Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov

38

“A guy in dress.”

Jack wasn’t sure that was what he was seeing when Spadaro returned. He was the least one here qualified to make a judgment, but Spadaro wore the heels and small black dress with the same ease as he’d worn the tailored suit or the motorcycle gear. For all his striking appearance, he possessed that intangible quality of models or actors whose personality shifted depending on their roles or clothes and make-up. And while those black eyes hadn’t changed in the slightest and were places without light or much in the way of emotion, Spadaro flicked open candy-colored sunglasses that perfectly matched the lipstick and hid them away, leaving a leggy, somewhat angular girl with jaw-length platinum-blonde hair holding a rhinestone- encrusted silver clutch in front of her.

“I guess what shocks me most is that you can walk in those,” Sal said.

Spadaro kept his focus on Jack. “Your call. You okay to risk it?”

“If you’re trying to get … close to Andrea, his type is more curvy.”

“I’ll handle that part.” Spadaro kept looking at him. “I need you to not get jittery. Can you act as if we know each other well?”

Can you? Well, yes. “You mean, get familiar?”

“If necessary. Wouldn’t send the right message if I sit on your lap and you freak out.”

Oh Jesus. Jack swallowed and nodded. “Sure, okay.” Anything that helped to get this over with. If it helped Spadaro to kill Andrea, and if that was how he wanted to play it, Jack could assist. Hell, a few days ago he’d seriously considered marrying a woman and playing a straight man for the rest of his life. He could play that role for a few hours—no marriage necessary, and even better because it didn’t involve a friend who had no idea what she was getting herself into.

That seemed to be enough for Spadaro, who vanished again to “refine the look”. Jack caught a grin from Enzo and shrugged.

“Did your visit to the Ayutthaya go well?” Jack asked, mostly to say something.

“He didn’t talk much, which was cool with me, but I bet he’s got some interesting stories.” Enzo leaned forward. “So, we’re taking out Andrea tonight. I’m going to handle the capos and some of the soldiers with the boys and Spadaro can join us when he’s done. We’ll hunt down the others over the next twenty-four hours. Jack, is there anybody else who’d flip too?”

Jack had pondered that question distantly a few times. Was there a man whose life he should be saving? A few had grumbled about Andrea’s leadership style, but there were no outright rebels—the takings had been too good, and the troops had been happy with the money they’d been making, so morale was solid. If anything, a level of sated complacency had settled in, which wasn’t in and of itself a bad thing. After the War, not living tooth and claw had been welcome.

The truth was, while he liked a few made men more than others, he wasn’t close with anybody these days. Tony hadn’t survived the last War, and Jack had kept his distance emotionally, also because he had to be seen as impartial. He was considered efficient, disinterested when it came to business conflicts, and smart, and none of those made him top of the list when it came to hanging out, having fun, or even becoming the godfather of children.

“No, I don’t think so.” And like that, a weight dropped off his shoulders—he’d served their interests so long, had judged fairly, had punished and reined in where necessary and possible, but aside from Tony, or moments of comradery, he’d simply gotten used to these men the same way he’d gotten used to fellow prisoners. Over the years, there were a few he’d considered friends, but he’d seen too much betrayal and self-interest to ever turn his back. Strange to now condemn the all of them to death, though.

“Not your call,” Sal reminded him, and placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “But that keeps it simple. Also, once Andrea’s down, we’ll access the accounts and the rest. Who else has access to the finances?”

Yes. That. Jack had expected Sal to confront him about the money and passwords, but he hadn’t. He’d secured everything again as leverage, expecting to have to prove or negotiate his value in the days after Andrea had fallen, because he was still the man who held the purse strings. Sal’s tone indicated he assumed Jack would cooperate when it came to the money, as if they were real allies, co-conspirators, and after what had happened in the bedroom, Jack felt he could trust him. Silly. Naïve. But he had no emotional reserves left to fight. Maybe he could trust one man in his life.

“Andrea and me, that’s it. There’s an accountant if we need him, but I’m handling all that. Andrea never let anybody else get near the money.”

“He should have respected you more, then,” Sal said. “Right?”

“Right.” Andrea and Jack had both held the power to destroy each other, and really, Jack was just acting before Andrea could. “I think I should leave you to it—I could use a workout to calm down. Can you give Spadaro my phone number so we can arrange to meet?”

“You sure you want to leave?” Sal asked.

