Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov
20
Something was wrong. It wasn’t one specific thing, perhaps just Sal’s instinct that picked up on it. Sal had been wrestling for years and honed his instincts for shifting tensions or a redistribution of weight to anticipate the opponent’s next move. Maybe that awareness made the difference. He knew something was wrong with Barsanti even before his frantic resistance suddenly shifted into something else. Something about his breathing pattern.
The doc took a rapid step toward the Jacuzzi, and then Barsanti stopped fighting. Surprise, disbelief and then alarm crossed over the doc’s features, and in an impulse, he reached out, which was when Sal let go of Barsanti.
“He’s drowning!” The doc grabbed Barsanti from almost under Sal. His quick and precise movements would have been surprising if Sal hadn’t seen the man work before. He helped the doc get Barsanti out of the Jacuzzi by grabbing his legs, and laying him flat on the tiles. The doc was already reaching for his bag, and Sal noticed Barsanti’s skin had a decidedly blueish tinge.
Shit. What had the whole timing thing been good for, then? Above all, Sal couldn’t wrap his head around the fact he’d pushed it way too far. If it had been just about killing Barsanti, that could have been done much easier and much faster. This had never happened before, not to Sal, not to anybody he knew. What exactly had he done wrong? Had Barsanti suffered a stroke? A heart attack maybe?
He balled his fists and became aware of how his clothes stuck to his skin. He was drenched; water dripped from his hair, but he only tore his gaze away from Barsanti’s lifeless body on the ground and the doc administering CPR when Enzo stepped in front of him with a towel. Sal nodded and forced himself to turn away. Surprise seeped out of him, and a mix of guilt and resentment flooded in. They’d been so fucking close, and he’d ruined it.
Fuck.
He was no use in the bathroom now, and found it impossible to look at Barsanti and the struggle for his life. He didn’t want to witness it, feeling deep down that it would fail. It was over, all the work was lost and now they had a high-profile dead body on their hands and nothing to show for it. He’d fucked up.
Towel in one hand, he left the bathroom to dry off and get rid of his wet clothes. But the moment he was upstairs in the guest bedroom, he heard coughing, retching and then the unmistakable sounds of somebody vomiting.
He changed in record time and hurried back down, taking two steps at a time.
While Barsanti was white as a sheet beneath his tan, he was no longer blue, and he was breathing again. Well, “breathing”. It sounded raspy even to Sal’s ears, and even though his breath was fast and shallow, that was still enough to make him cough, and those came from deep inside his lungs. He’d rolled onto his side, knees drawn up, arms hugging his heaving chest.
The doc crouched next to him and had a hand placed on Barsanti’s shoulder. “Try to relax.”
Barsanti didn’t respond, not with a quip or even by trying to pull away. He was wholly preoccupied with just taking in oxygen and suffering through wracking coughs.
The doc brushed his hair back behind his ears and straightened, then made eye contact with Sal.
“What happened?” Sal asked.
“I think he did it on purpose. He tried to drown himself.” The doc’s face betrayed his surprise, so Sal wasn’t alone there. He couldn’t even feel relief that it hadn’t been his mistake and that Barsanti was alive.
“That’s not supposed to happen.”
The doc glanced back at Barsanti as if to check he was still breathing. “Now I don’t even want to know who he is, but that was one for the family album. Metaphorically, not actually. Of course.”
“Good job bringing him back.” Sal patted the doc’s shoulder. He tried to imagine what it would take to override one’s own survival instinct and failed. People could be driven to extreme places where they might jump out of a high-up window to escape a raging fire, but this was a totally different caliber. All the other instances where Barsanti had resisted paled into nothing, could have just been driven by pride. This though … “I guess we can give him a little rest and then put him in there again, just more carefully.”
“Not a great idea. He’s not out of the woods. He’s aspirated water, so there’s a chance the difficulties he’s having with his breathing will get worse. Secondary drowning is no joke.”
“What do you mean?”
“If this was a different situation, I’d send him for observation at the hospital, but with things being as they are, at the very least I wouldn’t let him anywhere near water. And keep an eye on him. Respiratory distress can get nasty very quickly. Drowning victims definitely need twenty-four hours to recover, forty-eight hours is better.” The doc shrugged with an “at least that’s the rules” expression.
