Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov
26
Fuck, it was a chilly day, and possibly felt chillier because Sal was exhausted and wired at the same time. While he could cope with the frustrated arousal, the emotional fatigue pulled on him. But they were dealing with schedules that were only partly in their control, thanks to timezones, so he dialed the number he’d saved years ago.
He’d only ever called it a handful of times since Catia’s funeral. Gianbattista Falchi had approached him after everything was done and Sal had been so sore and broken inside that somebody could have cut his throat and he wouldn’t have lifted his hands to defend himself. Not that the old man still did the dirty work himself. Sal didn’t remember much of the conversation, except that Falchi told him he’d “liked Caterina very much indeed”, and wished to “extend every possible assistance and help to her widower”.
It had taken a long time for Sal to get over the word “widower” as if it had been some kind of deliberate move to test his reflexes, his bite, whether he was going to come back from the ashes and ruins. Falchi was cruel and cunning. Some said that was the only way he’d survived that long. He didn’t offer his support to just anybody. So Sal had assumed Falchi had an interest in avenging Catia for his own reasons.
A year after the funeral, Sal had finally dialed the number on the card Falchi had given him. It’d felt like a pact with the devil. He liked to take care of his own business, and asking for help was always a sign of weakness in their circles. But Falchi couldn’t have been more pleasant, asking him how he was faring, “all things considered”, and Sal felt that Falchi remembered the anniversary.
And then that question: “Did you mean it? Can I count on you?”
“You’ll find, Salvo, that I don’t make frivolous promises. How can I help with your interests in Port Francis?”
He hadn’t exactly consulted with Gianbattista Falchi on every step since then; it hadn’t been necessary because he was simply better placed to lead the re-organization of his family. But now that he was going to do the same to the power structure of Port Francis, he could definitely use some support, if only to increase the force he could bring to bear in dealing a decisive blow to settle matters once and for all.
The unfamiliar call tone of an Italian cell phone. Sal shifted his weight back onto his heels and waited.
“Yes?” It wasn’t that harsh “pronto!” that awaited a caller from Italy, so Falchi knew he was calling from abroad.
“Gianbattista, this is Salvo. Port Francis.”
“Salvo, how nice.”
“‘Nice’ doesn’t cover it. I’ve been pretty busy here.” Falchi would know exactly what he meant. “And I’m getting to the point where I’ll need help.” No point making pretty words about it. He was outnumbered. The main thing he had going for him—aside from an absolute fuckton of intel and data that the Feds would never have been able to gather in years of observations and wiretaps—was that the enemy didn’t see it coming.
“But of course.” Sal could almost hear that smile. “Now?”
“Yes, now or as soon as you can make it.”
“I’ll send help. He’s been on business on your side of the Atlantic, so could be there tomorrow.”
“I can have him picked up. Whatever he needs, it’ll be available. I’m well supplied here.”
“I’ll trust you with the details. I’ll text you the flight numbers and a contact number for him. You liaise with him, and of course he’ll stay as long as necessary. I’m also going to look into more local assistance, but that will require a few more phone calls and some horse trading.”
“I hope it’s not too much of a bother.”
“Oh, no. I have favors outstanding locally, so I’ll make the calls today. I’m sure they’ll come through.”
So genteel, and yet Sal knew what Falchi was capable of. They didn’t call him Il Gentiluomo for nothing. Fuck, he’d thought Barsanti was reserved and classy, but Falchi in his prime had pretty much rewritten the rulebook that Jack adhered to. Jack would no doubt freak out if he knew Falchi played on Sal’s team.
And if that “he” Falchi had alluded to was the man Sal thought, then Port Francis would have a very interesting war. Legend was that Falchi’s free-roaming chief executioner had played a major role in the fightback against the Russians—before Stefano Marino had turned pentito.
“Thank you. It would be an honor to host you over here if you felt drawn to our little corner of the world.”
“You know, I might. It would be good to catch up, Salvo, once you have more peace of mind.”
Peace of mind. Quite the turn of phrase there. Sal had wanted to express that he hoped Falchi would let him know what his help would cost—he didn’t believe Falchi was all that concerned with money anymore. The man traded in secrets and favors. One day, he might call and ask Sal for payment.
“But I should leave you to your preparation. Do call me when you have more time—I’d be interested to hear how things went.”
“Will do, thank you, Gianbattista.”
Sal ended the call and felt a weight slipping from his shoulders. Maybe the spiritual people were right and Catia was out there somewhere, watching over him. Even in death, she strengthened and supported him.
He glanced down the driveway, but nothing had changed, though the sun couldn’t completely defeat the chill in the air. It was a beautiful day to be outside, though, to soak up the brightness and wide open skies. If Falchi’s guy did arrive tomorrow, the schedule still seemed doable. He could shower and change and then select whatever automatic handgun and rifle he liked from their friendly supplier, sleep a few hours, and then have a briefing and discuss targets. Including the inevitable cleanup to keep it under the radar, the whole thing was going to be over before the month ended, and that thought alone made him half excited and half impatient to blow it all open already and charge into battle.
