Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov
16
Sal contemplated whether he should take the truck—Enzo would hardly need it for the moment, but when he stepped out of the door, Barsanti’s silver Porsche was practically flirting, the way the sun sparked off it like it was winking at him.
The keys weren’t hard to find, and the car might look sleek and compact, but Sal found it had a surprising amount of leg room. A quick search indicated that Barsanti was as obsessively clean and tidy with his car as he was about his house. No discarded receipts, food wrappers, or so much as a stray water bottle. Enzo’s blue Nissan Rogue, by contrast, would allow someone to piece together every meal and all his shopping over the past week.
Barsanti had good taste in cars. At first, the steering felt sensitive, even skittish, but a few miles later, Sal realized that all it required was a lighter, gentler hand. The Porsche responded beautifully—what a marked contrast to its owner, who practically begged to be tortured.
So maybe it was slightly reckless to show his face in town driving Barsanti’s car, but if Sal knew one thing it was that their kind, as a general rule, didn’t rise early on a Sunday. He briefly played through in his head what would happen if he was spotted, or of the cops IDed him driving Barsanti’s car just before his disappearance—all while taking the Porsche around the curves of the road cutting through the forest, using two or maybe three fingers at most. Great car for recreational driving, and he imagined that Barsanti must have gotten quite a bit of pleasure from it. The house, the food, the car, the coffee machine, the view—the man clearly liked refined and beautiful things. But he himself wasn’t delicate or refined to the point of vulnerability. He took his beatings.
If Sal was spotted, fine. His men were ready for the inevitable battle. Enzo would deal with whoever came to the house to check on Barsanti. Besides, Sal would be there, and the doc would join him. Between them, they’d defend their ground. Not a problem—just an acceleration.
“Or sometimes, you need to show the world it can’t fuck with you, Salvo, don’t you?”
Yeah, that. Catia had been the first person in his life who got him. Hell, he’d fallen for her the moment he’d seen her, but he fell easily, he knew that much. They’d progressed at lightning speed, no masquerading necessary—with her family in the business and him an up-and-coming man of honor, the stakes had been clear from the start. He’d asked her later whether she’d bet on him like on a winning horse in order to secure herself power and standing.
“No, but what I like about you will definitely lead you to the top. And you’re more of a challenge.”
She’d liked those, and she went for the jugular if she spotted so much as a flicker of insecurity or felt somebody else waver. He’d never forget that first time in the car, when she’d straddled him, kissing him wildly, and taken him right then and there, recklessly and breathlessly. Maybe it was weird to call it “taking”, but that was exactly what it had felt like—she’d made it clear that she was in charge and he’d better comply. It was both electrifying and vaguely scary being with a woman with such a healthy appetite, who’d demanded sex right then, and that was even before the ropes and leather appeared in their bedroom. She’d thoroughly tested their compatibility before they’d married, he knew that now, but the real journey had begun over glasses of chilled white wine and a seafood dinner on the veranda of that honeymoon villa in Hawaii. Ocean breathing so close they could almost feel the spray, they’d had The Talk.
“I love you, Salvo. I always will. And I love how you are in bed. But there are things you need to know, and if I’m to fulfill those wedding vows to make you happy and you me, we can’t have secrets between us. I don’t want to go outside and get what I need from somebody else. And the same goes for you. Whatever it is you want, even your dirtiest fantasies, things you haven’t done with anybody else, it’s all on the table. Now, talk to me.”
Of course, he hadn’t been able to confess anything. It didn’t seem necessary. She could be soft in bed, submissive, or take him the way she’d taken him in the car. He was pretty good at responding to her moods. Mostly, he counted himself lucky to have found a beautiful, smart wife who was just as horny as he was.
So she’d been the one to start it. Over another bottle of wine, they’d traded fantasies like poker players. Some things he was definitely on board with—hell, a second woman with her? Bring it. Others he was willing to trade for—she declared that if he wanted to take her ass, she’d do the same to his.
He faintly remembered two of his guys making a joke about anal sex and laughed with them mostly because they had no idea what mind-blowing orgasms they were missing out on. His men did notice he was keen to get home after business, and they grinned knowingly at each other—newly married, yadda, yadda—what they didn’t know was that he couldn’t wait to check the little blue-glazed bowl in the hall. She’d drop a hint as to what awaited him upstairs, or what role he was supposed to play when he came up.
They’d run through a whole catalogue of fantasies. Sometimes she was the barely legal daughter of a friend. The next night she was a bored businesswoman who’d hired an escort with clear and exacting requirements. Sometimes, she braided her long hair tightly, put on that makeup that made her lips stand out blood red, and that was when wanted the dominance games—leather, PVC, and corset included. He was never bored because he never had any idea of what awaited him, what toys or elaborate roleplay.
