Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov
12
When Sal checked his phone, the alarm was seven minutes out, so he deleted it and rubbed his face. Six full hours of sleep, deep and dreamless no doubt thanks to Enzo, who lay next to him on his back, not quite snoring but wheezing in his sleep. Weird to wake up with another human being. With a random hook-up, he was usually out of the door after a little rest, or, if he did fall asleep, this would be the moment to vanish.
Paid professionals always left afterward—they were welcome to shower and change, that was all. He could no longer be bothered to hunt. Hunting meant getting gradually invested in the person, wondering about them, trying to please them outside the bed, and living with that questioning inside—could this be more? Could this be something at least?—but Sal had found it put too much strain on the stitches in his soul. Regardless of who he met, he always compared them to Catia, and they never measured up.
Sex was different. He knew how to get people off, enjoyed pleasing them, but as he liked to tell them from the start, “anything goes, but I’m not emotionally available”. That worked for those who also weren’t emotionally available, or couples who sought a discreet third who wouldn’t insert himself into the relationship. If anybody asked about the ring he still wore on his hand, or sometimes on a chain around his neck, he told them he was widowed, and that was usually enough to shut down that topic.
Casual hook-ups never questioned beyond that word. Widowed. It made couples he slept with glance at each other with that sudden realization that love could die, and sometimes it won him brownie points he didn’t want. He wasn’t one of those pathetic fuckers who expected special treatment because of how he’d suffered. His response to suffering was very different—he’d go straight to the root of it and take out those who were responsible.
Which brought him to today’s work. Another simple beating wouldn’t solve his Barsanti problem. The best way to proceed was to attack the consigliere from all angles at the same time, and then exploit any cracks that appeared. Made this more complex than he’d originally thought, but Sal was nothing if not adaptable.
Enzo next to him groaned and blinked. “Fuck.”
“Good morning. You can have the shower up here, I’ll check on our gracious host.” Sal swung his legs out of bed. He picked up his pants and put them on.
“That’s unnatural. How are you so awake?” Enzo muttered.
“Busy day ahead.” Sal regarded him, noticed that in the early morning, the house was filled with soft golden light, and it worked miracles on Enzo’s skin, hair and eyes. “We’ll need to go in hard and fast, so get the doc on standby.”
Military trained, the doc hadn’t switched to civilian practice, but when it came to gun and knife wounds, Sal didn’t know anybody better, and he was especially good at stabilizing bodies. That dishonorable discharge hadn’t taken away the man’s skills or his cold-bloodedness. Thank you, Uncle Sam, much appreciated. The doc had worked hard to reconnect to the Rausa clan, indicating heavily he wouldn’t mind killing if necessary, but Sal had kept him out of the thick of it, and paid him a generous retainer to keep him there. Paradoxically, he was too valuable to get made.
Enzo yawned. “I’ll call him.”
“There’s another thing. Work out who that girl was last night. We might have her license plate on camera, so run it; let’s see who she is.”
“Yeah, will do.” Enzo took his phone and sat up on the side of the bed.
“Meanwhile, I’ll find out how that coffee machine works.” Sal grabbed his other clothes and walked down the spiral staircase. Wow, a clear, sunny early autumn morning made the hills and bay look downright magical. He started to see the point of those huge panoramic windows. Maybe someday he’d buy a plot up in the hills and build less of a security nightmare.
First things first. A quick check of the master bedroom told him that his improvised booby trap hadn’t gone off. Nothing had left the closet or entered it.
Great, now coffee.
The kitchen had a gleaming metal-cased mid-range Gaggia machine. Figured that a guy who liked Apple would go for the brushed metal look with only a few buttons. Sal switched the machine on to heat it up, checked on the beans and water—the Gaggia took the water straight from the main, and the beans smelled fresh. He dropped his other clothes on the kitchen island, found two small porcelain cups and set them under the nozzle. Less than a minute later, black liquid adorned with a proper dark golden crema gathered in the cups, and the smell lifted Sal’s mood even more. He grabbed the cups and walked back upstairs, not surprised that Enzo was still blearily sitting on the side of the bed.