When he returned, Enzo was in the kitchen, jacket off, his gun holster openly displayed at the hip, eating a handful of grapes. He glanced at Sal and nodded toward the living room. “So he’s now moving around freely?”
“He’s given us everything we need. And still coming down.”
Enzo didn’t seem completely convinced but shrugged. “Your decision.” He dropped the last few grapes into his mouth. “How’d it go?”
“He’s sending assistance.” And considering the hitman’s body count, he’d be useful.
“At least he’s on your side, not Dommarco’s or Cassaro’s.” Enzo opened the fridge and gave it an up-down glance. “When are we going to finish here?”
The plan had been so simple—grab the consigliere, torture him for information, kill him, make the body vanish, and strike before Andrea Lo Cascio even missed his right-hand guy. But as they said, no plan survives enemy contact, and it had all become far more complex than originally expected. And Jack’s offer haunted him. The plan had been to kill everybody in the Lo Cascio, knowing that some people might still escape. But pinpointing who’d pulled the trigger on Catia meant he could make doubly sure the killer didn’t escape retribution.
When Sal didn’t answer, Enzo glanced over his shoulder, then moved his jaw around a few times, which he tended to do when he was thinking. “You seem to like him. Looked pretty cozy when I came back.”
“Doesn’t make you happy, does it?”
Enzo closed the fridge door and turned toward him. Mostly, he appeared to be a little baffled. “Dunno, boss. You tell me. You say the word, I’ll put a bullet in his head, chop him up, drive him to the other side of the bay, get a burger on the way back. Or not. But what keeps him from calling Andrea and telling him everything?”
“I’m just not like that. I’m different.”
“He’s gay, and Andrea wants him to marry and probably breed soon. Seems his boss caught a whiff that Jack here has been playing cards with his prostitutes, but remained fully dressed.” He had no idea if that had actually happened, though Jack Barsanti wasn’t the first man to hide strategically in obvious places to prove his manhood. Sal believed him when he said he’d never had sex—somehow, Jack didn’t strike him as the kind of man who forced himself to sleep with a woman for the benefit of others. He’d be the type to wave a bundle of money and flash his natural charm rather than humiliate himself that way.
And Jack’s situation was hopeless. He couldn’t afford to be found out—made men still got killed for that, and while a queer associate might be tolerated or beaten up and warned off, Andrea was unlikely to accept a gay man that close to him. Not a consigliere. Just the loss of face would drive a man like Andrea absolutely batshit. And even if Jack somehow managed to find a woman and did manage to father children (by whatever means), once these suspicions were out there, they never went away completely. Even if Jack Barsanti fathered a score of children and paraded around with several mistresses in tow.
“Maybe I made the wrong decision to keep it all locked away. I can’t help but wonder what it might have been like.”
And having had a taste of it, would Jack seriously remain celibate when it came to men? Forever rely on second-hand, but hollow pleasure, watching in secret, but never truly feeling a man’s hands on his skin? He’d kissed Sal too eagerly for that, too passionately, too breathlessly, even with his split lip and bruised face. Had wanted—so clearly—for Sal to touch him. Sal didn’t pretend to himself that he was special somehow—Jack could have gotten off with anybody in that state—but Jack had also been too clear-headed to simply ignore it had happened. In fact, he didn’t even attempt to flee into denial afterward.
A minute risk remained that Jack’s defenses were only temporarily down, that once he recovered them he’d go running to Andrea. Jack did have a good chunk of their plan—enough to allow Andrea to brace himself for the attack, prepare, and fight back harder than if he’d been surprised. It would counterbalance part of the reason why they’d done this whole thing in the first place. But all that it would do was buy Jack a few more weeks while Andrea was more preoccupied with fighting a war than with his doubts about his consigliere’s straightness. That problem wouldn’t go away.
“Do you figure there’s such a thing as reverse Stockholm syndrome?” Sal asked.
Enzo scoffed. “That what’s going on?”
“Not sure.” Sal blew out a breath. He’d been fooling himself for most of the weekend. He wasn’t going to kill Jack, and wouldn’t give the order, either. He’d never ask Enzo or anybody else to do something he felt incapable of.
He couldn’t put his finger on when things had changed—maybe when Jack hadn’t been as expected. Maybe when the man had stared at him, scared and tense, there, tied up on the bed, exhausted and yet clearly turned on. Maybe it was the fact that Jack Barsanti was queer—and what it had taken emotionally to hide for so long, Sal couldn’t even imagine. They were more alike than either of them was ready to admit. Except Sal had been lucky with Catia, while Jack had been turned into a sharp, pure diamond under all that pressure. Working and cutting a diamond took another diamond.
