“No time.” Baltazar pointed past Sergei.
Sergei turned around, and swore. The Coast Guard was out. So were the Cusimanos. With a dead Mafioso dead on a boat out here, Sergei didn’t want to be around when fingers—and guns—started pointing.
He faced Baltazar again, and this time clasped his hand around the Greek’s forearm. Baltazar grabbed Sergei’s tanks with his other hand, and helped him over the side, but as soon as Sergei’s center of gravity had shifted enough to keep him from slipping back into the water, Baltazar let him go.
Sergei tumbled unceremoniously onto the deck. “Thanks, asshole.”
“Sorry.” Baltazar gestured to his nephew, who was at the wheel, and the kid gunned the throttle, knocking Sergei off balance again.
Sergei cursed in his native tongue as he unfastened his tanks and kicked off his fins. “You’re gonna get me the bends.”
“You should’ve been here sooner.”
“Yeah, well.” Sergei spat some salt water on the deck. “Things didn’t…” I got an innocent man killed. I almost had to kill… Shuddering, he muttered, “They didn’t go as planned.”
“Occupational hazard, my friend,” Baltazar said coolly.
“Just give me a fucking oxygen tank. And a blanket before I fucking freeze.”
Baltazar dug into one of the compartments beside the helm, and pulled out a small tank and mask. He also found a thick brown blanket and tossed it to Sergei. “You get it done?”
Sergei shrugged off his scuba tanks. “Yep. Dropped Privitera in the—”
“Privitera?” Baltazar froze. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Sergei nearly dropped the tanks on Baltazar’s foot, and met his glare unapologetically. “I took out the second man down. What was I supposed to—”
The Greek’s hand came out of nowhere and connected with Sergei’s face, his ring cracking against bone. “You fucking idiot!”
The pain caught him off guard. Sergei touched his cheekbone and narrowed his stinging eyes at Greek. “What the fuck was that for?”
“I had a lookout on the marina who said Domenico Maisano was on that boat, Dmitry. How in the fuck did you think—”
“What?” Sergei lowered his hand, carefully schooling his expression to hide the shaky panicky feeling in his stomach. At least this violent shivering was good for something. “I didn’t see him.”
“Holy shit, Dmitry! Did you fucking look?” Baltazar shoved his fat fingers through his greasy hair. “How am I going to explain—”
Sergei seized Baltazar by the throat and slammed him up against the bulkhead. “Listen to me, motherfucker.”
Baltazar stared at him, eyes huge.
“If you want me to take out a specific person,” Sergei snarled, “you give me a goddamned name. From where I was standing, Privitera was the highest man on the roster besides Felice himself.” He shoved himself back, using Baltazar’s throat as leverage, and let go.
The Greek rubbed his neck.
“You wanted a message sent, and I sent it,” Sergei hissed as he snatched the blanket off the bench. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me if you wanted someone specific?”
Baltazar showed his palms. “My orders were to tell you to take out the second man down. No one said who he was.”
“Yeah, you don’t say.” Sergei jerked the zipper down on his wetsuit and stripped to the waist. As he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, he growled, “Give me that tank so I don’t get fucking bent.”
Wordlessly, Baltazar handed it over. Sergei took a seat, put on the mask, and turned the valve. He breathed slowly and deeply through his chattering teeth. The air was cold, which didn’t help him warm up, but between the blanket and the brutal sun, his limbs were beginning to thaw.
He leaned over, pressing his elbow into his knees and his stinging fingers into his temples. Muscles ached. His fingers burned. But his biggest worry was that rapid ascent, and he kept on breathing that cold, cold air, no matter how much it made his lungs burn and his teeth hurt.
Baltazar’s contact would be pissed, and Baltazar himself was pissed, but at least Sergei had the vague order as an alibi. And thank God no one had been specific, or Dom would’ve been a dead man.
Just like the poor Korean guy who was probably still floating out there somewhere, assuming the sharks or the Coast Guard hadn’t found him yet.
Sergei winced.
He played and replayed the whole incident in his mind, over and over again. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. The Korean’s screams echoed in his ears, drawing bile up his throat. Thank God Dom had killed the poor bastard. Sergei was in this to kill Mafia men, for fuck’s sake. Not get desperate immigrants killed. It was his fault. He hadn’t been able to kill Dom, so he’d gone for the next best target, and he hadn’t been careful enough about when and where he did it, and one of the immigrants had taken the fall. It was his fucking fault.