Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov
4
Jack stopped shaving and fixed his eyes in the mirror. He held the safety razor in a death grip over the rim of the sink.
Coward.
But he knew that already, didn’t he? If he were truly as courageous as some people seemed to think, he would have already enacted his Plan B and retired. Or ended it all. There was no way he could ever be truly honest with Andrea and keep his job and his life, but instead of accepting that and getting the hell out one way or the other, he hadn’t. Instead, he’d smiled and nodded and tried to fit in. But now he’d reached the end of this particular rope, and found all it offered was a noose for him to put his head through.
“I’ll do it. Fuck you.”
He looked away and ran probing fingers over his jaw to check for any remaining stubble, then washed his face, dried it and rubbed some cooling after-shave balm into his skin. He preferred a barber doing all that, but making the long drive back just to get swaddled in hot wet towels held no appeal. Mostly he wasn’t up to dealing with anybody on the outside—he was in that state of mind where “Buongiorno,Signor Barsanti” was already overly familiar and just too much. And he’d put the fear of God into the whole barbershop if he had a meltdown when they asked him whether he wanted a newspaper.
He buttoned up his shirt and pushed it into his trousers, then combed his damp hair, all the time with the beginnings of a decision sitting heavy in his guts. He’d given himself a full eighteen hours to mull this through—and that was already too long. The few facts hadn’t changed and there was nothing he could do to move or twist them. He’d tried approaching the whole problem laterally, out of the box, unconventionally, had briefly considered doing the exact opposite of what he had to do, had turned everything around and around in his mind, but he kept running against the same old walls.
“We all want you happy, okay?”
He knew Andrea well enough to be certain that Andrea wouldn’t let this one slide. As far as Andrea was concerned, he’d started the clock, and the past had taught Jack one thing—Andrea had no patience whatsoever. He was the kind of man who escalated from a hunch to a plan to pulling the trigger in a matter of days, not weeks.
Sometimes it was all Jack could do to slow Andrea down, or break him out of his internal spirals where he whipped himself into a frenzy, and made rash decisions because he trapped himself in a web of paranoia and prejudice. It was one of the less endearing qualities of his boss, but also made Jack a vital part of the Lo Cascio. Few people approached Andrea directly, and all capos knew that their own business, as well as that of their soldiers and associates, should be brought to Jack, who did his damned best to defuse all the hand grenades, anti-personnel mines, scandals and “beef”, before any of it reached Andrea. Ultimately, it was a consigliere’s job, but Jack often wished Andrea would calm down enough to interrogate his own hunches before he made decisions nobody could reverse except God—and He never did.
Jack settled down for a breakfast of coffee and yogurt with some cut-up fruit he’d found in the fridge, then he pulled his phone from the charger, tapped open messages, typed Beth’s number, and then a message.
Hey, what's your schedule like today? I'd like to see you.
He forced himself to put the phone down and eat. He’d finished the yoghurt and was halfway through his coffee when the screen lit up.
Working today. :( How are you doing? Long time, no text.
Yeah, it’s been awhile. Sorry about that. Can you meet up after work?
The next response was faster, thank God.
It'll be late, but sure. Everything okay?
Yeah, just wanted to talk face-to-face.
Breathlessly, he waited. He didn’t like playing this game, but he was flat out of other options.
Oh, sure. I get off work at ten and can come right over.
Great. I’m not in the city. I’ll send directions. I’ll have food to make it worth your trip out here.
Gotta get back to work now, but look forward to seeing you.
Sending the directions now.
He texted her the address and detailed directions because it wasn’t unheard of for people to get lost here, then deleted the whole exchange. The temptation was strong to smash the phone on the stone floor of the kitchen, but he put it carefully down on the breakfast bar. Still, it was difficult to look at it, so he stood and headed upstairs to get some work done.