A couple years in, they hired a professional to explore her bisexual side. It had been his idea. Apart from the second-hand thrill of watching her with another woman, he genuinely wanted her to be happy, and she’d told him that being with another woman was totally different from being with him. Eventually, he encouraged her to look for a girlfriend to keep her company, whether he was there or not.
Two false starts, and then Julia entered their lives, though admittedly mostly Catia’s. Julia went to college in town, collecting a range of STEM qualifications, and she’d first drawn Catia’s eye because she was looking for a “Sugar Mommy”. At Sal’s dumbfounded expression, Catia explained that there were “Sugar Babies” out there looking for a Mommy or Daddy to pay the bills and spoil them and appreciate them, and these arrangements could, but didn’t have to, involve sex.
When they met, the chemistry between Catia and Julia was thick enough to cut with a knife, but Sal also got to appreciate what a skilled huntress Catia was. How Julia resisted the onslaught of Catia’s headgames and pure sexual energy was a miracle, but Sal assumed that her academic commitments kept her grounded enough. She was looking for something casual too—which was what she got, and also wasn’t at all. But their relationship wasn’t just about the sex. Catia was only four years older than Julia, but it turned out those four years could count for decades. Catia was strong-willed and also the head of a Cosa Nostra household, so she fixed problems and did it often with an invisible hand.
No, Barsanti, I don’t have a consigliere because she was murdered, and I couldn’t replace her.
Sometimes, a memory came back of them cuddling on the couch, Julia exhausted post-exams in Catia’s arms, woolen blanket spread over both of them. He’d loved seeing them like that, so tender and strong. Weirdly, he’d never felt jealous. Sal felt he saw different sides in Catia when she was with her girlfriend, a softer, more feminine side, maybe.
The truth was, it took months before he even figured in their sex—Catia insisted they should get to know each other better first, but once the trust was established, Julia added a new dimension. And he wasn’t always invited—or rather, he knew they spent time together when they left the city for a long weekend, or he was away on business. He was glad they had each other.
Since he knew it was one of her fantasies, he hired the best male sex worker he could find for one Valentine’s Day. He’d spent a week browsing profiles, trying to guess what type she’d want. Also what type he wanted to see with her.
While she’d loved his Valentine’s Day gift, she’d asked for the guy to give Sal a blowjob the morning after, which put paid to anything Sal had ever said about not being into men. At all.
The guy had blown the top of his head clean off and Sal had been both shocked and possibly embarrassed about how strongly he reacted. Getting pegged, sure, enjoying fucking his wife’s curvy ass, any day and any hour, but touching a man and getting touched that way brought his walls crumbling down.
Not once could he have dreamed that he’d ever act on those impulses and attractions—he’d never felt anything was missing, but Catia reasoned with him after breakfast that he understood how she felt with Julia now because part of him needed the same kind of freedom. He tried to explain to her that it was different, because he was a man, at which point she’d reached over the breakfast table and tapped his temple.
“All that is just in your head. Let it go. You can trust me.”
Unsettled over his own responses, he resisted a while longer, fought the desire to say yes because he was Salvatore Rausa and while he didn’t fear anybody, decades of taboos and suppression couldn’t be unmade with a blowjob. Of course, he gave his wife the freedom to do what she wanted, as long as none of his men got the sense that he was being cuckolded—and it turned out that Julia and Catia could get awfully affectionate in public with nobody picking up that they were more than friends. At the same time, he couldn’t allow himself the same freedom. Partly because he didn’t feel he was missing anything, partly because being too affectionate with a man was a no-go in his position.
Still, the same sex worker showed up again with a big grin and a clear set of instructions from Catia. And Sal might still have balked if Catia hadn’t sat all three of them down with a wonderful meal and a few bottles of white wine, which Sal had started to regard as her secret weapon. Then she’d skillfully interrogated the guy—Chris?—about being a bisexual man. Sal remembered he’d specifically chosen Chris not just for his various attributes, but also because he was bisexual and specialized in couples, assuming it would be easier for a rented body if he didn’t freak out if the husband was in the room, watching, or taking part.
They traded stories, and while they all drank wine, Chris answered Sal’s questions in good humor and with easy laughter. Sal felt himself relax during that long evening. It was no different from when they’d met Julia those first couple times to get to know her first. Chris seemed relaxed about whether he got paid for an X-rated chat or X-rated events, but things progressed quickly that same evening. The fact that Chris seemed into both of them helped.
Ironically, having Catia there made it easier to tolerate a man’s tenderness. She couldn’t know how often he’d fought down the impulse to fight, to shove Chris away, not because he didn’t want the closeness, but because he wanted it too much. He found himself wanting all of it, to taste the man’s skin, to feel the silken heat of his cock in his hand, and discover the ways to make Chris groan and squirm. But he saw that knowing light in Catia’s eye, and shivered when she touched them both and got the lube.