“Any updates?” He offered Enzo the double shot, who knocked it back as if it were vodka or medicine. Sal grinned and drank his slightly more slowly, but not much.
“Left a message for the doc, license plates are in progress. What about Barsanti?”
“Still where we put him.” Sal took the empty cup from Enzo’s hand. “I’d say we’ll do it in the bathroom. Less exposed.”
“Yeah.” Enzo looked back toward the bed. “Burn the house down when we’re done?”
“Yes. When we’re done.” Sal was tempted to touch Enzo. Hug him or pat his shoulder, but they were now in that slightly awkward transition from what they’d done last night to how they normally were, and it would feel weird to get physical with each other while they set about destroying another man. Better shut down the more tender parts and let Enzo put on his killer self. “You good?”
Enzo snorted without derision. “No regrets. I don’t do regrets, but even if I did, this isn’t one of them. You?”
“I do regrets, but same.” Sal headed back down. He dropped the cups off on the breakfast bar, then went to the master bedroom. He took the lamp and bowl and put them on the bed, then moved the chair back where he’d found it, and unlocked and opened the door.
Barsanti sat exactly how they’d left him, and looked very tense even hooded and bound, from the way his shoulders were pulled up and his stomach pulled in as if he expected a punch or slap to wake him up or set the mood.
Sal took down the ropes, grabbed Barsanti, chair and all, and dragged him along out of the walk-in closet.
“So this is it,” Barsanti said.
“Yep.” He dragged the chair across the wooden floor and into the bathroom. He briefly checked Barsanti’s wrists, but while the skin felt hot to the touch, he didn’t seem to have fought particularly hard. He was likely in some discomfort—he smelled of misery and a exhaustion, a metallic tang that was beginning to overpower his deodorant. One sleepless night wasn’t enough to break a man, but it chipped away at his resilience. Another card stacked against Barsanti, and they’d all add up. And that was before he played any of the others.
The bathroom was a wide-open space that would be perfect for their purposes. The large Jacuzzi in the corner upfront, two sinks to the left, two shelves for towels, wicker laundry basket tucked away discreetly, then the huge walk-in shower to the front and right. A sheet of milk glass separated the toilet and bidet from the rest of the bathroom just so that there was no direct line of sight.
“Why the fuck do you hate privacy?” Sal muttered, not expecting a response. “Your house freaks me out.”
“I spent a few years in a room sized six by eight feet.”
Six by eight … oh, prison. He’d known Barsanti had done time—he and the others had made the news. Being deprived of views for a few years made them precious even if the house’s layout was still stupid. “About the same size of your closet. Any flashbacks?”
“My …” Barsanti paused abruptly, then shook his head. “No.”
Now Sal was somewhat intrigued. Barsanti seemed chattier than before, maybe due to the tiredness, maybe he was determined to enjoy the time he had left. “You should have done okay. All the prison pussy you could want.”
Barsanti shook his head again. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Did your boss make sure you were safe? Nobody tried to take you down a peg? Good-looking guy like you?”
Barsanti laughed softly. “That all you care about? One of us reeks of sex, and it’s not me.”
Ooooh. Andrea’s lapdog had found his bite. Sal walked up to Barsanti and plucked the hood off his head. Barsanti blinked against the light but fixed his pale eyes on Sal quickly, looking defiant, aware that his last comment was pure provocation. But that look also told Sal that Barsanti wasn’t going to apologize, and that took some balls, considering how unevenly the power was distributed between them. “I don’t know. I figure it could have gone either way for you. Nobody even took a shot at you? Never felt lonely? No buddy to lend a hand?”
Barsanti blinked a few times rapidly, thoughts racing behind his brow. “I had privileges.”
“Such as?”
“My own cell. Guards making it pretty clear not to mess with me. Some other prisoners who had an interest in winning favors.”
“Not via blowjobs, but protection.”
“Exactly,” Barsanti said tersely.
