corrado Maisano had a well-earned reputation for using butchery as a means of making a point or seeking vengeance. The execution for murdering his nephew would probably not be pleasant.
And yet, Sergei’s brain kept circling back to… why? He could have easily gotten away with it. The gun was unregistered. .22 caliber bullets were almost never traced back to the weapon that fired them—they were too common, and half the time, damaged by ping-ponging around inside the body before coming to rest in a bone or something. And anyway, he’d flung the gun off a cliff several miles south of town. Neither the cops nor the Mafia—whoever would’ve found the body first—would’ve had any more reason to connect Sergei to Domenico’s murder than they would the other two men who’d been bound and shot in the Caddy’s trunk.
He shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face.
Focus, damn it. You’ve got a job to do.