“We need more than that, goddammit.” Felice fidgeted impatiently. “Someone’s trying to send a message if they’re offing people that close to the marina. Or they’re trying to get cops down there to sniff around.”
“If he’d wanted to get cops sniffing around,” Corrado said, waving his hand, “he wouldn’t have taken them out in the parking lot. He’d have left them on the marina.”
Luciano nodded, folding his arms. “Either way, I think we need to increase security measures down there. We can’t take the risk of someone interfering with supply lines or leading cops anywhere near the merchandise.”
Corrado grunted. “Agreed.”
Dom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, the concern was about supply lines and merchandise. Beating him up was well and good as long as nobody got too close to the stream of cocaine and immigrants flowing through Cape Swan via Maisano hands.
“But as for this guy who took out Floresta and Mandanici,” Luciano said, “he had to have been a pro. He didn’t leave a thing at the scene. No weapon. No witnesses. No fingerprints. Guy didn’t even leave any footprints—they said the ground around the car had been wiped. Like he’d used his foot to erase his prints until he got to the concrete.”
Dom drummed his fingers on his arm. “They’re going to find my blood in the backseat of that car. I’m almost sure of it. Probably the trunk, too.”
“Well, that’s your alibi,” Corrado said. “You were in the trunk and backseat, so you weren’t the one driving. The only thing you might be questioned about is the identity of the shooter.” He narrowed his eyes a bit. “Do you remember anything else, Domenico? Anyone else who might’ve done this?”
Dom shook his head. “I blacked out. After that… nothing.” That wasn’t entirely true, of course, and he didn’t like lying to his uncle—never a wise thing to do—so he added, “I remember someone else being there, but the details… it’s all a blur.”
Beside Corrado, Felice glanced back and forth from his father to his brother, but he said nothing. Luciano swore under his breath.
Corrado sighed. “Well, in any case, the men who did this to you are dead. When I find out who sent them, he’s dead too.”
“But we should also find out who the fuck killed them,” Felice said. “Are you just going to let that slide? I mean, how do we know this guy’s on our side?”
“Because he didn’t kill me,” Dom said through his teeth. “Trust me, he had ample opportunity.”
Felice eyed him. “So you did see the guy?”
Dom’s blood turned cold. He held his cousin’s gaze. “I was on my knees and spitting blood while he was putting those boys in the trunk. And someone helped me into and out of the backseat. He even gave me a phone to call Corrado. If he’d wanted me dead, I would be.”
Felice scowled, shifting in his chair.
Luciano pursed his lips. “He might not have known who you were.”
Dom vaguely remembered telling the guy his name. Which seemed stupid now, but he did recall feeling like he didn’t have a choice.
“What’s your name?”
“Who wants to know?”
“The guy who’s going to decide whether you wake up tomorrow in a hospital, a jail cell, or a morgue.”
“Domenico Maisano.”
“You’re shitting me.”
He shuddered, which hurt like hell. Yeah, that kid knew who he was. Exactly who he was. And yet, Dom was still alive.
And his cousins and uncle were still watching him, waiting for him to say… something?
He shook his head again. “If he knew something, he didn’t say anything. And he didn’t shoot me.”
“You’ve got to remember something about him,” Felice said.
“No.” Dom looked him in the eye, and despite the mental images of that leather crop top, the sharp cheekbones, and those icy, unflinching eyes, said, “I don’t remember anything.”
“Then that’s all we have,” Corrado said. “The important thing now is finding out who sent those boys after you. Because I want a message sent to whoever sent them.”
Usually Dom would be the one dispatched to send a message. Most hitmen were just goons or independent contractors—they were more disposable, more easily shot and discarded if the cops got too close—but his uncle kept Dom in plain sight. The boss’s well-known nephew, the man who everyone assumed was a turncoat coward just like his father, the one who maintained debt ledgers and efficiently laundered even the bloodiest money, was apparently the last person anyone would suspect of carrying out dirty work like that.
But the message that needed to be sent couldn’t wait until Dom had recovered enough to send it, so Corrado would handle it. Who he’d send and what they’d do to whom, Dom had no idea, but with his uncle involved, the message would be received loud and clear that the Maisanos were not to be fucked with. And although Dom wasn’t thrilled about the condition he was in at the moment, he was secretly relieved because being this fucked up meant he wouldn’t be the one pulling the trigger this time.