Jack only broke away from the laptop to hit the indoor gym for an agonizing two hours, trying to beat the worries out of his system until his bones groaned and his muscles screamed. Half an hour in the hot Jacuzzi afterward, plus a Tylenol washed down with a protein shake represented something of a physical armistice after all that pain, but he definitely wasn’t thirty anymore. He’d feel this session tomorrow.
Again, he tried to withdraw with a book to the couch, but just like yesterday, the words rushed straight past him and ended up meaning nothing while his mind continually reminded him of all the ways this was bound to go terribly wrong. With a silent curse, he put the book back where he’d found it and picked up one of the lighter novels he’d read a hundred times in prison, and which no longer required much focus or imagination.
Outside, the shadows grew longer, the shift in light betraying that the sun was on the other side of the hill; both the sky and the water in the bay darkened and deepened with the expectation of night. Jack looked up every now and then, memories of prison coming to him as he skimmed the well-worn scenes. Echoing voices, too-small, grimy rooms, and guards who still called him “Mr. Barsanti”, because everybody had known exactly who he was; most had also known their families and loved ones were fair game should anybody harm as much as a hair on his head. Who needed a protector in prison if “Lo Cascio” was both promise and threat?
He finished the book and checked his phone again.
No calls, but a message: Leaving now.
Time to get the food ready. Briefly, he surveyed the treasures in the fridge—his order had included more food than he could eat by himself, but he always liked having options.
He took the large lasagna dish out and removed the plastic wrap. After referring to the notes the restaurant had included, he set the correct temperature for the oven, and pushed the lasagna inside. He busied his hands with putting together a small arugula and cherry tomato salad with a basic oil and vinegar dressing. Once that was done, he spent a moment contemplating the wine shelf. He’d never learned all that much about wine—he had a dealer he trusted and who bought wines directly from small vineyards in Italy that were too precious, and whose harvests were too small, to ever make it into any kind of wholesale catalogue. He placed a bottle of Chianti and two glasses on the kitchen island, then started a fire in the fireplace.
Another text: How far is this place?
He tapped out an answer: No rush, just follow the directions. How do you feel about lasagna?
Fifteen minutes later, the fire was burning nicely—flames danced between the logs and spread that cozy living heat that had nothing to with hot water gurgling through pipes or hot air being pumped. He’d always found himself hypnotized by fire and its utter lack of compromise. Open flame was never civilized. It was only banked by material that couldn’t catch fire, like stone tiles and concrete, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.
After a quick glance in the mirror, he ran fingers through his hair and gave himself a side eye. The offer he was going to make was good. He didn’t allow himself to think further than that this time around.
The phone rang in his pocket, and he answered. “Yes?”
“Jack? I’m down at the gate.”
“I’ll buzz you in. Gimme a sec.” He walked to the front door and peered at the security panel. There she sat, alone in her beaten-up, bright yellow Toyota, and his stomach flipped, not at seeing her, but at what he’d set out to do. He buzzed the gates open and watched her drive through, then pressed the button to shut the gates behind her.
He opened the door, arms crossed against the evening chill while he watched Beth park her car next to his, then all but jump out and hurry up the path and stairs to him. Considering they’d met when she’d been a wispy bleached blonde, that had been the image he’d had of her for a long time, even when she’d cut off all her hair and let the bleached strands grow out. It suited her liquid brown eyes much better. No more perm either, but he noted she’d started to wear makeup again after about a year without any.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” Without hesitation, she hugged him, a friend’s hug, neither lingering nor powerful, but surely comfortable.
“Not your fault. Sorry for making you drive all the way here. Can I take your jacket?” She wore a biker-style black leather jacket with a few spikes and studs. On her small frame, it looked a lot more like borrowed toughness than real attitude.
“Sure!” Once inside, she handed it to him and stopped to take in the house, and that made him smile, but she also looked fidgety in her tight blue jeans and hoodie. “Can I use the bathroom?”
“Of course. Just that way and then left.”