“I don’t, but I’ll be useless for the planning, and I’d rather not know. If there’s anything, Spadaro can tell me. I should keep up my normal routine, which at this point is to have a workout and make a few calls.” The building tension was settling in his bones and muscles, though thankfully there was no guilt. The most he felt was a kind of hollow regret, maybe a sense of failure, but a part of him was already moving the puzzle pieces to understand a world without the Lo Cascio.

With Andrea gone, the remaining reins all gathered in Jack’s hands, and he’d have to play everything in the right order, with the right touch, to not be compromised himself in case somebody realized he was the traitor. Another thing he needed to get ready was his escape. If it all went south, if Sal did turn against him, he’d still make it out alive, and with enough money to hide for the rest of his life.

“Okay. I’ll see you out.”

Jack nodded, then paused and turned toward Enzo. “Good luck.”

Enzo looked up and gave him a grin. “See you at the victory party, Jack. Stay safe.”

“You too.”

Sal took his hand off Jack’s shoulder blades once they were in the elevator, but he remained very close. After a little while, he cleared his throat. “I’ll let Spadaro know it’s more important to protect you than kill Andrea.”

Jack found himself smiling. “I can protect myself.”

“Still.” Sal looked up to the ceiling of the cabin, and then back down. “You’re really quite special. I hate sending you into danger.”

“And that’s not your call, Sal.”

“Yeah, but still …”

“There’s no viable alternative. You do your part, I’m doing my part, Spadaro and Enzo do theirs, and we’ll see how the chips fall.” He pulled Sal into a kiss, enjoyed his smell, and taste, and the strong body against him, then separated too quickly and strode out of the elevator as the doors chimed open.

Head in the game.

And he managed it, mostly. The drive grounded him, the need to focus on the traffic, then to pick up his workout clothes, and another short drive to the local high-end gym. He could have driven to Andrea’s estate and used the gym there, like he’d often done in the past, but that ran the risk of having Andrea attempt to compete against him—“friendly”, of course, and the quandary whether he should let him “win”. Andrea seemed to believe that the few years of age difference entitled him to victory in all disciplines. He did have more energy and he was strong, but he’d never learned to pace himself.

What Jack didn’t want right now was to have Andrea spot him or ask him to do it. He’d drop the weight on Andrea’s throat himself if given half a chance, or beat him to death with a barbell, just to be done with it. Not because he hated him, but it would release the stress trapped in his muscles and that was screaming to get out.

In the gym, he picked up one of the resident personal trainers along with his day pass, but she quickly realized he knew what he was doing and mostly held a towel and a water bottle for him. She caught on that he wasn’t feeling chatty. He was grateful for her help though when it came to stretching.

He changed into his “party” clothes after the shower, massage, and haircut all under the same roof, forcing himself to not check the phone. Nobody called or messaged him during his “wellness break”, which was a relief.

To start off the evening, he settled in one of his favorite restaurants and ordered a small flock of tapas. He ate slowly, enjoying the post-workout and post-massage buzz, but nothing quite touched the delicious memory of ropes holding him while Sal Rausa teased wholly new and unimagined sensations from his body. He had to turn away and look out of the window so no one thought he was smiling that way at them.

His phone buzzed—unknown caller ID—and he answered. “Yes?”

“I’m outside the coffee shop on Admiral Drive.” The voice was husky but sounded enough like Silvio Spadaro that Jack didn’t have to ask stupid questions. “Same dress.”

“I’ll be there in ten. Silver Porsche.”

“They’ll think you’re picking up a hooker.” A small, throaty laugh.

“That works.” A guy in his forties, a car with power under the hood, and a leggy girl in a short dress. He’d look like one of an estimated hundred thousand well-to-do middle managers in this town grabbing some extra-marital action.

When he paid for his meal, he tipped even more generously than usual for good luck, and returned to the car. Admiral Drive was one of the main shopping areas of Port Francis, and the road and parking spaces were designed to drop off people or pick them up, and the best area for that was the coffee shop.

He spotted the Barracuda outside, standing easily and gracefully in Louboutin heels. The area should have been too busy and crowded for Spadaro to attract too much attention, but a couple of young men—young professionals by the look of them—were clearly on the way to the watering holes downtown, and had paused to leer at her. At this point, even attempting to think of Spadaro as “him” seemed like an extra effort, and making the switch would help with pulling off the plan.