“And in the meantime? Hook him up to a car battery?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. That was a close call.”
Okay, so Sal had fucked up, but it wasn’t irrecoverable. Fine. They didn’t really have that much time, but they’d lose more if they had to go with an alternative plan. Barsanti was still the decisive factor, and Sal wasn’t going to accept that Andrea’s consigliere had bested him.
Not permanently, not from a position of such weakness. Watching Barsanti cough and suffer there on the floor, Sal wanted to punch something, somebody, and the adrenaline from earlier began to turn into acid in his veins.
Belatedly, he noticed Barsanti’s hands were free, but even so, the consigliere posed as much of a threat as a half-drowned kitten. He couldn’t tell whether those were tears running from the man’s closed eyes or just water, but if they were tears, they might be from purely physical misery. Barsanti didn’t even attempt to wipe them away.
Both the doc and Enzo looked at Sal expectantly.
Sal took another one of those blue-grey towels from the shelf, where they were stacked as tidily as for a photo shoot, unfolded it and placed it on Barsanti’s hands. The man didn’t respond, too trapped in what Sal assumed was either exhaustion or distress, or maybe both.
Sal could still feel the echo of Barsanti fighting him with the desperation and single-minded focus of a landed fish, and only now had a good idea of the man’s raw physical strength.
He’d wrestled others for fun and for sport, was a pretty competent grappler, when it came to that, but there was a metallic tang to Barsanti’s battle against him. He must have been sweating adrenaline, and maybe Sal felt a little guilty about how part of him had almost enjoyed this—not the fear, not the agony of drowning, not the coughing, definitely not. He wasn’t a sadist—blood and cruelty left him pretty cold.
The part he had enjoyed was feeling Barsanti’s power, the tension in his muscles, and the terrible intimacy of near-death. The water hadn’t exactly been warm, so the heat from the man’s struggling body had felt good against his own, and taking off his shirt had been a mistake, because he’d felt it more keenly, unfiltered. In fact, he’d been glad for the doc’s presence, which kept him on task, kept his timing on track, and also that the doc had stepped in when Barsanti’s act of desperation hadn’t just changed the game—it had flipped the table on which the game was played.
He walked over to the liquor cabinet in the living room, which held only a few but expensive bottles, mostly old whiskey. Sal didn’t have the palate for it, so he simply chose the bottle that had the least, reasoning that it might be a favorite, and added two fingers of the golden liquid to two heavy tumblers. Not the time to go easy. He tossed the whiskey back in one gulp, and appreciated the sharp, mellowing burn all the way to his stomach. And another sense memory of Barsanti bucking underneath him. Fuck.
He poured himself another finger of the whiskey and chased right after the first one. He should eat something more solid than coffee, whiskey and a waffle, but his hunger came from something else and he knew it.
“It’s not because he’s pretty?”
Shit, if Enzo asked him that question again right now, his answer wouldn’t be so glib. Worse, it’d lack conviction. Though it wasn’t because Barsanti was pretty. In this town and within driving distance, he could have any number of pretty faces, all ranges, all types, all genders. Most came for free, the others were within his budget. Pretty didn’t cover it. Pretty was skin-deep. Pretty didn’t mean a damn thing.
He’d known the game had changed when Beth had spilled Jack Barsanti’s secrets to him in an attempt to help his “boyfriend” understand him better. What he hadn’t anticipated was that it added another layer to his growing respect for the man.
“Meh. Straight guy rubbing one out. Not exactly thrilling stuff.”
Except Barsanti wasn’t straight, and was proving to be far more thrilling than Sal could have predicted. Maybe she shouldn’t, but he took Beth’s word for it. If Jack were straight, his restraint around her was impressive; she was hot in a vulnerable, sweet way that absolutely wasn’t Sal’s type, but he could see Barsanti with his cultured tastes developing some kind of Pygmalion fantasy around her.
Whatever Barsanti’s orientation was, he was apparently looking for a bride due to “family” pressure. So, had he committed some kind of indiscretion? Anything that made someone among the Lo Cascio think the consigliere wasn’t up to requirements? Was someone trying to blackmail or backstab him, and he sought to head this off at the earliest opportunity? It had to be something like that.
So, Jack, they’ll crucify you for what you’re sticking your dick into but you’re still willing to die for those fuckers?
