Stubborn idiot. Hospitals routinely called the cops when people came in with signs of assault and battery. When well-dressed Italians came in with signs of assault and battery? Nobody called nobody.
“You could be bleeding internally.”
“I’ll take my chances.” He shifted, wincing. “But I’d rather not stay out here.”
Sergei bit back some profanity in his native tongue. The less this guy knew about him, the better.
“Listen.” The Italian groaned, holding his side protectively. “If you’re gonna shoot me, just fucking get it over with.”
“If I was going to shoot you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. What’s your name?”
The Italian lifted his head enough to meet Sergei’s gaze. “Who wants to know?”
Sergei rolled his eyes. “The guy who’s going to decide whether you wake up tomorrow in a hospital, a jail cell, or a morgue.”
He blinked. “Domenico Maisano.”
Sergei’s blood turned cold and he muttered, “You’re shitting me.”
Maisano laughed, but then grimaced, and managed to croak, “You’ve heard of me.”
“Yeah. I have.” Sergei knew that name well. This guy was the nephew—more like adopted son—of Corrado Maisano himself, the boss of the powerful Maisano clan. A contractor like Sergei, who worked with all three of the big families, had to tread carefully. He had no way of knowing if he’d just interrupted a sanctioned hit, albeit a sloppily executed one. If it wasn’t sanctioned, and by some chance, someone figured out he’d been the one to finish the job, he’d bring the wrath of all three families down on his own head.
Son of a bitch. All he’d wanted to do was get all this crap away from the club so the cops wouldn’t come knocking on doors. Now he had Domenico fucking Maisano on his hands.
“Can you walk or not?” he asked sharply.
The Italian groaned again. “I don’t… I don’t know.” He tried to take a step, but stumbled, and when Sergei caught him, the man gasped. “Fuck. That hurts.”
“You got a phone?”
Maisano gingerly patted his pockets, and then shook his head. “Not… not anymore.”
“Of course you don’t.” Sergei looked around. They were pretty far from town, and no one would be wandering around here this late at night. “Don’t move.”
Maisano mumbled something about that not being a problem.
Still wearing the stolen gloves, Sergei made sure Maisano hadn’t bled on the backseat—he didn’t care if Maisano was connected to the assholes in the trunk, but on the off chance someone happened by before he’d relieved himself of the limping Italian, Sergei didn’t want anyone connecting him to them.
Then he went to the trunk, opened it, relieved one of the dead guys of his phone, and slammed the lid. “Come on. We’re going for a walk.”
“Maybe you are,” Maisano said through his teeth. “Look at me.”
“Well, it’s up to you. The paramedics can find you over there”—Sergei gestured with the phone toward a park a few blocks away—“or they can find you here.” He tapped the trunk with his gloved knuckle.
Maisano’s eyes widened.
“So.” Sergei nodded toward the park. “Let’s go.”
Maisano cursed again. Then he carefully pushed himself off the car and took a few slow, painful steps. “Don’t expect me to walk fast.”
Sergei bit back his impatience. “Need a hand?”
Maisano eyed him suspiciously, but then nodded. “I could use one, yeah.”
Sergei took his elbow, and together, they shuffled toward the park.
On the way, Sergei expected questions. Who the hell was he? What the fuck was he doing interfering with Mob business?
But Maisano didn’t ask. Maybe he was in too much pain to give a damn. Or he could’ve been silently thanking one of his Catholic saints for the leather clad angel who’d swooped in and saved his ass.
Good thing he kept his mouth shut. Sergei hated questions. And Maisano could thank all the saints he wanted—he didn’t need to know he was walking with an angel of death.
Chapter 2
Every step Dom took was agony. Thank God this kid had intervened when he did. Left to their own devices, Floresta and Mandanici may or may not have killed him, but they sure would’ve done some more damage.
Clutching his side and holding his breath, Dom stole a glance at the slight blond enigma walking beside him. He didn’t know what to make of this kid. Not a fucking clue. He had to be around twenty-five, give or take a year, and judging by his accent, he must’ve been a Russian immigrant. There were a lot of those in Cape Swan. The way he was dressed—tight red leather and not a lot of it—he was either a stripper or a hooker. Nobody in this town dressed like that unless they were selling orgasms.
He obviously wasn’t a *. There was no telling what he’d done to Mandanici and Floresta. Dom had been on the verge of blacking out when the kid had shown up, and he’d only just been aware of the shot that had apparently hobbled Mandanici. Then Floresta had knocked Dom to the ground, and everything that happened after that was hazy at best. Next thing he remembered, he was being guided out of the car and onto his feet, and why the fuck were they down by the marina?