“Seriously?” Jack muttered to himself, halted the car in the middle of the road without bothering to park, and pushed open the door. Spadaro didn’t seem to spot him, instead watching the boys who stalked around her, unaware that they were literally flirting with death. Jack left the car and strode toward Spadaro.

“Oh, there you are,” he said louder than strictly necessary.

Spadaro cast him a glance, then gave a big smile. “Oh, hi Daddy.”

What the everloving …?

Jack glanced at the two young men. “There a problem here?”

They muttered something, didn’t meet his gaze, and slunk off into the nearest bar.

Jack offered his arm to Spadaro, opened the door, and helped her into the car, though Spadaro’s balance was perfect and she only took Jack’s arm for appearance’s sake.

Jack closed the door after her and returned to the driver’s seat. “What was that?”

“Harmless fun and a way to get into the role.” Spadaro pulled out a small mirror to check her make-up. A whiff of a perfume hit Jack. It wasn’t unpleasant so much as unbelievably sweet, reminding him of bubblegum and spun sugar.

“‘Daddy?’” Jack asked.

“Guys your age are Daddies. It’s a term of appreciation.”

“Appreciation?” This was getting weirder by the second.

Spadaro rolled her eyes. “They probably thought you’re my pimp. That’s a story we can go with. Except I don’t think we could sell Andrea on you being suddenly in the sex trade.”

Jack started the car again and joined the light stream of traffic. “He knows I’m not.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Spadaro clicked the mirror shut and dropped it into the clutch. “Park near the emergency exit. Where do you think Andrea will take a girl or two?” The tone told Jack that Spadaro had no doubt about how things would go down. Of all things, he envied the killer that confidence.

“There are private booths.”

“Cameras?”

“No, Andrea sometimes does business there. There are cameras near the entrance and in the back alley. He relies on club security.” Jack stopped at a red light and tapped his fingers against the wheel. “And rolling into the club with a couple submachine guns would kill so many civilians and bring so much heat that nobody even did anything like that even during the War.”

“Yeah, not how I’d do it.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I’ll separate him from the herd and take him out. How and when depends on how stupid he is.”

“Don’t underestimate him.” Jack set the car back in motion.

“I’m not. That’s why I’m using all these distractions.” Spadaro crossed her legs and angled them just so in a movement that struck Jack as one of the most feminine things he’d seen in his life. “Best outcome—totally silent takedown, nobody sees a thing.”

“The best outcome will be if he tells me first who killed Sal’s wife.” That was still a risk, but hopefully alcohol and girls would loosen Andrea’s tongue.

“The very best outcome would be he tells you what you need to know, nobody hears him die, and I’m sending Sal Rausa a photo of Andrea Lo Cascio’s naked ass with a pink dildo rammed in all the way.” Spadaro smiled sweetly while Jack almost choked on a breath.

“Or …” Spadaro regarded his fake pink fingernails, “We shouldn’t give away to the straights how good that feels, which is why I’ll kill him first.”

“Jesus. You’re not taking any prisoners, are you?”

Spadaro gave him one of those dark glances. “Never do.”

Jack focused on the road, glad that the pure mechanics of driving a car through semi-busy late evening traffic gave him an excuse to dodge what Spadaro apparently considered small talk. Still, the “we” in that sentence disturbed him—but then, the moment Spadaro had reappeared as one of the most believable crossdressers he’d seen in his life, the whole concept of the Barracuda being nothing but a roving killer had disintegrated.

They arrived at the club. Andrea had apparently taken his screaming red Lamborghini out for a spin this evening; it stood in the row marked “VIP parking”, where security could keep an eye on it.

He helped Spadaro out of the car, and noticed Spadaro’s warm, dry fingers. No hint of nerves.

Even out here they could hear the music beat thumping. “Any signals I should be aware of?”

“I don’t do safewords.” Spadaro squeezed his hand and straightened up. “Let’s play it by ear.”

Jack closed the car door and walked Spadaro to the entrance. The bouncers on duty only spared him a brief glance before they waved Jack through. Spadaro got a disinterested look, but nobody asked questions, probably because they’d seen several similar girls brought in. Spadaro regarded the front door and the area around it with interest, even pulling down her sunglasses for an unobstructed view.

