Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov
10
Enzo followed Sal outside through the glass door out to the garden. It was getting late, past three in the morning, so dawn wasn’t far off, and Sal thought the sky was already a little less black and turning a dark Prussian blue.
“I know you have thoughts. Spit it out.”
Enzo glanced back over his shoulder as if making sure Barsanti wasn’t breaking the chair apart and scrambling for a gun.
“He’s got some balls on him.” Enzo suppressed a small yawn.
“Yeah.” Sal fought the impulse to yawn as well and shook his head, despite himself impressed by the man still trying to broker peace. Fuck him, he’d probably try to fucking broker peace with fucking terrorists while kneeling in the desert sand in an orange jumpsuit, sabre already on his neck. That kind of man. Courageous to the point of stupidity. Rational. And he did have an argument. The sheer composure it must have taken him to make it.
Of course, it wouldn’t work, because peace wasn’t what this was about. Aside from requiring both Andrea Lo Cascio and Guy Dommarco—who had admittedly upheld some kind of peace deal—to be cool-headed men in Barsanti’s mold, Sal himself would have to muster the will to accept that Andrea Lo Cascio was still breathing, and act as if the War and its aftermath had been nothing but an interruption of business as usual. He had failed at that so far because he didn’t want to succeed.
There was no way he’d shake hands with Catia’s murderer. The thought alone made his pulse beat against the insides of his skull, and just her name hurt and conjured all kinds of emotions and memories he couldn’t use inside that house when he tried to get into Barsanti’s head.
Barsanti’s job required him to be a schemer and a risk manager, heading off dangers before they, to use business parlance, crystalized. Nowadays, consiglieres came with business or law degrees, and Sal could easily imagine Barsanti walking amongst lawyers unmolested.
“I’m definitely not thinking rationally.” Sal gritted his teeth. “Fuck.” They were both running on far too little sleep, no more than five hours each for the past couple of days, driven onward by rage, determination and, last but not least, spiky caffeine jitters.
“Rest, regroup, let him think about it some more?”
“Not on that note.” Sal shook his head. “If we break here, we’ll do it on our terms.”
“Gotcha.”
Sal glanced at him and was so tempted to ask the question: What do you think Catia would have made of all this?
“You’re pretty wired,” Enzo stated.
“No shit,” Sal growled. The past few years of simmering anger had been a heavy weight to bear. Keeping the pressure in, slowly reorganizing, quietly removing pawns and people whose loyalty wasn’t to be trusted one thousand percent. He’d also retired some people who clung to how things had been before—some had fucked off to Florida or Mexico, others had been foolish enough to think there were other options.
He’d forced himself to wait even when he thought he was ready. Just in case. Played dead. All but allowed the carrion eaters to peck out his eyes—that kind of dead. Tested loyalties. Retired a few more people. Made more money to fill up the war chest. Spent a lot of money to grease the palms of people who were not even on Lo Cascio’s or Dommarco’s radars. Made friends in high and low places and anywhere in between. Always with the gnawing feeling that he might be waiting too long, that the opportunity would pass.
At this point, Sal didn’t even know anymore whether the agony of the wait would be worth the payoff. It seemed about even to his mind. Sometimes he wished he’d immediately gone in all guns blazing and slaughtered every last one of them.
Barsanti might not consider an easier death much of a reason to sell out his family. But Sal knew once the pain started and got bad enough, Barsanti would see it as quite the prize. Sal’s job was to push him there, and Enzo would help. But tomorrow. They should have that much time, but more than that was a risk. A man could drop off the face of the earth for a day. Two days, maximum. Three—and Andrea Lo Cascio might start to miss his consigliere.
But to break Barsanti tomorrow, he needed to be clear-headed. Too much of one kind of pressure was crashing, while another one was rising. Adrenaline would only get him so far.
He walked back in and noted that Barsanti’s eyes followed every single one of his steps.
“You’re in luck,” Sal said. “We’re going to take a break. Give you get some time to think. The fun starts tomorrow.”
“Lucky me.” It was said so calmly it didn’t even sound like sarcasm.
Now, how to secure him for the night? While he and Enzo could use some rest, Barsanti shouldn’t get any at all. There was a minute risk he might be able to topple the chair, maybe break it, maybe reach a phone. Who knew what a smart guy could come up with in those long night hours when left to his own devices? Or what if, by some freak accident, somebody spotted him through a window?