Weirdly, Sal believed him. Enzo was the best example of how flexible “hetero” could be under certain circumstances. Though as a bisexual man, Sal himself might not have the wiring to understand how people would exclude certain groups of people as potential sex partners. Going years without touch because one’s preferred gender wasn’t freely available seemed stupid. Then again, Barsanti was five to ten years older than him—maybe it was a thing for Generation X. It wasn’t a Catholic thing—from what he understood about the faith, Catholics could get freaky as fuck and were absolutely fine if they confessed before they died.
“As you mentioned, I’m not a monk.” Sal remained in front of Barsanti, aware of his own naked chest and arms, but no bigot would ever make him stand down. Examining and accepting the urges he’d had since he could remember had been tough, and acting on them had been absolutely nerve-wracking at first. And at second. Becoming comfortable with his sexuality had taken hard work and Barsanti wasn’t going to make him ashamed.
He noticed how Barsanti’s gaze was fixed on his, and how he both didn’t avoid looking at his chest and almost paid too pointed attention to it. Sal ran a hand over his pecs; maybe Barsanti didn’t routinely get to see bar piercings through a guy’s nipples. Or maybe it was the simple gold ring on the chain around his neck.
He turned and walked past Barsanti toward the shower. The consigliere wasn’t going to see much of him as he washed, unless he craned his neck, and Sal didn’t expect he would. He shed his pants, dropped them on the pile with his other clothes he’d brought in from the kitchen, then stepped into the walk-in shower. The water started strong and hot; the dials indicated he had twenty options when it came to the spray, but he liked Barsanti’s pre-sets, so he took a quick hot shower and used Barsanti’s body wash and shampoo; mint and lemongrass, which was nicely refreshing after the night he’d had. He gradually dialed down the hot shower to cold to wake up fully.
He still couldn’t quite believe Barsanti had lived such a sheltered existence in prison. His own instinct would definitely have leaned toward testing the man’s mettle any way he could, had he been a fellow prisonder, and quite frankly, if not for all the baggage and history, Barsanti would have fit his preference easily.
He left the shower, grateful when he could towel down, and his body heat overcame the chill on his skin. But he was awake now. He dressed and heard Enzo approach as he was pulling down his shirt.
Enzo carried his tool bag and methodically spread out a large plastic sheet in the middle of the room. Barsanti’s eyes closed, but Sal had caught that look of pure terror when he realized Enzo was setting up the kill site. As things were going, they’d wrap Barsanti’s body in the plastic along with all the bits they would have removed and deal with him offsite.
“See,” Sal said, “at least Enzo knows what he’s doing. I can’t say it will be pleasant, because it won’t be, but he’s a pro.”
Barsanti didn’t open his eyes, didn’t respond at all.
“Changes one’s perspective, doesn’t it?” He cast a glance at Enzo who was lining up various tools, much like a medieval inquisitor would show the victim the implements of torture. Seeing saws and knives and claw hammers meant imagining what they could do. And Enzo had shifted entirely back into the capo who didn’t mind the dirty work and regarded it as part of the job, the same way as dressing an animal was part of filling the freezer with game.
Something Sal had found in his own career was that intelligent men had good imaginations. They assessed, ran scenarios, minds constantly flitting into the past and future to understand and respond to the present. Barsanti was intelligent enough to realize his future had drastically shortened.
“Look at me.” Sal stood close again, but Barsanti just sat there, breath labored, clearly terrified but still trying to maintain his dignity. “I said, look at me.”
It took several seconds before Barsanti forced his gaze up.
“You’re a smart man. So why are you propping up a fucker like Andrea? What do you owe him that you’re willing to go through this to win him time? Because that’s all it is. You’re giving an asshole a few more hours. Big deal. We all know you’re going to talk. So why do you want this?”
“No.” Barsanti looked up, eyes blazing. “This is your choice. I’ve fucking offered you peace. I offered you help to take your share. But you give me nothing I can negotiate with. Why do you hate me so much? What have I done to you?”
Sal took a step back, surprised at the man’s conviction. Seemed he kept digging up further reserves. “You, or Andrea, or somebody in your organization. You murdered my wife.”