He drew his shoulders up in a deep sigh, drank the last few drops that had gathered in the glass, then put it down in the kitchen on the way back to the bathroom, where Barsanti was now lying stretched out on his back, clutching the towel Sal had given him. The doc seemed to be finishing up an inspection of his wrists, and then stashed the stethoscope he’d used to check Barsanti’s lungs earlier.
“Anything, doc?”
“No damage to the wrists.” The doc stood and stepped aside. “Smart to tie him behind his back. Doesn’t seem like you pulled them too tight.”
That had been more of a habit. Catia was no longer there to rip into him, but she’d taught him proper restraint safety, and that recreational skill came in handy in his line of work.
What would she have made of Barsanti? Everything aside, if she hadn’t died, and if Barsanti weren’t who he was, would she have focused on Barsanti and fully analyzed and then repaired him like so many of her gallery of broken toys? “I know my restraints.”
Enzo coughed, and the doc looked up, eyebrows quirked.
Laboriously, Barsanti changed position, every movement sluggish and clearly taking much more effort than normal, but just that he was stirring seemed to be a good sign. His breathing was the only sound in the room as he managed to sit up into a cross-legged position. He remained that way as if not quite trusting his balance.
Sal tapped him on the shoulder and handed him the glass. “Drink.”
Barsanti glanced at him and for a few heartbeats, Sal expected him to ignore it or slap it out of his hand, but then he took it and drank the whiskey quickly, before handing back the glass. No “thank you”, though Sal didn’t begrudge him that.
“We still got business, you and I. You should change out of your clothes. Guys, I’ll handle it. Take a break.”
Enzo nodded to the doc and they both left. Sal crouched before Barsanti, who still sat there, looking a little more focused and clear-eyed than before.
“Handle what, exactly?” Barsanti’s voice was raw from the coughing, but Sal was oddly relieved that he’d found some of his attitude.
“Getting you changed.” Sal noticed Barsanti’s head wound had also been looked after. He’d probably just split his scalp there.
Barsanti stared at him, now more cautious, even lightly alarmed.
“Believe it or not, that was the nicest option I had.”
“Right. ‘Nice’.” Barsanti shook his head.
Sal grabbed him under the arms and pulled him up. Barsanti’s movements were somewhat uncoordinated and came with a noticeable delay, like those of a drunk, but he helped. “I’m going to be even nicer and let you rest a while.”
In truth, Sal also needed more time to think. If not for the doc, he might have attempted to torture again pry open that crack—surely there was one when a man tried to kill himself. Nobody came out of a near-death experience without taking something emotional and deep from it.
“All right.” Barsanti walked mostly under his own steam, while Sal guided him to the master bedroom, the only room in the whole damn house where there was some measure of privacy and Barsanti likely felt safest. He let go of Barsanti once they were past the door and crossed his arms, and broadened his stance while remaining in the doorway.
Barsanti moved like a much older man, and the coughing was near constant. He shed his shirt first and dropped it on the floor at his feet. Then the undershirt, revealing a body that Sal had already admired, if in a purely calculating way. Now that view had grown teeth and claws that dug into the animal parts of his brain. Barsanti was hot, in a “wholly unapproachable but unable to defend himself now” way.
Hands on the button of his slacks, Barsanti paused.
Sal pretended ignorance and kept his gaze fixed on Barsanti’s face.
Eventually, Barsanti pulled down his trousers and boxers, kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his wet clothes, then pulled off his socks. He sat down on the bed, not a stitch of clothing left on him, and regarded his wrists, prodding the reddened, swollen areas. “While you’re being so nice, can I make a phone call?”
Probably Beth.“Maybe. Going to say goodbye?”
Barsanti looked up. “There’s a thing I need to fix, and …” He lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “Ultimately, it won’t matter, of course, but …” He cleared his throat.
“Get dressed.”
Barsanti shook himself and got up again, then walked to his closet, opened it and dressed after wiping himself down with a towel right there. Boxers, socks, undershirt. He didn’t seem to have any truly casual clothes except workout stuff—just the same type of clothes he’d taken off, the same grey tailored slacks, the same black socks, black boxers, white undershirt and tailored white shirt. He ran a hand through his hair, too short to get untidy in anything but a fashionable way, then walked up to Sal and offered his wrists again.