The morning after, Sal felt like he’d been stripped down to his soul, but also trusted that Catia would never regard him as anything lesser because he’d enjoyed everything that had happened the night before. She was right: he could trust her, and it had been all in his head, and she liked watching him with somebody else. With every step they took toward total honesty and openness, he fell more deeply in love with her. Nobody else had seen those weak moments, or even the ugly ones, but with her, he could be naked down to the very fabric of his being.
Enzo had been a different case. Sal had assigned him to keep an eye on Catia whenever she left the house, especially as the War was heating up and he felt uneasy about her being out in public but would also never restrict her movement. After a few days, she’d laughingly declared Enzo the “subbiest sub who ever subbed”, and when he didn’t believe her, counted on two hands, and then on two hands again, the instances when Enzo had followed her orders without so much as a blink or a hesitation, even if they were playful or a little cruel.
It could easily have been that clichéd story about a boss’s trusted lieutenant getting too close to the boss’s wife, but over the next few weeks she tested Enzo and got to know him, clearly analyzed his weaknesses and strengths. And Catia never set out to hurt anybody when it came to love and/or sex. She had a way of coaxing people to accept their own desires and follow their fantasies, and those she paid, she paid and treated well.
Sal had known they were moving onto thin ice. The moment they involved anybody they couldn’t pay off, they were running a huge risk. And maybe he shouldn’t have half-jokingly confessed that something about Enzo attracted him, but their relationship was so strong and flexible that he’d left Catia completely free rein. He trusted her judgment and her decisions.
Besides, he didn’t feel his big fierce capo was particularly fragile.
In that, he’d been wrong.
Enzo proved a lot more brittle than Sal could have imagined, even when he’d agreed with Catia that Enzo responded well to a “firm hand”. Between those two, the game was a lot less equal, because Enzo only wanted to serve and hand over all responsibility. He was lucky that Catia was both strong and caring enough to rise to that challenge. To Enzo’s credit, when he broke, he accepted it and even offered up his weakness as a service and token of his submission. When he joined them both in their bed, Enzo was game for anything, and Sal didn’t catch on that Enzo wasn’t nearly as bisexual as Sal himself.
When he finally noticed, it was after the fact, and while he might have shrugged that off with anybody else, he liked and trusted Enzo too much to ignore it. He didn’t feel guilty so much as worried that he’d pushed Enzo too far. But Catia explained it to him—it all fed into Enzo’s submissiveness. He might not be very much into sex with men, but if he was if ordered to, or if it pleased whoever was filling the dominant role, he got off on it. It didn’t compute for Sal, but he accepted it. He’d noticed that same obedience before and it all made sense, but he was definitely wired differently. Enzo got pleasure and orgasms out of it, and also didn’t want them to stop, so while some unease lingered, Sal did overcome it in the end, and accepted Enzo’s different take on sex the same way he’d accepted his own.
At the same time, Enzo’s chaotic life settled down. He had been erratically flipflopping between multiple girlfriends for as long as Sal had known him. Catia had probably ordered him to get his shit together. He took fewer risks, was less reckless, and, Sal noticed, less cynical. Old Enzo would have played Russian roulette if the stakes were high enough, and he’d insist on putting two more bullets into a six shooter. New Enzo was calmer, more cunning and better at anticipating the ultimate backlash.
Some of the guys had commented Enzo was “growing up”, but Sal knew that for much of his time, Enzo was wearing a chastity device under his clothes that either Catia or Sal held the key to. Maybe it was that reminder, that very noticeable claim of control and ownership that made Enzo calm down. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to be taken in by cops while wearing that contraption. Whatever the case, they’d been happy.
Till death did us part.
Sal took a fortifying breath at the thought. He was glad to catch a red light and take a moment to wipe a hand over his eyes. For the first couple years after her death, just remembering her hurt. Maybe that was the strongest indication that her guidance had made Enzo stronger, because while Sal fell completely apart, every bit of his strength washed away like the walls of a sandcastle annihilated by a storm-whipped sea, Enzo didn’t. Sure, he suffered like an animal, but his prime goal had shifted from serving Catia to supporting Sal.
Enzo had been there those first few days when Sal was so numb and anguished and beside himself that anything could have happened. He accepted that Sal screamed at him, wrestled with him, and not in play, watched Sal when he raved and ranted, and was there when Sal broke down. Sal could not say in all honesty what would have been more likely—that he’d blow his own head off or go on a killing rampage because only blood could drown the sheer agony of losing Catia. The person who’d dug up layers of himself he’d never have dared to examine on his own, and made him okay with them. More than okay. She’d made him whole. The one person who’d loved him unconditionally even in his weakest, ugliest moments.
She hadn’t deserved to die, surely hadn’t deserved to be murdered, and identifying her body had been the hardest thing Sal had ever done in his life. After that, everything was child’s play—the war that was now on the horizon meant little compared to that, except that it was his revenge for her death. And still, his current game moves were to protect himself from unnecessary losses. He wouldn’t put Enzo’s life at risk, for example.
He’d wade through the guts of a thousand Jack Barsantis for that.