Once inside, the thumping beat of the music, in combination with the milling crowd, and the red, pink and purple strobe lights, crashed over Jack like a violent wave. He paused to steel himself. He remembered standing right here, in what back then had been a warehouse, as Andrea’s father had laid out his plans for strip club. Ultimately, it had become a loud, busy disco that, back that, existed so that local college kids could deal ecstasy and Ritalin under the table.

When Andrea took the helm of the Lo Cascio, he’d closed it for three months and it had reincarnated as The Matador. Part bar, part club, it was a place where a virgin cocktail set you back at least thirty bucks, but some house specials easily went into the hundreds. The clientele had then shifted to the kind of people who liked to see and be seen and appreciated both an extensive cocktail list and a talented DJ—as well as all the people who stalked them, from confidence tricksters and drug dealers to sex workers.

Thankfully, Andrea didn’t rub shoulders with the locals down here. Spadaro in tow, Jack crossed the room and walked up the stairs, past a bald security guy who had his hands folded in front of his groin and whose job it was to make sure people who’d gotten lost on the way to the bathrooms didn’t stumble into one of Andrea’s meetings. Once upstairs, another security guy stood outside the VIP lounge, and he too let Jack pass.

Jack opened the door and walked through first.

Once the door closed behind him, the infernal noise from downstairs had lessened to a pervasive vibration in the pit of his stomach, A less ear-splitting version of the same track was playing here. Andrea’s party had already started. The private bar was staffed by two women who wore the usual high-waisted black pants and sequined bolero jackets cut in a way to show more than a hint of their breasts and bare stomachs.

Shirt undone to his solar plexus, Andrea sat in one of the niches with four other guys ranging in age from forties to late fifties, drinking and laughing, and a mirror was out with lines of white powder. His father would never have tolerated that stuff, firmly believing that drugs of any kind were a weakness that brought too much attention from the Feds. He’d had wiseguys vanished whom he suspected of having taken so much as a nose full.

Andrea stilled and blinked slowly when he noticed Jack. “Jack! Great! We were just talking about you.” He waved Jack closer. “Guys, that’s Jack Barsanti, best fucking right-hand man a guy could want.”

Jack listened for a while to the haphazard introductions: real estate developer, a local politician, two rich “sponsors” apparently happy to get fleeced and skinned.

Jack took a step away from Spadaro. “Didn’t think wine suited the occasion, so I brought a different gift.”

“Thank you, Daddy.” Spadaro shifted her weight in a way that displayed her whole body.

Pleased, Andrea laughed. “Get a drink, honey, we gotta do some business first.” He wasn’t even subtle, eyeing her ass when Spadaro turned around and walked toward the bar. There were other girls, some lounging near the bar, some dancing, and Jack forced himself to study them for a while before he sat down among the guys, heartsick to even pretend he cared in the least.

The music made it hard to concentrate too, and he almost startled when Spadaro returned a while later, hips swaying, and offered him a tumbler with what looked like two fingers of whiskey and ice. When Jack tried to ignore the glass, Spadaro shook it in a long-fingered hand, making the ice cubes sing.

All right, then. Jack took the drink, noticed Spadaro dip a finger into it and, once she’d released the glass, place the finger between her lips to suck off the liquid. All the time, all of Spadaro’s attention was on him, and damn, he wasn’t even interested in any way in the killer, or the presented façade, but something about that total focus made his heart beat harder.

Andrea was grinning, tip of the tongue against his front teeth, head tilted, and gaze raking Spadaro, who, probably to spite him, didn’t grace him with a single look. Jack didn’t know how to respond, so he took a big gulp of the alcohol, bracing himself for the burn.

That didn’t come.

Fucking iced tea.

Spadaro waited for him to drink down the whole glass, and part of Jack wanted the promised alcohol, but Spadaro had probably decided they’d both stay sober. Then she gathered up the glass and walked back toward the bar as if that were the only thing on her mind.

“You’re fucking her?” Andrea asked.

“Used to. Might again. Not currently.” Covering every base there was. “As I said, she’s a gift. Not exactly wife material, that one.”

Thankfully, the four suits weighed in with observations about wives and mistresses, and the desired qualities of each. Jack tried to relax and pretend he cared by repeating whatever people said out loud in his head to himself. When he felt Andrea was starting to get restless, he leaned in to him. “Can I talk to you in private?”

“Something important?”

“’Fraid so. But it’s brief.”