The bathroom was a little more protected, and so was the gym, but planting the man plus chair in the Jacuzzi and tying the chair to the armatures came second to using the walk-in closet in the master bedroom. Between Enzo and him, they carried a re-hooded Barsanti into the bedroom and then into the adjacent walk-in closet, which could be locked from outside and had no windows. A quick search revealed no cell phone, weapons or anything sharp that could saw through the zip cuffs. Sal tied the back of the chair to two clothes rails with some of the rope from his bag of tools, and stepped back. The knots weren’t the tidiest he’d ever made but functional, and the whole picture was pleasant to look at—almost architecturally symmetric, with all lines culminating in the sagging man on the chair.
“A bit shibari, isn’t it?” Enzo said softly. The odd gleam in his eye looked a lot like envy.
“Can’t have him hurt himself before we get a chance to hurt him.” Sal closed and locked the door. He pushed a chair against it, and placed a lamp with a glass shade close to the edge of the seat. Not enough. He went to the kitchen and found a shiny metal mixing bowl, which he placed where the lamp would fall if it got shoved. Its breaking on the carpet might not be enough to wake him up, but this should do the trick.
He picked up both his and Barsanti’s phone from the nightstand. Barsanti was an Apple man; Sal preferred Android. Even so, Barsanti had enabled an old-fashioned PIN with a limited number of attempts rather than touch ID or iFace or whatever the Cupertino crew had come up with. The quickest way to get into that phone was simply to get Barsanti to spit out the PIN. If that came with a spray of blood or broken teeth, then so be it.
He switched off the light in the master bedroom and took a few deep breaths. That wired, spiky feeling inside didn’t budge, and part of him wanted to rip the closet door off its hinges and finish all of this tonight, but Barsanti was dangerous. Sal didn’t underestimate the reserves some men could draw on when their lives depended on it. That, plus his recent sleep deprivation, and who knew what foolishness Barsanti could get him to agree to?
While Enzo examined the contents of the fridge in the kitchen, Sal headed upstairs. The office had a more intimate vibe than the downstairs floor. The lower ceiling felt more sheltering, and two shelves separated the office from another sitting area and a guest bedroom—both of which seemed unused. Sal set down his bag in the guest bedroom. When he turned back the covers, he caught a whiff of freshly washed and tumble-dried laundry.
“You could go grab a shower.” Enzo came upstairs with two large glasses of orange juice.
“Later.” Sal accepted the glass and emptied it, surprised how much his body needed this now though the chill from the cold juice froze up his sinuses.
Enzo moved around the bed, sat down on the edge of it, and drank more juice while reviewing the sight angles of the “room”. The nearest path down was via a spiral staircase. He could just jump down to the lower floor if necessary. In Sal’s estimation, whether the house was a good place for a shootout depended entirely on whether one liked cover.
Enzo turned the glass thoughtfully in his hands, while Sal got rid of his shoes and pulled the tactical turtleneck over his head. One of his capos had been raving about these being composed of specially woven fibers that cut the risk of infection if he got stabbed or shot, but on the outside it could have simply been normal survival gear. And since his capo was very persuasive, this brand had spread well beyond his own crew. Plenty of the local tech bros dressed like that, enough in any case that Sal didn’t even raise eyebrows when he picked up a latte among normal people.
Enzo’s gaze followed the turtleneck, and his hands stilled on the glass. “Would you prefer me to sleep downstairs?”
“Come here.”
Enzo didn’t hesitate to obey and set the glass down. Without his heavy boots, Sal was a little shorter than his capo, but Enzo made up for it by stooping slightly.
“What do you want, boss?” Enzo asked.
Shit. Too easy, too tempting. “You’re only doing this because I’m wired like a fucking cable plant.”
Enzo gave an open-handed shrug. “Maybe I’m wired like one too.”
Sal looked deep into Enzo’s eyes, didn’t detect any lies or subterfuge. The only thing Enzo had ever hidden was how much Catia’s death had hurt him. But frankly, Sal had been so trapped in his own pain there was no fucking way he could have carried Enzo’s too.
Sal placed his hand flat against Enzo’s groin and pushed against the outline of Enzo’s semi-hard cock. His capo blinked and inhaled sharply as Sal squeezed firmly, and he rapidly hardened. “All right. Get undressed. And yeah, you’ll sleep up here.” He wasn’t going to kick Enzo out of bed afterward.
