Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov

30

Nothing said “close call” like being spared while sitting in a room that had been prepared as a kill site. The tools were gone, but the plastic sheets remained. The chair still remained where they’d put it. Sal’s discarded towel. And even though the house’s temperature was perfectly set, Jack shuddered relentlessly. He didn’t know whether that was the tension leaving, or the moisture trapped in the bathrobe cooling around him.

Breathlessly, he rose and cast a glance at his wet clothes in the Jacuzzi, remembering viscerally how they’d ended up there. Everything still echoed with Sal Rausa’s fierceness, his rage, his pain, the violence in every turn of his head, every flash of white teeth. And still …

Jack should probably feel shame, guilt, but he didn’t. Even when he dug deep down for those feelings, because surely he deserved them, didn’t he?

He went looking for his phone before he remembered that Sal had taken it, and that was the last he’d see of it, or the laptop.

He did own a burner phone—just in case—but right now he couldn’t face leaving the house. Instead, he walked to the master bedroom and the walk-in closet to get clothes. For the first time in his life, he didn’t like what he saw. He stared at those nice suits and tailored shirts—all the same color because he’d never wasted time making such trivial choices first thing in the morning. Or at least, that was what he’d told himself. In truth it made him look the same, day in, day out, as if that could protect him from too much attention. He’d hidden behind inoffensive grey, and off-white and black, and accessorized with one of a small, restrained collection of expensive watches. And who even wore watches anymore?

His sudden aversion didn’t matter though. He didn’t have any other clothes here, so he put on a suit, then walked into the bathroom to look more closely at his face. Yeah, there was no hiding the bruise; it was a swollen blueish purple where his cheekbone and temple had hit the floor, and the location didn’t lend itself to covering it with sunglasses or something similar. The doc had dealt with that cut high up on his forehead, and while the area was sore, and he could feel some swelling, the bruise was much more dramatic. And then there was the split lower lip. Any attempt to cover up his injuries would draw even more attention and raise questions as to why he felt he had to hide them.

Thankfully, the medicine cabinet held some untouched Tylenol, so he washed two of those down against the ache in his head, pocketing the rest. He brewed an espresso and had another protein shake, and by the time those were drunk, he felt slightly more settled and left the house.

The Porsche didn’t stand where he’d parked it, but the phone was still in the glove compartment. He went back into the house to charge it, and once the screen showed signs of life, he dialed Beth’s number. No response, so he sent a text.

Hi Beth, Jack here. Sorry, new phone. Call me?

The phone rang less than five minutes later. “Jack, Jesus Christ. I thought …” And then she caught herself and the vehemence faded and died. “Thank you for finally calling me. No wonder I didn’t manage to get through. What happened to your phone?”

“Drowned it. It’s sitting in a bag of rice right now. Kind of a shame about the nice risotto.” He took an icepack out of the freezer and placed it against the side of his face. “And admittedly, I’ve had a bit of a weekend.”

“Yeah, Sal said.”

Jack’s blood froze.

“Enough. Stop talking about her. It’s messing with my boner, Jesus.”

Sal had told him he’d talked to Beth, but it still hit him like a hammer. The two parts of his life that should never meet. He could only hope to separate both completely and forever and repair some of the damage.

“Jack?”

“Yeah, sorry. I still can’t believe you guys talked.”

“He was really nice. You could have told me about him and introduced us yourself.”

Oh God, Sal, what have you done? “Sal’s kind of new in my life.”

“I understand. But you know …” She audibly steeled herself. “Look, I don’t know him that well, but he cares about you, Jack. I don’t know where you guys are in your relationship, but could you try talking to each other more?”

Sal, you utter bastard.“Right, well, we did that, this weekend. Talk. We talked a lot more than we ever have before.”

“And? I mean, if you want to tell me.”

“We worked thing out, I guess.” Keeping it vague so he could assess the amount of damage that Sal had done to the whole façade Jack maintained for Beth.

“So … your proposal?”

“It was a mistake. I’m sorry for confusing you. I guess I freaked out and …” It no longer matters. “I’m sorry I pulled you into all this.” And put you anywhere near Sal Rausa’s damn radar.

“Oh, thank God.” It came out as one single toneless breath. “I mean, I get that your family isn’t okay with your sexuality, but we can’t live the lives that our families want for us, even if they mean well.”

Mine really, really doesn’t.And how utterly bizarre to discuss his sexuality with the very person who knew the least about the real him. “I’ll always have to be discreet about it, but I’ll find a different way to go about it.”

“I didn’t mean you should grab Sal, saddle a unicorn, and ride straight to the altar. But you shouldn’t let your family come between you, either. He cares about you, Jack, that’s worth so much. And listen to me talk, Miss Guaranteed to Find the Biggest Asshole in any Room and Move in with Him.”

Despite himself, he laughed. “Yeah, next boyfriend will get vetted very carefully.” And I’ll be quite happy to give him the Dating the Mafioso’s Sister or Daughter Treatment.

“Same,” she said with an edge of seriousness. “But I like this one.”

Let’s not even go there.“Good. I’m glad. So, what are you up to this week?”

“The usual.” Which was too vague. He’d started the call with a notion of getting her out of the city, but more erratic behavior on his part would set her on edge again. Andrea didn’t know she existed, and Sal wouldn’t hurt her. Neither would Enzo. Any other danger would be due to a freak accident, not intention. But the war hanging over their heads made him want to personally drive her to the airport and send her off for a month or two to Hawaii or Alaska, and only let her come back when the dust had settled. He didn’t know whether he would still be around when she’d come back.

“Good. That’s good. Listen, I have to make a few more calls, but I wanted to make sure we’re okay.”

“Definitely.”

He ended the call and rested his head against the door of the fridge. In a nightmare scenario, he’d imagined her banging against the door, two cops in tow. If Sal had opened it, it would have been “sorry to disturb, Mr. Rausa”, and “no, we don’t care about the bleeding man in the background, please continue, and have a nice Sunday, Mr. Rausa”, or at least that was what his fevered imagination had produced.

See, that can happen when you get people involved who don’t know the rules.