Sal resisted the impulse to grab them and pull him closer. “What are you doing?”
“I didn’t think you were going to risk my hands being free.”
“Sure, but let’s talk first.” Sal had other angles of attack he hadn’t used yet. He reached into his right thigh pocket and pulled out a fresh zip cuff. “What does Andrea have on you? Were you planning to take his place and he found you out? Why are you willing to kill yourself?”
“It’s not about Andrea, and no, I don’t see myself as boss either. I’m not like you.”
“Huh. I think we’re not that different, Jack.”
Barsanti almost jumped when Sal said his first name. “I gotta say, you being ‘nice’ is even scarier than you pushing me under water.” If that was a joke, it fell flat because his voice shook.
Can’t imagine why.Sal placed the plastic loops around Barsanti’s wrists and tightened them, again, leaving about a finger of space in either loop. “Bed?”
“I guess.” Barsanti walked over to the side of the bed he apparently preferred and lay down on the covers. A quick inspection revealed two ways to tie him to the bed. To the side using one of the legs of the bed, or above his head using the frame underneath the headboard.
Sal chose the more comfortable option. Barsanti ended up lying on his side, tied hands fairly close to his chest, and the ties connected to the leg of the bed. It wasn’t foolproof—but enough to ensure Barsanti couldn’t escape in his present condition. As long as they checked on him regularly.
Sal sat next to Barsanti, noticed how the man seemed too exhausted to even try scooting away, though the restraints limited how far he’d be able to get. “Do you need anything else?” He surprised himself with that question, which would be more fitting in a wholly different context. Despite himself, though, he’d begun to respect Barsanti, and he’d decided to set Barsanti at ease for now while he took the time to think through his other options. But even though on a certain level it felt like a twisted kind of aftercare following rough play that had blown past the limits, it definitely wasn’t a peace offering.
Barsanti closed his eyes. “No, just sleep.”
Sal lingered, but Barsanti was shutting down while he watched. He cleared his throat or coughed a few times, but then his breath came easier and deepened, so Sal stood and left the master bedroom fetched his discarded wet clothes from upstairs, then dumped everything into the dryer before he joined the others in the kitchen.
The men sat at the breakfast bar, polishing off bowls of what looked like fresh tortelloni with green pesto.
“I hope you’ve left me some,” Sal groused.
Enzo put his fork down and went back to the stovetop to pour more steaming tortelloni into a third bowl, then placed it before Sal along with a fork. Sal pushed himself onto one of the stools and focused on eating.
“How’s the patient?” Enzo asked.
“Tied to the bed and sleeping. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“This whole thing have anything to do with that masterplan of yours?” the doc asked.
Sal glanced up and then back onto his pasta. “First step. Trying to limit how much work you’ll have to do. Avoid you having to do triage when things get hot.”
“And what was that about restraints?”
“Recreational use.” Sal grinned and reached for the large glass of water that Enzo had poured. “Give me a good length of rope and I’ll wrap you up nicely for Christmas.”
The doc chuckled but raised his hands as if in defense. “Not my scene.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not recruiting.” Sal took several large gulps of water. “I thought we’d lost him for good. Army trained you well.”
The doc gestured in a kind of circular motion. “These things can spin out of control. Had a hazing incident at the base where … somebody got damaged more than was intended.” He relayed it as a matter of fact.
“You involved?”
“No. Heard the rumors, though.” The doc sighed deeply.
Sal left it at that. Everybody around this table and in this house had their secrets. He concentrated on his tortelloni and then placed the bowl in the sink. The combination of whiskey and carbs was already taking the edge off.
“I’ll go check on him.”
“Coffee, boss?”
“Later.” He returned to Barsanti’s bedroom, where he settled in a corner on one of those designer chairs. The room darkened around him while he thought and waited. He shouldn’t have worried about Barsanti, either. The man was out like a light. And for a while, all he did was listen to the man’s raspy breathing. He’d never have thought that he’d pay this much attention to a sleeper’s every inhale, every twitch of discomfort, every exhale, and then the moment of stillness that allowed doubt about the cycle continuing to creep in—this stillness could feel like the smallest of deaths, before the next gasping breath returned the sleeper to life.