His orders clear, Enzo seemed to calm down, became less sharp, slightly less aware, and, Sal realized, a lot more vulnerable. He could snap out of it within seconds, but his ability to sink into a responsive, passive and even soft state had surprised Sal. He knew how cold and cynical Everyday Capo Enzo appeared to others.
Enzo pulled his shirt off first and the smell of him hit Sal—some musk from today’s work, some lingering scent of lime and ginger shower gel.
Enzo sat down on the bed to take off his shoes and socks, and when he straightened again, Sal placed his hand against the man’s neck and pulled his face against the side of his groin, cheek against his pants, and he kept him like that—all it took was a firm touch, no force at all. He felt Enzo tremble when he opened the button of his pants, pulled down the zip, and freed his cock an inch or so from Enzo’s lips. This wasn’t something that Enzo did often—Sal had a solid suspicion that Enzo had only done this with him—and it was less a matter of desire on his part, and more a matter of surrender.
He felt Enzo’s breath on him, and, despite Enzo’s headspace, he felt a twitching in his neck too. He still had to psych himself up to take a cock into his mouth, and Sal enjoyed the struggle playing out under his fingertips.
“You know you don’t have to do it,” Sal teased. “Unless you really, really want to.”
“Fuck,” Enzo breathed.
Between them, they could build an international cable factory empire now.
“No need to sacrifice yourself, Enzo. I can deal with it myself.”
“Shut up,” Enzo muttered and jerked free to take Sal’s cock into his mouth. Sal placed one hand on his shoulder, the other against his neck as Enzo took him as deeply as he could, which wasn’t all that deep, but this wasn’t about a harsh face fuck. It was about watching Enzo space out as he won or lost his internal battle, depending on viewpoint. And what the capo lacked in experience, he made up with heart. Once he was over the whole “I’m really mostly straight” thing in his head—and Sal respected that—he followed through. Shit, did he follow through.
Sal forced himself to remain still and let Enzo take things at his own speed; he wasn’t tentative, either, just re-learning the geography of a man after, what? Half a year or so? Their friendship always carried this potential, especially with Enzo wanting to serve him any way Sal required. But knowing Enzo wanted the surrender more than he wanted a male lover had ensured that they hadn’t ended up together.
For Enzo’s sake, Sal had hoped he’d eventually move on, find somebody who could give him what he needed, and that would be that. Instead, Enzo had become his shadow, more loyal and closer than ever. It wasn’t healthy, considering a mostly straight man was now sucking Sal’s cock partly because he got off on doing what he was ordered to do, instead of getting off on the things he did, but Sal figured as long as he respected Enzo and made sure they were both as safe as they could be, no harm, no foul.
Enzo eventually looked up to him, eyes glazed, whole face transformed with lack of tension and nothing guarded in him. “Sorry I can’t …”
“I don’t want you to suck me off.” He stroked Enzo’s heated cheek with the back of his fingers. “Lose your clothes. All of them.” He stepped to watch Enzo get rid of his pants and underwear. Enzo was all golden flesh and long, muscular limbs, some white scars on his lower arms betrayed a passionate student of the switchblade, and fights where he’d gotten hurt. Misspent teenage years. And the scar on his solar plexus from the branding, of course—entwined lines like a tribal tattoo. Enzo had no way of forgetting Catia either.
Sal pulled down his pants and boxers and shed his socks. Enzo stood near the bed, knees touching the frame, looking good enough to eat—attentive, obedient, turned on. Sal took the gun holster from his belt and placed it on the nightstand, then turned toward Enzo to kiss him. Enzo froze at first—being kissed jolted him, and it was even rarer than a blow job between them. Sal didn’t let Enzo recover his equilibrium, but pushed him down onto the bed. He remained on top, grabbed both of Enzo’s hands and held them against the mattress. “I got rope left, but that’s too much of a risk if anybody shows up.”
Enzo nodded. “Just to … get rid of the tension. Not really playtime.”
“Tell yourself that.” Sal kissed him again, deeply, with tongue, roaming all of his mouth. Playtime had been one of Catia’s words. The first time he’d thought of Enzo in a sexual way had been observing Enzo tied up in their marriage bed, covered in sweat and goosebumps because Catia had edged him for an hour. She’d turned the big fierce capo into a quivering mass of need. Then he’d sucked Enzo off, together with his wife. Afterward, Enzo had lain between them, shivering and emotional and close to tears. Catia had broken his defenses down for good.