He’d gotten under Jack’s skin, but in the process somehow cut himself open too in some strategic places. Jack might not be aware of it, he probably still thought Sal was playing a version of good cop, bad cop with him, but Sal knew the openings existed.
On the one hand, he couldn’t wait to drown the Lo Cascio in their own blood. On the other, he could have happily locked himself away for a week with Jack and a couple 30-foot coils of rope, and figure out what Jack liked, and where his limits were. But the latter wasn’t an option—he had a war to fight and surely Andrea would eventually call and ask his consigliere whether he knew why his capos weren’t answering their phones.
Another option was to make Jack “vanish” first, and Sal had no qualms about stashing him away in a safe place with a guard until the dust settled.
“Ah, fuck.” Sal walked toward the fridge, almost shouldering Enzo out of the way who belatedly stepped aside, opened it, and pulled out the orange juice. While he busied his hands with taking a glass out of the cupboards, and pouring himself juice, then drinking it, Enzo stood too close to be polite.
“I know it would be smarter if we killed him. I know that.”
“So why not? Just trying to understand it.”
“I think he’s on their side as an accident.” He rested most of his weight on his knuckles on the work surface. “And I know that’s bullshit. You don’t become consigliere as a fucking accident. Vic Decesare would have advised on that. He must have been a very good capo.”
“Right. And if you leave him alive, the Lo Cascio can recover. He could become boss or lift somebody else into that position. Then we’ll have the same problem in a couple of years.”
“Kingmaker? Jack?” Arguably, though, he’d find the one guy in the family who could actually do a decent job. Sal didn’t relish the thought of having a skilled opponent who had the same level of insight into him that Jack had now. Peace negotiations would be easy, though, as long as it involved pulling Jack’s clothes off.
“You got that grin.”
“Yeah, sorry. Trying to figure out how to remove the last bit of risk without killing him.”
Enzo took the carton of orange juice and took a deep sip, standing close enough that Sal could smell him, and that didn’t help his hormones. Enzo was already available, could always be switched into submissive mode, like a kitten went slack when grabbed by the scruff.
“Saw something on TV once. You know what the Triads did? They might still do it, not sure.”
“Enlighten me.”
“They’d kidnap people and hold them for ransom. Family gets pictures, pays up, prisoner is released, everybody’s happy, right?” Enzo shrugged. “Except not. While they have the prisoner, they’ll rape them or force them to have sex with like guys, or women, or animals, and they keep those photos. And when they need a favor or some extra cash, they’ll send a reminder. You get grabbed once by the Triads, they own you forever. And with everybody trying to keep face, the shame is worse than death.”
Sal laughed. “Gotta love the Triads.”
“Think about it. Fuck Barsanti, get it on video, and threaten to upload it to all of your sites. With his face, one of his guys, or someone who knows him will eventually stumble across it. That would end him—Andrea or no Andrea. Especially if he enjoys getting a cock shoved up his ass.”
Sal swallowed at the image. “You’d even shoot the video.”
Enzo’s lips tightened in a small, somewhat malicious smile. “And warm up the lube if that helps.”
“I’d put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger.” Jack stood barely inside the kitchen, legs spread somewhat apart like those of a newborn foal that wasn’t quite sure yet how to use them. “Saves you work but doesn’t answer that other question Sal has.”
Enzo pulled away, mostly to keep Jack in view. Jack looked disheveled, his shirt was hanging open from his shoulders, and Sal studied the contrast between sunkissed skin and white cloth for a long moment.
“Enzo’s got a point. If I let you live, who tells me you won’t return to heel?”
“My secrets are all I have, and what respect I have, I’ve fought for. You do that to me, you destroy everything.” Jack moved slowly, hand outstretched, clearly dizzy, and made it to the breakfast bar, where it took him several seconds before he managed to climb onto the stool. “I’d have nothing to lose, so I’d end it myself before Andrea sends somebody.”
Not empty words from a man who’d intentionally breathed in water.
Sal stood, undecided, but not because the idea appealed to him. It did appeal on the level of pure fantasy like he’d perfected with Catia, where she’d play a role and he’d play a role and they’d both get off on it. He could even see it as a video—though it was more likely to be special content for those who paid for it than a wide release. Part of him wanted to go over to Jack and see if he was okay, but another part was increasingly resentful over keeping his urges and impulses on such a short leash.
And, hell, feeling Jack tremble under his fingers, the small sounds he made, and the tensing of his stomach muscles before he’d come. He could easily have turned all of that into a weapon. In fact, Enzo probably hadn’t gathered all the cameras around the house yet, and despite the window blinds, maybe they’d recorded the handjob, or enough of it.
“Question remains, Jack. If I let you live, who guarantees you won’t turn around and tell your boss?”