“Right. Need to piss anyway,” Andrea muttered, stood and nodded to his guests. “Gentlemen, the buffet is open. Enjoy. I’ll be back in a minute.” Since there was no food, the suits caught the meaning, and so did the girls, some of whom now joined the guests with more drinks.

Andrea headed for the private bathrooms down the corridor. Jack entered the bathroom, but faced away. “What’s this about? It better be fucking urgent.”

“I think Sal Rausa is a problem.” He didn’t like talking to the wall, but turning his head was out of the question until Andrea had zipped up. Though, would a straight guy do the same, or would he simply not worry?

“Rausa?” Andrea scoffed. “Haven’t seen nose or tail of him. He still around?”

“Apparently.” He tried to ignore the sound of splashing piss. “I talked to Cassaro at the Prizzi wedding, and he thinks Rausa isn’t done.”

“Based on what?”

“Seems a Dommarco associate went missing. I checked with our guys, and it wasn’t us.”

“Cassaro is like any old man—jumping at shadows. Rausa hasn’t been a problem for years.” Andrea zipped up and flushed.

“I know that, but I still checked with some people and … I don’t know, Andrea, but I’m getting uneasy.” He half turned and saw Andrea admire himself in the mirror, running a hand through his hair, then baring his teeth as if to check he had nothing stuck in them. “We should deal with him.”

“So bloodthirsty all of a sudden.” Andrea paused with his grimacing and met Jack’s gaze in the mirror. “You figure you’ll need Dommarco’s okay for that?”

“If I get yours, I’ll make the case to Cassaro and Guy Dommarco in person.”

“Wouldn’t want to disturb the peace too much?” Andrea’s sing-song could have been playful, but Jack placed it as mockery.

“If bodies drop, they’ll get restless too. And Rausa’s still a boss.”

“So old-fashioned. If they let you run this city, you’d have a Commission up and running within days, including a fucking board of directors.” Andrea took the door handle and slapped Jack on the shoulder.

“Rausa will target you first. I understand there’s bad blood between you.”

“And that has you spooked?” Andrea had been about to open the door, but then faced Jack again and grabbed both his arms. “Enough that you want to have him killed?”

Slippery son of a bitch.“It’s a threat I can’t completely assess. I wasn’t present while a lot of that history was written.”

Andrea frowned as if having to focus to remember, but he couldn’t possibly be that drunk, could he? “He had some axes to grind, never wanted a part of the peace talks, then fucked off to sulk. Nothing much there.”

“What happened?” Give me something, Andrea.

“Eh. He couldn’t protect his own fucking wife, that’s what happened. So what. If he makes the wrong move, we’ll finish him off, but not tonight. I got something better to do, and so do you.”

Nobody ever asked who had committed any particular murder, it just wasn’t done. The same way, once tonight was finished, Sal, Enzo and Jack would never mention to anyone why Silvio Spadaro had been in town. Even with Andrea, it was rarely necessary to be so blunt. But this was Andrea’s club, his party, and not a clueless witness within earshot.

Jack was Andrea’s right hand, the one man he had to trust. One final push, then.

Who killed his wife? Did you give the order?”

Andrea placed an arm around Jack’s shoulders, and for a long hot-cold moment, Jack couldn’t parse the touch. Although he knew Andrea well after all those years, he had no idea whether it was friendly or threatening, and maybe even Andrea didn’t know one from the other.

“Ask Vic. He has the story.”

Jack was about to protest or plead, but Andrea placed a finger on Jack’s lips. He shuddered because the touch was way too intimate—and Andrea still hadn’t washed his hands.

“No more business tonight, Jack, come on. Relax.”

It couldn’t be clearer. As much as Jack hated it, he had to retreat and hope that he could make Vic Decesare talk instead.

“Sorry. I just like having all of the puzzle pieces.”

Another pat on the shoulder. “Yeah, good man. Now let’s go back or people might get ideas.”

Jack remembered the proper response was laughter, not freeing himself and looking horrified. “I like you, Andrea, but not that much.”

When they returned to the guests, the temperature had risen—a couple of the girls were still dancing, others were sitting between the guests, drinking, laughing, and getting quite touchy-feely. Opposite of the men, Spadaro was kissing one of the other girls, a blonde in a short white skirt, whose top had ridden up to reveal her tanned belly. From the way the girls kissed, Jack felt both Spadaro and her were definitely into each other, or at least into this.