Enzo reached for Sal’s cock and stroked it, more reverently than in an attempt to make him come. “Anything, Sal, please.”
“I know.” Enzo had called him by his name, maybe trying to signal that the request, hell, offer, wasn’t due to that sense of surrender. “And I’ll have it.” He kissed Enzo again and shifted between his legs. The only bit of poor planning was that he couldn’t reach his overnight bag from here to get the lube. He always kept it there for short trips. “Lube first.”
Enzo shifted both of them closer to the foot of the bed. He dug into Sal’s bag and after a second attempt found the pouch that held the travel-sized tube. He opened it, squeezed some of the stuff into his hand and then placed his slick hands around Sal’s cock. The lube was cold but rapidly warmed while Enzo stroked him with those strong killer hands. The same hands that could strangle a man or wield a switchblade as easily as a claw hammer, now prepared him. Fuck. If Enzo had been a little more bisexual, a little more into cocks, who the hell knew where they could have gone together?
“Up.” Enzo shifted again and lifted his legs. Sal was so hard and slick that he managed to breach Enzo on the first attempt, and the man tensed underneath him in a purely instinctual way. That was the real test, fucking a guy who was “mostly straight”—and who always freaked out a little every time this happened. Always slightly weird to fuck a man who was willing but whose body didn’t like the intrusion. Not at first. Practice might take care of that, but it was unlikely Enzo would ever get there.
Sal thrust harder, heard that sharp intake of breath and the deep, semi-pained groan. He gave Enzo a few moments to relax, felt him shake and quiver, then pushed all the way in. Enzo clawed the sheets, eyes tightly shut, his face empty in that blissful, enraptured way that told Sal he’d gone back into his surrender and intended to stay there. Sal gritted his teeth but, once Enzo relaxed around him, he let his control slip. Fucking him hard and methodically, Sal paused when he got too close and, when he couldn’t hold back any longer, he pulled out and took both their cocks in hand.
“No, Sal, please …”
“Shut up.” He wasn’t going to take an even bigger risk than that. Enzo did like him coming inside of him, likely part of his overall submissiveness, but he couldn’t have everything he wanted. He timed his strokes just so that they both came in the same moment, Enzo falling to pieces, while Sal kissed him again, deeply, letting most of that terrible tension go.
It helped. It really did. Sal rolled off Enzo to catch his breath, enjoyed how Enzo’s eyes blazed alive, his skin flushed and gleaming. He was attractive in killer and capo mode, but with that freshly fucked expression, the smell of sex rising from him, he was gorgeous. Sal leaned over to kiss him on the brow, surprised when Enzo, still so weak and vulnerable, kissed him full on the lips. This was a tender, trusting kiss, not quite a lover’s kiss.
Sal smiled. “Thank you.”
Enzo scoffed. “Yeah, quite the sacrifice, right?” He shook his head and twitched as though to move before relaxing back on the sheets. Instead, he rolled onto his side to face Sal. “How are you? Better?”
“I think I could sleep now.”
“Same.” Enzo lifted an arm and lazily pointed toward the stairs. “Grab a shower now, maybe.” He was definitely forcing himself to come back from his special place, because yeah, without ropes he had no excuse for remaining emotionally fragile and helpless, and Sal didn’t have the words to tell him it was okay, that nobody expected him to function 100 percent right after sex. For the moment, they were safe. And as long as they kept up momentum, stayed on the front foot, and had their punches ready, they’d both be safe.
Enzo yawned but didn’t move, so Sal pulled himself together. The tiny guest en suite wasn’t nearly as luxurious as the large bathroom, but it had fresh towels, a sink, toilet and shower, so he tossed a towel out for Enzo. He washed off, but didn’t take a full shower in the end; he brushed his teeth and then left the en suite to Enzo. He set the alarm for six hours, checked his gun, and slipped naked under the covers.
When Enzo joined him in the dark, it struck Sal how long he hadn’t slept fully naked in the same bed as another person he trusted, or even gave a shit about. Enzo was the blessed one—he could fall into that vulnerability so easily, and he knew that Sal would always be there to catch him. But Sal didn’t have the strength to do the same. Maybe once he’d had his revenge. Maybe he could crack himself open and release the pain.