the Archduke Ferdinand for the Maisanos—the nobleman whose assassination ignited years of bloodshed that had been a long time coming.
Did that mean Sergei had inadvertently doused the fire that he himself had been trying to start for the past few years?
He thumbed the grip of the pistol beside his seat. Maybe he needed to finish the job. It had been a necessity, offing those two assholes and moving the would-be crime away from the place where he did business, but Domenico Maisano’s survival had been collateral damage.
Right. Which is the only reason you helped him get his ass to a park bench so he could wait for help.
Sergei tapped his gloved finger on the gun. Every bullet he ever fired was part of the plan. When he spared a life, it wasn’t compassion or even mercy. He’d spared Domenico Maisano because that was how this business worked. You didn’t just kill a made man because he was there. Fulfilling a sanctioned hit was one thing—the person who called in the hit would be blamed and punished if anyone felt compelled. The hitman was doing his job. But killing a made man without a contract put the blame squarely on Sergei’s head. If Domenico’s death was ever somehow traced back to Sergei, the punishment would be severe and anything but swift. Corrado Maisano had a well-earned reputation for using butchery as a means of making a point or seeking vengeance. The execution for murdering his nephew would probably not be pleasant.
And yet, Sergei’s brain kept circling back to… why? He could have easily gotten away with it. The gun was unregistered. .22 caliber bullets were almost never traced back to the weapon that fired them—they were too common, and half the time, damaged by ping-ponging around inside the body before coming to rest in a bone or something. And anyway, he’d flung the gun off a cliff several miles south of town. Neither the cops nor the Mafia—whoever would’ve found the body first—would’ve had any more reason to connect Sergei to Domenico’s murder than they would the other two men who’d been bound and shot in the Caddy’s trunk.
He shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face.
Focus, damn it. You’ve got a job to do.
And maybe once that job was finished, he could waste a bit more time wondering why the fuck Domenico Maisano was still alive.
Around two in the morning, right on schedule, Eugenio Cusimano came stumbling out of the bar and staggered to where he’d parked. He dropped his keys three times, but finally managed to get the door open.
Sergei started his engine. Adrenaline was beginning to drip into his veins, and his heart sped up as he put the car in gear.
Eugenio fidgeted and shifted around in his seat for a moment. Maybe he’d felt the needle. Maybe he was just too drunk to control his limbs anymore. Eventually, though, he finally pulled out of his space, and headed out to the road. Sergei followed him.
Three miles later, Sergei was getting nervous. That car was still staying between the lines, Eugenio driving much too well for a man in his state. Between the booze and the cocktail of tranquilizers inside that syringe, Eugenio should’ve been groggy as fuck by now. He really shouldn’t have even been conscious.
Sergei tapped his thumbs rapidly on the wheel. Maybe it hadn’t worked. The poison usually kicked in quickly, but Eugenio had a hell of an alcohol tolerance. What if Sergei hadn’t worked out the right dose? Or maybe the needle hadn’t gone in. Or he’d felt it before he’d pressed down enough to activate the plunger.
No. Sergei had planned for every contingency and variable. It would work. It had to.
But why wasn’t it working? What the fuck was—
Eugenio started to weave lazily. Though the brake lights didn’t come on, the car lost speed. After a sluggish mile or so, it nosed off the road onto the soft shoulder and came to a lazy stop.
Sergei stopped behind him, left the engine running, and cautiously approached the vehicle. Just
Did that mean Sergei had inadvertently doused the fire that he himself had been trying to start for the past few years?
He thumbed the grip of the pistol beside his seat. Maybe he needed to finish the job. It had been a necessity, offing those two assholes and moving the would-be crime away from the place where he did business, but Domenico Maisano’s survival had been collateral damage.
Right. Which is the only reason you helped him get his ass to a park bench so he could wait for help.
Sergei tapped his gloved finger on the gun. Every bullet he ever fired was part of the plan. When he spared a life, it wasn’t compassion or even mercy. He’d spared Domenico Maisano because that was how this business worked. You didn’t just kill a made man because he was there. Fulfilling a sanctioned hit was one thing—the person who called in the hit would be blamed and punished if anyone felt compelled. The hitman was doing his job. But killing a made man without a contract put the blame squarely on Sergei’s head. If Domenico’s death was ever somehow traced back to Sergei, the punishment would be severe and anything but swift. Corrado Maisano had a well-earned reputation for using butchery as a means of making a point or seeking vengeance. The execution for murdering his nephew would probably not be pleasant.
And yet, Sergei’s brain kept circling back to… why? He could have easily gotten away with it. The gun was unregistered. .22 caliber bullets were almost never traced back to the weapon that fired them—they were too common, and half the time, damaged by ping-ponging around inside the body before coming to rest in a bone or something. And anyway, he’d flung the gun off a cliff several miles south of town. Neither the cops nor the Mafia—whoever would’ve found the body first—would’ve had any more reason to connect Sergei to Domenico’s murder than they would the other two men who’d been bound and shot in the Caddy’s trunk.
He shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face.
Focus, damn it. You’ve got a job to do.
And maybe once that job was finished, he could waste a bit more time wondering why the fuck Domenico Maisano was still alive.
Around two in the morning, right on schedule, Eugenio Cusimano came stumbling out of the bar and staggered to where he’d parked. He dropped his keys three times, but finally managed to get the door open.
Sergei started his engine. Adrenaline was beginning to drip into his veins, and his heart sped up as he put the car in gear.
Eugenio fidgeted and shifted around in his seat for a moment. Maybe he’d felt the needle. Maybe he was just too drunk to control his limbs anymore. Eventually, though, he finally pulled out of his space, and headed out to the road. Sergei followed him.
Three miles later, Sergei was getting nervous. That car was still staying between the lines, Eugenio driving much too well for a man in his state. Between the booze and the cocktail of tranquilizers inside that syringe, Eugenio should’ve been groggy as fuck by now. He really shouldn’t have even been conscious.
Sergei tapped his thumbs rapidly on the wheel. Maybe it hadn’t worked. The poison usually kicked in quickly, but Eugenio had a hell of an alcohol tolerance. What if Sergei hadn’t worked out the right dose? Or maybe the needle hadn’t gone in. Or he’d felt it before he’d pressed down enough to activate the plunger.
No. Sergei had planned for every contingency and variable. It would work. It had to.
But why wasn’t it working? What the fuck was—
Eugenio started to weave lazily. Though the brake lights didn’t come on, the car lost speed. After a sluggish mile or so, it nosed off the road onto the soft shoulder and came to a lazy stop.
Sergei stopped behind him, left the engine running, and cautiously approached the vehicle. Just
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