Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov

14

Barsanti was pale and tense, but not cringing in horror, as most people would have in this situation. Did he have that much loyalty? Or was he calling Sal’s bluff?

Sal kept the gun pressed to Barsanti’s forehead, and while Barsanti pulled back slightly, he didn’t try to evade the pressure from the muzzle. Against his will, Sal was impressed. That took fortitude and conviction. He couldn’t just blow Barsanti away, of course. But so far, no new cracks showed.

That was when a phone rang. The buzzing came from Sal’s trouser pocket, and he quickly holstered the gun again and pulled out both phones—Barsanti’s and his own. It was Barsanti’s screen that was lit up with an unknown number. He tilted the phone so the man could see the screen while it was still ringing.

“Who’s calling you?”

Barsanti’s eyes flicked to the screen and there was some recognition in them, then he shrugged and looked back at Sal. “It’s not important.”

“Not in your contacts?”

“No.” Barsanti was terse enough that Sal called bullshit. The phone kept ringing. “Who knows.”

“Want to take it?”

Barsanti lifted his shoulders demonstratively to indicate that he was still tied up.

The ringing stopped. Sal kept an eye on the phone, and it didn’t take long for ping that there was (1) new voicemail. “Maybe it’s your boss.”

Barsanti shook his head. “No, I know his number.”

“Who else?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore.” Barsanti’s words seemed too carefully calibrated for indifference. He didn’t even glance at the phone, as if by ignoring it, it could become invisible or inconsequential. Now, chances were, the call was from Andrea, or a capo or soldier who needed five minutes to agree to a meeting or confirm a job was done or request instructions. Nothing of any importance was ever entrusted to a phone, and nothing was ever clearly stated—with the recent infiltration of Encrochat, even encrypted networks were considered high risk in their circles. Considering Barsanti had already done time because the authorities had managed to piece together a case against him, he’d be doubly wary.

“Then maybe share your PIN with me?” Sal mock-offered Barsanti his phone. More ignoring. “Or the password to your laptop?”

Enzo moved into the background and after an exchanged glance, left the bathroom. Sal returned his attention to Barsanti, but felt that the man had already reinforced his mental and emotional firewalls against that particular angle of attack. And, if he stayed with that picture, short of a brute force attack to blast through, Sal was out of options. If he’d had a few more days, he could ramp up the discomfort to the point where Barsanti would trip up, and with a couple of weeks, he’d break the man without so much as leaving a mark. He studied the swelling on Barsanti’s temple. Too late for that, but the principle still held.

“It’s funny, you seemed to believe me when I told you what will happen if you don’t cooperate.”

“I believe you. I do.” Barsanti drew a deep breath. “But there’s nothing I can do except this.”

“Resist?”

“Wait.” Barsanti’s lips curved into a sad little smile and Sal was surprised how much that expression touched him. He walked around, tucking the phones into his pocket before curling his hands over Barsanti’s shoulders. Sal tightened his hands around those tense muscles, then ran his right hand up Barsanti’s neck, tips of his fingers brushing his Adam’s apple. He felt him swallow again.

“Out of curiosity, any reason why you say you can’t?”

“I still think the war can be avoided.”

“It’s not your choice.” Sal kept his hands where they were, increased the pressure slightly, but then relaxed them. “The deaths won’t be on you. And you’d be the first man I’ve ever met who wouldn’t sacrifice the world to save his own life.”

“It’s not that easy.” Barsanti cleared his throat. “You’re still going to start a war and if I give you what you want, you’re at an advantage. And I’ll be the traitor who’s responsible.”

Sal leaned in until his lips were very close to Barsanti’s ear. “I’m already at an advantage. Andrea won’t expect me. This isn’t a spontaneous thing. All my pieces are in position. So why are you making it hard on yourself? Pride?”

Barsanti shook his head. “Whatever happens to me, it sends a message that the Lo Cascio were weak in the first place. Andrea won’t like it.”

Won’t like it?More likely enjoy it as much as getting kneecapped. Losing his consigliere, being aware that the enemy knew everything that the smartest guy in the organization had known, would be psychologically devastating. Enough to make rash and very damaging mistakes.

“You’ve seen Enzo, right?”

A small nod.

“If superior intel means I save the life of one of my men, it’s worth everything else. That man could be Enzo, and he’s important to me. He’s a friend.”

Barsanti released a breath like a sigh. “Shit.”

Now that was cryptic. “Shit?”

Barsanti shook his head again and didn’t say anything, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable. Sal patted the side of his neck and let him go, then stepped away to sit down on the rim of the Jacuzzi. The consigliere was completely withdrawn, back to that neutral place that spoke of resources being marshalled and rapidly deployed behind those high walls. “This ends with a bullet in Andrea Lo Cascio’s head.”

No response. Barsanti looked down at the floor between them, eyes hooded. Not the face of a man who was terribly worried about what would happen to his beloved boss.

“As far as I’m concerned, Enzo is worth more than your whole fucking organization.”

There, a twitch around the eyes, a narrowing, like rebuilding his focus.

What was it about Enzo that made Barsanti respond more than talking about shooting Andrea Lo Cascio in the head?

“One of us reeks of sex.”

Sal laughed. “Oh yeah, and we fucked last night, but I guess you knew that.”

Oh. If that wasn’t the closest thing to a full-body cringe. Sal half expected Barsanti to call him names or express his disgust. A dyed in the wool bigot surely wouldn’t hold back, even in this situation, unwise as it was to provoke somebody when one’s hands were tied. Sal was done with being judged—while he didn’t exactly run around in fairy wings and rainbow outfits, what happened inside his bedroom—or that of others—was nobody’s business. Not that Barsanti would live to tell anybody about this. As a general rule, corpses embedded in cement didn’t gossip.

Barsanti did nothing, just sat there, tense and tight.

Enzo returned, finishing off a slice of bread in one hand and sipping coffee from the mug in the other. Sal reached out to pat Barsanti on the knee and left him there. He walked up to Enzo, who offered him the mug before Sal could take it from him. “Breakfast?”

“Yep.” Sal followed Enzo to the kitchen, where Enzo had already prepared a plate with some bread and cheese and ham. Enzo poured himself a fresh mug and sat both elbows down on the breakfast bar while he watched Sal eat quickly. He was actually ravenous.

“You seem in no rush.”

“With Barsanti?” Sal shrugged. “We have the whole day.”

“Sal.” Enzo gave him that look.

Sal hesitated, knew that Enzo could see that, and sighed. “I guess I respect his conviction.”

Enzo scoffed. “And I suppose how pretty he is, has nothing to do with your hesitation.”

“No.” He pondered that after his answer, but no. Barsanti was definitely attractive and played in a league looks and personality wise that Sal would definitely go for—if Barsanti were one half of his usual sexual diet of urbane and worldly mixed couples where one partner was bi or very solidly bi-curious. But that didn’t matter here and now. He’d still turn that man into minced meat if necessary. “Just thinking, Barsanti might not give a fuck if I put a gun in his face, but maybe putting one in her face would make a difference.”

“Taking her means there’s a chance people will notice she’s missing. Maybe even more quickly than him.” Enzo wasn’t appalled at the thought, just keeping track of all the potential collateral damage.

“Yes. I’d like to see if he chooses his girlfriend over his boss, though. Might even offer to let them ride off into the sunset together. Throw that in as a sweetener, since he’s so into negotiating.”

Enzo tilted his head. “And will you?”

Sal finished his last slice of ham and washed the saltiness down with the strong coffee. “No.”