The Russian quickly left Dom’s office, and Dom leaned back in his chair. Corrado and Felice would both have his head if they knew about his little sub racket, but Dom knew how to cover his tracks. He’d learned to use both of his jobs—handling the debts of the immigrants, and overseeing the laundering of the dirty money—to help the people his family was intent on screwing over.
Once a month or so, he quietly released one of the immigrants and sent them on their way. With a little financial magic, he erased the remaining debt and the money he gave them to start their new life, and no one was ever the wiser. If someone started sniffing around and asking questions about the books, he slipped some of his own money in and wrote it off as laundered money resurfacing after being routed and rerouted to separate it from its dirty origins. Since no one but him could follow where a dollar went before it reappeared, no one could prove he’d massaged the books as long as he didn’t do it enough to raise red flags.
He hadn’t had any issues with immigrants telling each other what he was doing, and he doubted that would ever become an issue. Most of these people had been threatened twelve ways from Sunday by the Mafia, and wisely believed every word of every threat.
If he could’ve done it without risk to the people, he’d have canceled the debts and sent every one of the families away from Cape Swan. But he couldn’t. In some cases, their papers hadn’t been processed yet, and they’d be left in a terrible limbo between him and the family. Mostly, though, he knew he’d be marked for death if anyone knew he’d even considered forgiving that much debt and cutting loose the entire pool of cheap labor upon which the narcotics ring depended.
But one family at a time, he let them go.
At least that helped him sleep at night. It didn’t clear his conscience, and it didn’t rinse away the blood on his hands.
But it helped.
Chapter 15
Baltazar was back. A little thrill shot through Sergei as he continued dancing for the money-waving men in front of him. He wasn’t used to seeing the Greek this often. Once or twice a month at the most, but Baltazar had been in here almost weekly since the beginning of the summer. Things were heating up all over the place, weren’t they?
After his performance, he went through the motions of letting the other men bid, and of course, Baltazar won. They moved into the booth at the back of the club, where Sergei turned up the music.
“Dmitry,” Baltazar said with a subtle nod.
“Baltazar.” He didn’t return the gesture—felt a little too much like bowing, and he didn’t bow to this guy or anybody else.
The Greek absently tugged at his jacket cuffs. “I’ve got an invite to a party on Saturday. A dinner cruise.”
Sergei bit back a curse. This was a seaside town with a lot of illicit activity happening out on the water, which meant that sometimes he had to fill contracts on boats. And he fucking hated boats. “Who’s hosting?” Who’s the mark?
“The first mate, if he’s there.”
Sergei nodded. So the mark wasn’t specifically named. He was to take out the second highest ranking man aboard. Just as well he knew his way around the complex hierarchy of the families. Pity he couldn’t blow up the whole boat and let the crabs finish them off, but overkill was a good way to accidentally take out an ally. Or an ally of someone whose bad side Sergei couldn’t afford to be on. Or, worst of all, one of the innocent immigrants who the Maisanos used as slave labor.
Sergei nodded, and as Baltazar put the photo away, asked, “How many fireworks?”
“Just enough for the party.”
So the hit was intended to send a message, probably to the highest ranking man aboard. By taking out the next man down, he’d be telling the top dog “It could’ve been you, and next time it just might be.”
“What about security?” he asked. “On the boat and the marina?”
“It’ll be handled.”
Sure it would. Though Sergei’s handlers had always come through when they’d agreed to compromise security—disabling alarms, putting personnel out of commission, setting up diversions—there was a first time for everything. He never, ever took for granted that a job wasn’t just a means for putting him in the crosshairs of another hitman. Or, worse—law enforcement.
“All right,” he said, making a mental note to go to the marina the night before and do a security check. “What time?”
“Saturday. Party starts at three-nineteen.”
The boat is in row three, slip nineteen.
“That only gives me a few days to prepare,” he muttered.
“That’s when the party is. Be there, or don’t count on another invitation.”
Invisible scorpions crawled up Sergei’s spine. This was one of those contracts—kill him when you’re told, or it’s your head next time. No room for error.
“This is another hundred grand job,” Baltazar said. “They want it done right, and they want it done on time. You in?”
As if Sergei had a choice. He knew about the job, so now he either had to accept the contract or wait for a bullet of his own.
“Yeah. I’m in.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up when it’s done. I don’t see you by 10:30 am, though, you’re on your own.”
Sergei nodded. “Where will you be waiting?”