Except it probably would have played out the same if he’d killed Dom. Felice would’ve flipped out, and he’d have blamed one of the men working for him.
It would have happened exactly the same way. The only difference was that Dom would be dead.
Closing his eyes, Sergei tucked his arm against his stomach and gritted his teeth against the wave of nausea. There was no holding it back, though, so he tore off the mask, twisted around, and heaved overboard. God knew if it was the bends, seasickness, or if he was just fucked up in the head after the way things had gone down on the boat. Or a combination of all three.
That wasn’t how it was supposed to go down. Especially not in horrific fashion. Wherever the unfortunate man had taken the bullet, his screams had been the stuff of nightmares.
Sergei was convinced the other Koreans were only alive—if shaken—because of Dom. Felice had no doubt had every intention of killing all of them. But Dom had stepped in, and then he’d put the wounded man out of his misery and made no apologies for it.
That was a side of Dom that didn’t make sense. Even though he’d known Dom wasn’t like the others, that he wanted out of this life more than anything in the world, it was different to see it. To witness his humanity outside the privacy of a shitty motel room, out where the rubber met the road.
He was Mafia. He was one of them.
But you’ve seen him in private. You’ve heard him say how much he hates what he is. You know what he is and what he isn’t.
Sergei cradled his throbbing head in his freezing hands.
He wanted to believe the Dom he met at night was human. He didn’t want to believe that a Mafioso was. But Dom was a Mafioso. Dom was human. Dom was…
Fuck. I’m losing my fucking mind.
*
Sergei was still shivering when he made it to shore. Even after he changed into some clothes that had been soaking up the morning’s warmth in his car, he couldn’t get warm. Time to go home and take a shower. A long, hot shower that would take away the cold, the salt, and maybe some of the guilt that—
His phone buzzed in the cup holder. He glared at it for a moment.
Oh Christ. Now what?
Cursing under his breath, he picked it up, and didn’t expect to see a text from Dom.
Need to see you tonight. Please.
Sergei swallowed. Fresh guilt clawed at him from the inside. He’d been moments away from putting a bullet into Dom. Now he was going to have sex with him like nothing happened?
Yes. Because nothing did happen. Because for reasons Sergei couldn’t quite parse, he hadn’t put a bullet in Dom, and he needed to have sex with him. Just to make sure he was alive. Or to appease his conscience somehow. Or, fuck, he didn’t know, but with fingers that were still partially numb, he wrote back:
I’m off tonight. Sooner the better.
Dom’s reply came almost immediately:
I can be there any time. Afternoon?
He’d text Dom with an address and room later. For now, he headed home. On the way, he tapped his thumbs on the wheel. He needed to see Dom. Probably more than he had any right to, but after everything that had happened today, he needed to see him, and touch him, and make sure he really was still alive.
I’m not supposed to feel this way for you. I’m not supposed to feel anything for you.
What the hell is going on?
*
By the time Sergei checked into the motel, he didn’t feel any better. He’d showered. Shaved. Showered again. Scrubbed his skin until it was raw. As he left his apartment, his whole body ached—his fucking bones ached—but he ignored it. After a swim like that, and some hypothermia to boot, everything was bound to hurt. Didn’t matter. He needed Dom, pain be damned.
After he’d collected the key, he headed up the hall. Not ten feet from his room, the floor suddenly jerked beneath him. He stumbled and smacked his palm against the wall to right himself.
What the hell?
The floor listed again. The walls tilted. He leaned against the wall and took a few breaths. Then a cautious step. The floor was still uneven, but he kept a hand on the wall and guided himself to his door.
The imbalance became dizziness. The dizziness became nausea. That wouldn’t bode well for the evening he needed with Dom, so he decided maybe some ginger ale would settle his stomach. The vending machine probably had some. It had likely been in there since the 1980s, but it was better than nothing.
Sergei pulled out his wallet to see if he had any ones. As he did, the simple motion of reaching into his pocket sent a dull ache through his shoulder. Deep inside the joint. In his bones. As he leaned down to get his soda out of the machine, a similar ache radiated from his hip. And his knee.
That’s not muscle pain. That’s not fatigue.
Sergei gulped.
That’s not good.
All the way back to his room, he tried to tell himself it was, in fact, muscle fatigue. After all, he hadn’t been diving in a long time, and it was taxing for muscles he didn’t use like this very often. Even more so when he’d had to fight the cold.
Except it wasn’t a tired muscle. Nor was the ache steadily deepening in his hips.