Next to him, Andrea stopped and watched the show. Spadaro seemingly had no attention for Andrea, but her fingers moved along the insides of the other girl’s thighs as she opened them. The blonde’s lids were heavy though she briefly became lucid enough to look at Andrea, and then she moaned.

“I think I’ll have both of them. Your girl can lick my balls while I fuck that one.”

Knock yourself out,Jack thought. “Go for it.”

Andrea swaggered toward Spadaro and leaned against the back of the seat, watching from up close, almost breathing down on the girls while Spadaro had her fingers up the blonde’s skirt. Jack felt uneasy—he still recognized the killer in the girl, aware that that sinewy strength wasn’t for pleasure, but for snapping back and striking without warning. And while the blonde seemed to enjoy it, based on her breathy moans and squirms, bait was all she was. Chum in the water.

And yet, even to Jack it was hot. Maybe it was because he’d spent a lifetime watching bodies do what bodies did, or because he knew Andrea had finally met more than his match while still thinking he was in control, or maybe it was because Spadaro played both the girl and the audience perfectly. Jack turned to pick up another drink from the bar, and then watched as Andrea used his well-worn pick-up smile.

But Spadaro made it difficult for him, seemingly a whole lot more interested in pleasuring the blonde. Andrea spoke, but Jack didn’t pay attention to the words. It didn’t matter what he’d said. Andrea knew he was good-looking, and could even be charming, but he displayed his wealth and wore his power with the subtlety of a jackhammer. He had made his expectations of the two women clear.

Dragging her mouth away from the blonde, Spadaro gave Andrea a smoldering black look, licked her open lips and smiled invitingly. Andrea sat down and kissed the blonde too, which, dazed and turned on, she responded to, while Spadaro’s fingers remained where they were. Spadaro whispered something into Andrea’s ear and then closed his teeth gently around the outer rim of it, pulling noticeably. When Andrea jerked, Spadaro merely laughed.

Jack took a sip from the alcohol and forced himself to look away. There was no reason why he should be too interested in what Andrea got up to sexually, even if his alleged “sometimes lover” was involved. He walked slowly to the one-way mirror wall that offered a great view of the pulsing dancing crowd on the first floor. He gazed down at the writhing bodies, holding his whiskey glass in one hand, and trying to look thoughtful and calm instead of stressed, while the music vibrated up against his feet.

When he turned around again, Andrea was on the move, one arm around each of the girls. The blonde staggered as if extremely drunk and Jack was worried she might fall and the whole plan would go sideways. He caught a quick glance from Spadaro, who seemed to have it all well in hand. She definitely didn’t look like she needed support or help.

Jack took a deep breath and forced himself to remain where he was, but watched the reflection as Andrea walked past the upstairs bar and down a rarely used corridor. That way were two private lounges—round rooms that had only enough space to seat six or eight people around a table. Low light and soundproofing made them suitable for a lap dance or other more private business. Good choice, they were close enough that even the very drunk blonde would be able to make it. Also, considering how eager Andrea had looked, he wouldn’t give them a tour of the club first.

A week ago, my life still made sense.

Jack didn’t pay attention to the girls or the guests. He waited for the time to pass, measured in heartbeats that were hard and fast enough that he could feel them. He measured in breaths, in the beat of the music, and the laughter coming from the sitting area. After about ten minutes, he set down his glass and followed Andrea with all the purpose of a man headed toward the restroom.

Down the corridor, the door of the first private lounge was closed. Jack approached it, heart pounding up into his head and against the base of his skull. He’d never enjoyed betrayal, never relished the twisted power it came with. Even now, he remembered the shocked and hurt expression of the man he’d killed to secure his place among the men of honor. Jack wasn’t made to turn against people he would have otherwise considered allies. It was a sad fact that not everybody had the same compunctions—he’d spent his life watching his back, wasted it, because he’d never really trusted anybody with any of the things that truly mattered to him.

He couldn’t hear anything on the other side of the door, so he leaned closer. After a minute or so, he heard something soft and heavy fall onto the ground. A quick glance down the corridor, and he opened the door.

Inside, he first noticed the blonde stretched out on the seats, heels on the floor, wearing lace panties and nothing else, hands above her head. She was breathing. Passed out. Andrea had fallen between seats and table, shirtless and face first, and Spadaro was kneeling on him, pulling a stiletto from his back. Andrea was still moving, trying to push himself up, fingers trying to find purchase against the fake red leather seats, or maybe reach the gun holster in his back, but while he was strong and fit, Spadaro was working against him and didn’t let him come back up. Andrea made a wheezing, wet sound that gave Jack goosebumps.