“Great, thanks!” She dashed off, leaving him to hang up her jacket near the front door. He checked on the lasagna, but while a promising aroma was emanating from the oven, the timer said the food needed at least another twenty minutes. He poured the Chianti and set out a small bowl of olives, then laid the breakfast bar as a table. He wasn’t in the mood for a more formal setup in the dining room on the other side of the house. The kitchen and living area around the fireplace were much cozier.
She returned and climbed onto the stool opposite, took her wine glass and offered it to him. He lifted his glass and gently touched them together before taking a sip. “I’m liking the hair.”
“Right?” She shook her ponytail at him with a grin. “And look at you.”
“Look at me?”
“Ageing very gracefully, oh yes, sir.”
He chuckled into his wine. “Thanks to my mom. She had the good genes in the family. I was lucky.”
She paused and regarded him. “I don’t think you’ve ever talked about your family.”
“Not much to tell, to be honest. They’ve both retired to a small village in the Mediterranean. We have roots in that region.” He shrugged, speared an olive with a toothpick and began to scrape the flesh from the stone with his teeth, which bought him a few moments. “How have you been? It’s been, what, five months since we caught up?”
“Something like that.” Her light faded a little, as she grew more thoughtful. “I dropped out of culinary school.” She lowered her gaze and drew her lower lip between her teeth. “It wasn’t for me. I’m sorry.”
“Any particular reason?”
She took a deep breath, but still didn’t make eye contact. And yet again, Jack wished he could get his hands on her ex. That fucker had gotten off way too lightly. “I started work as a cook to see if I liked it, but …” Now she pressed both lips together. “Seems I can’t cope with it.”
Ah yes, the well-known rudeness and shouting behind the scenes. Jack could have fixed that. If he’d had a word with Gino’s owners, provided some background, sat down with them and explained Beth’s special circumstances. But the truth was, he didn’t want her anywhere near Gino’s or any of the other Italian restaurants in town.
“It’s a tough job,” he murmured and reached out to place a finger under her chin.
When she raised her head, her brown eyes were brimming with tears, and that catapulted him back to the night they’d met. She’d looked like a shot deer, still alive but unable to protect herself, waiting for the killing blow.
He walked around the bar and pulled her into his arms. Now she clung to him, sniffling against his chest, and he ran a hand over her hair, but did nothing else. That night, he’d put his coat around her, feeling her wracking shudders through the heavy wool when she’d finally calmed down enough from the worst of it, her body almost violently clinging to life.
“I’m very proud of you,” he said, conjuring up the deepest, warmest layers of his voice. “It takes a lot of strength to know what’s bad for us.”
“You think? You’re not disappointed?” She looked up, still holding onto him.
“You said you were interested in culinary school, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. That’s all we can do. Trial and error. Sometimes it doesn’t work out.” She’d seemed so alive when she’d presented the idea to him, a wild “one day I will” dream, an ambition that had seemed out of reach then, but she was willing to strive for, and he’d enjoyed seeing the hunger in her. It’d taken courage to even make the attempt after everything she’d been through.
“But the money …”
“Fuck the money,” Jack said softly. “Do I look like I’m hurting for it?”
Now she looked at him and wiped at her eyes, so he reached out behind her and offered her the kitchen roll. She accepted with a teary smile and a nod, ripped off a sheet and dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose. “I didn’t believe I was heading for the right house.”
“Why not?” He cast a glance at the timer. Ten more minutes.
“It does explain a few things.” She took a few deep, fortifying breaths, and he stepped back and around to his seat. “Like, everything. I mean, I knew you were loaded. But not how loaded.”
“I knew you were loaded. But not how loaded.”
“That’s the right word.” Like a gun. Or with a weight. Focus on her. He shook his head.
She took a few deep, fortifying breaths, and he stepped back and around to his seat. “It does explain a few things. Like, everything. I mean.”
He ignored that. “Do you have any other plans?”
“I think I want to work with my hands. I’ve looked at some courses online, and I think I’ll become an electrician. I talked with a few people and they said they’d take me on as an apprentice. I’ve read the demand for electricians is growing faster than for other professions—eight percent per year. That sounds pretty good, right?”
