Dom’s fingers stopped. “Is that a compliment, or…?”
“Yeah.” Sergei laughed. “Trust me, it’s a compliment.”
Dom chuckled, sliding his hand over Sergei’s waist. “In that case… thanks.”
Sergei ran his fingers down Dom’s arm. “I guess you don’t… you don’t seem like the Mafia type.”
“What is the Mafia type?”
“Well…” Sergei swept his tongue across his lips. “I don’t know. Not you.”
Dom released a long breath. “I wish it wasn’t me, believe me.”
Sergei furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“If I had the choice, I wouldn’t be what I am.”
“Then why are you?”
“Like I said… if I had a choice.”
Sergei held his gaze, wondering how far to push the question. He was curious as hell—a Mafioso who didn’t want to be? Since when?—but was it his place to ask? Dom wanted him for sex, not questions about a career he apparently didn’t want.
So instead, he slid closer, running his hand over Dom’s hip, and glanced past him at the ancient alarm clock on the bedside table. “It’s almost three. I probably shouldn’t keep you much longer.”
“I shouldn’t be here in the first place.” Dom combed his fingers through Sergei’s hair. “Damage is already done, I think.”
“Does that mean you want to stay for a while?”
“That depends—how many condoms did you bring?”
Goose bumps sprang up along Sergei’s spine and a shudder nudged him even closer to Dom. “More than enough.”
“Good.” Dom tipped up Sergei’s chin and kissed him. “Think we might need them.”
Oh God yes. More of you? Fuck yes.
He didn’t speak, though. He nudged Dom onto his back. Straddled him. Kissed him.
And didn’t ask any more questions that night.
Chapter 12
After every night he spent with Sergei, Dom felt strange returning the next morning to the only life he’d ever known. He may as well have taken a hundred-year vacation from his own existence, and coming back to it was like materializing in someone else’s world.
But he didn’t let it show. He didn’t dare. This morning, as he did every time after checking out of the seedy motel, Dom had gone home, showered, put on a suit, and driven down to the office where he ran his part of the family’s operation. To the untrained eye, this was a temp agency where blue collar workers came in for short term employment, not where deeply indebted immigrants came to pay off the hefty bribes that would eventually earn them their citizenship.
As always, there was already a line outside the door. A dozen or so tired, sun-beaten men waited, watching Dom stroll into the building while they clutched weathered papers and manila folders to their threadbare shirts.
He could guess why most of them were here. Some were making payments on their debts to the family. Some needed more time. Some could barely scratch the surface of what they owed, but their circumstances demanded they come here and put themselves even deeper into debt.
Each man who came through here was different, and each was the same. They hailed from South America, Russia, China, even the occasional escapee from North Korea, but they all had the same story. Desperation had forced them from their homeland, and they’d come to America looking for something better. Immigration wasn’t easy, though, and it wasn’t cheap.
That was where the Maisanos came in.
For a fee, the immigrant’s papers would be expedited. For an even bigger fee, the person would get more than a green card—citizenship and everything that came with it. And for a fuckload of money, the immigrant’s family would be safely brought over and naturalized in a fraction of the time it would take through legitimate channels.
Felice’s crew oversaw the immigration arrangements. They issued the terms and handled the transportation of family members to the United States. Dom’s job was to disburse and receive money. He was the financial wizard—the man who could make dirty money disappear and resurface, clean as the day it was printed. When the debt was paid, he issued the people their paperwork, and sent them on their way as freshly minted American citizens.
As Dom settled in for the day, he caught himself wondering if Sergei was a citizen. He was obviously not American-born. Not with that accent. And sex workers in this town were often doing what they could to get by until they could get legitimate work.
Dom had a few Russian families on his payroll. He perused a few, looking to see if any had sons in their early twenties. With a click of a button, Dom could erase the family’s debt and expedite their paperwork.
No one came up, though.
Sergei had obviously been here a while. Long enough to soften his accent slightly.