“Come in and close the door,” Spadaro said calmly and stabbed Andrea in the back again. He pulled the knife out and tossed it carelessly on the table.

Andrea was choking—his chest moved but he was unable to breathe. Spadaro must have stabbed him in both lungs. Nasty way to go, but mostly, it kept Andrea from screaming or fighting.

“What about her?”

“She shouldn’t have drunk the cocktail I gave her,” Spadaro said calmly, still focused on the man dying underneath her. “Anyfuckingthing could have happened to her.”

“You drugged her?”

Spadaro shrugged. “Didn’t want her to freak out and get in the way.”

“That’s … surprisingly nice of you.”

“Not like she’ll remember enough to tell the cops. Not that there’s any reason for her to talk to anybody.” Spadaro glanced down to Andrea who’d stopped moving. “Job’s done.”

“Yeah, looks like it.”

Spadaro reached out to place two fingers against Andrea’s neck, then straightened, gathered up the knife, wiped it on Andrea’s shirt and closed it, then put it back in her clutch. “Don’t tell me you were worried?”

“No, I’ve heard you’re …” Good? Ruthless? Efficient? None of the words did Spadaro justice.

“Scary?” Spadaro volunteered. “I get that a lot.”

Spadaro’s lipstick was smeared slightly, but while that would have made anybody else look more vulnerable, it looked more like war paint on a surprisingly delicate face. Jack was tempted to offer his jacket and chided himself for the impulsive chivalry.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to do it,” Jack confessed.

“I know a guy who says I have so much Scorpio in my horoscope, hard to be anything else.” Spadaro offered a weird, thin-lipped smile. “Sal wants the body to vanish.”

Much of Sal’s plan would work better if the rest of the Lo Cascio didn’t know what hit them at least for a day or two, and the Dommarco stayed in the dark as well until it was all done. Taking out those Lo Cascio capos who displayed more initiative than the others would be the next move, and Spadaro was unlikely to get any rest until that work was done. But witnessing Spadaro’s fierceness and focus at work convinced Jack that those capos would find their match and more in the killer.

“Do you have a plan to stay safe?”

“What?” Jack did his best to ignore the one dead and one unconscious body, as if either of them could hear him or were in any state to care. “You mean during the war?”

“You’ll be the last man standing. People will ask questions. And Sal Rausa won’t need you once it’s over. Do you have anybody in your corner?”

Jack met Spadaro’s black gaze, unable to read anything in those eyes except a razor-sharp, honed attention. “I hope Sal lets me leave.” Hope. But how much did he have to go on? Except for the magnetism, and the attraction, and the mutual respect. He didn’t think Sal Rausa had it in him to have Jack hunted down and murdered, after everything. He’d finally retire and vanish. Best case … hell, it had been so goddamned long since he could even contemplate a best-case scenario. “I’ll see what’s possible. I now have a chance.” He nodded toward Andrea.

A knock on the door.

Spadaro was on her feet and next to the door like a flash, Andrea’s gun drawn. Jack raised a hand and stepped to the door. “Yes?”

“Boss, sorry to disturb, there’s something you should see.”

Jack made sure that whoever was outside wouldn’t be able to catch a glimpse of Andrea on the floor. When he cracked open the door, he blocked as much of the other man’s vision as he could. He noticed that Spadaro had the gun angled and pointed to execute the guy. It was Mauro, in charge of security tonight.

“Yes, Mauro?”

The soldier blinked, either because he hadn’t expected Jack here, or because of the bruises on Jack’s face. “There’s a couple Rausa capos downstairs.”

“What are they doing?”

“Sizing up the place, swaggering around.” Mauro gritted his teeth. “Looks like two capos and four others.”

Open provocation, especially because they were showing up in force and drawing attention to themselves rather than sitting at the bar with a cocktail in hand. But it would distract club security somewhat. Jack found it mildly disturbing how calm and relaxed Spadaro remained, like any other ambush hunter.

Just then, a low groan came from the blonde girl. A scrabbling sound, like fingernails on leather seats. Shit, she’s waking up.

Spadaro left the position by the door. “Oh you like that, don’t you, baby?” she said in her girl voice.