“Eight percent is very impressive.” A doubling in nine years.
“And I can get qualified in ten months if I focus on it.” There it was, the light in her eyes.
The timer. He stood and grabbed oven gloves to take the lasagna out. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m just off work so yeah I’m hungry.” He succeeded in cutting out a piece of lasagna tidily and it didn’t collapse on her plate. He managed the trick for his own too, then put the lasagna back in the oven but switched off the heat.
She dug in the moment he’d picked up his fork again. “Oh my God, that’s crack. No way I’ll finish all of it, but this is so good.”
He smiled, enjoying her response to Gino’s best almost as much as the food itself. Lasagna was the ultimate comfort food in his book, but such a hassle to make at home. Better to leave that effort to restaurant staff who could hover over the bubbling sauces for hours until they’d fully revealed their flavor. While he could have put one together a passable lasagna if forced to, he didn’t usually have the patience and sheer stretches of time it took to make a truly good one.
While they ate, she gave him the whole run-down—how she planned to start her own business and market to women primarily so they wouldn’t have to deal with sexist assholes not taking them seriously. All Jack could offer was that it wasn’t easy to get a good electrician in town, and a reliable one with manners would stand out like a unicorn. She’d be a hot commodity. Plus, of course, nobody would shout at her while she was re-wiring their house.
“But enough about me, what about you?” she asked after polishing off a good half of her portion.
“Been keeping busy.”
“You do look tired. Stressed?” Then, after a small pause: “Working too hard?”
“Oh, without a doubt.” He took a mouthful from the Chianti, forcing himself to focus on the mingling tastes until the wine overpowered the beef and tomato and cheese. He held the wine above his plate and watched her face carefully, inviting the question.
“So … what do you actually do?”
“I’m a consultant.”
“Oh. Consulting on what?”
“Business. I make sure people don’t kill each other.” He grinned to turn the truth into a kind of joke. “And that pays pretty well.”
She picked up her fork but now merely played with her food, taking small bites for the taste, but eventually, she pushed the plate away. “Can I ask why you needed to see me so urgently? I thought it must be something bad. If it is, can we just talk about it and get it over with?”
Damn. He’d done his best to keep the urgency out of the texts he’d sent. His stomach flipped again, and he needed a moment to work through the nausea that came with it. Maybe the lasagna had been a terrible idea after all. He’d hoped it would soothe and settle him, like a childhood favorite. But nothing on earth had that power right now.
“It’s bad, right?” she asked when he didn’t answer.
He hated how perceptive she was to mood shifts. He had a good poker face, or he couldn’t do what he did, couldn’t have survived as long as he had, or been as useful to Andrea and Andrea’s father. But nothing escaped somebody whose very survival had depended on anticipating the moods of a volatile, violent ex.
“It’s kind of bad and it kind of isn’t.” He reached out and took her hand, glad she closed her fingers around his, completely trusting. That she still had capacity to trust was a damn miracle, but he accepted it as the boon it was. “I have an offer to make. Think about it before you answer. Will you do that? Just hear me out?”
She nodded silently.
“First, let me state: you can still one hundred percent do what you want to do. Become an electrician, or go back to culinary school—whatever works for you. Nobody shouts at the boss, you know, if you wanted to open your own restaurant. You’d have your own place to live, and, as you’ve realized, money wouldn’t be an issue, at least not much of one. You’d be completely safe and secure, and I would never make any demands of you.” He’d gone through that list so often in his head, it almost appeared as bullets before his eyes, but he shook his head and focused completely on her. Her breath came a little faster, a little flatter, and her eyes had widened a touch.
“I’d do my best to support you in everything you do. You wouldn’t have a single worry in the whole world. Not one, I promise.”
In his mind, he’d been smoother, more diplomatic, and in his mental rehearsals, she hadn’t looked anywhere near this alarmed. When the last sentence came out, it was a wretched, breathless thing. “I want you to marry me.”