And then in a deeper voice, approximating Andrea’s tone, “Mmmm-mmmh.”

Jesus. We’re all going to die because of badly acted bad porn dialogue.

Mauro raised his eyebrows and tried to sneak a glance past Jack. Nosy bastard.

Jack shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, while his heart tried to escape his rib cage. “We don’t need that kind of shit. Clear the VIP lounge and the upstairs floor. Move the customers to a different bar. No need to draw attention, say there’s an electrical fault or something. Drinks on the house. Do it now. And, Mauro?”

Mauro had been about to turn, but then made eye contact again.

“Get some of our guys out front and visible. No violence, unless they start it. Call me if necessary.”

“Understood.” Mauro set his jaw and turned to leave.

Jack closed the door and suddenly became aware of the metallic tang mixing with stale air and Spadaro’s sweet perfume. Hopefully, that blood smell hadn’t registered with the soldier.

Spadaro cast a glance at the girl, then refocused on Andrea.

“He can’t have bought that,” Jack said. “Christ, what were you thinking?”

“You need to calm down. I gave him what he expected to hear. People run on expectations. It’s our fucking software.”

No point arguing that, not now, not with a killer on a mission, but Jack didn’t want to be here when Mauro doubted what he’d heard, or realized what he’d smelled.

“We should leave through the delivery entrance.” Andrea often liked to duck in and out of the club discreetly, especially when he had girls with him.

Spadaro searched Andrea’s jacket and dropped the Lamborghini’s keys in her clutch, along with the card that opened the back entrance. Then she picked up Andrea’s gun again, checked it, and shrugged. “You should be nowhere near here.”

“I’ll help move the body.”

“I’m stronger than I look.” Spadaro’s lips quirked into a small smile. “The new king next to the warm body of the dead king, it’s bad optics.”

This isn’t a coup,Jack was tempted to say, but of course, the others wouldn’t think that. “What can I do to help?”

Spadaro gathered up Andrea’s discarded clothes. “Go out there and act normal.”

“Keep in mind there’s a camera at the back.”

Spadaro straightened, turned and made Jack feel the full force of that black stare. “I got this. You do your job, let me do mine.” She still sounded flat, emotionless, but Jack felt it was the closest Spadaro had come to being irritated or angry so far.

“Okay.” Jack took a couple deep breaths and left the private lounge. He resisted pulling at his sleeves or straightening his jacket, but took a moment to gather himself.

Right. Rausa capos. All he had to do was pretend that the distraction was the actual main event and keep the mask in place for just a few more hours.

He sauntered downstairs to join the subtle stand-off with the Rausa men, and was relieved to find Enzo was clearly the ringleader—all the other men took their cues from him. Mauro, along with security from the second floor, had already reinforced the guys downstairs, and after a mutual staredown that was mostly lost on the people of Port Francis eager for overpriced cocktails and a fun night out, Jack stepped up to Enzo.

“I think you and your boys are in the wrong club.”

Enzo lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head, then gestured at his own face. “That from the last time you played bouncer? Maybe you should let the big boys handle this?”

Jack was glad when Enzo didn’t go all out with his provocation. If he’d called him a “bitch” or worse, in front of everybody, Jack would have had to take the altercation to a whole new level. “If your boss has any issues, he can bring them to me.” Jack stepped up to the bar, turning his back on Enzo on purpose, and motioned the barkeeper to hand over a bottle of top-shelf liquor. He offered the bottle to Enzo. “With my compliments.”

Enzo stared at him, but accepted the bottle, and weighed it for a tense moment as if considering whether to smash it and glass him. But that was why Jack had chosen that bottle of eighty-year old French cognac that went for five hundred dollars on the open market.

Enzo gave a toothy grin, lifted the bottle in a mock salute and left.

And just when the security guys were beginning to relax, some asshole triggered the fire alarm, and Jack and Mauro evacuated the club together and then had to answer questions when a fire truck rolled in. The wet mess of the sprinklers also washed away what spilled blood had soaked into the carpet upstairs, or at least diluted it into a questionable pool of murk.

When Jack did a cursory tour of the upstairs floor, a pair of deserted Louboutin heels stood tidily arranged on the bar top. Of course, Spadaro wouldn’t have been able to carry or drag Andrea’s body around in those heels.

Jack took them and threw them in the trash outside on the way to his car.