Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov
41
Jack spent the next two weeks pretending everything was normal in anything but normal circumstances. He pretended to care, and at times found himself strangely caring and strangely torn up about the deaths, the panicked phone calls, the attempts by various men to make sense of the avalanche of hurt that Sal Rausa poured out over the Lo Cascio clan.
He entered the Hunting Lodge, a five-star resort less than an hour by car down the coast from Port Francis. Just over two hours away from the airport. He had tickets booked on three different flights via O’Hare, his final destination determined by how long this meeting would take—tomorrow he’d be either in Frankfurt, Amsterdam or Madrid.
The Lodge was mostly regarded as “neutral ground” by the families; the resort was now closed down to normal guests to avoid unwelcome elements creeping in—Cassaro had helped secure it for a “family get together” on short notice.
If any of the staff cared that whatever family gathered here consisted only of men, no women, no children, no elderly family members, they didn’t share their suspicions. Jack checked into his room and gave it a cursory look while he undressed. He stepped under the shower to wash off the first part of the day, the last-minute phone calls, and especially the meeting with Petra, whose anguish still reached him.
“What do you mean, we’ll just roll over and capitulate? What kind of choice is that?”
“We don’t have the strength left to fight. If we negotiate now, we might be able to salvage something.”
“Andrea would never allow that.”
“I don’t mean to be insensitive, Petra, but this is a matter of survival. I’ll do my best to make sure you’re safe so you’ll be there for your children. I owe Andrea to have their interest at heart.”
Bringing them up hadn’t been fair, and considering her husband had vanished, and Petra clearly half feared and half knew the worst had happened, she’d shown remarkable backbone. She’d tried in her own way to gain an overview and rally what power she had to defend herself. Jack had ostensibly supported her in that, had “tried to find out” where Andrea had vanished to, but both man and car remained gone, and there was no useful coverage from the club. Mauro’s best guess had been that Andrea had snuck out with a girl and had been ambushed somewhere on the road.
When Andrea still didn’t pick up the phone after twenty-four hours, and capos similarly vanished, everybody realized there was a war on. Some enterprising soldiers had gone out to lead a strike against Sal Rausa, and those soldiers’ charred remains were found in a burnt-out car just outside of town early the next morning.
Petra’s parting shot still stung.
“What kind of man are you to beg for peace like a bitch?”
In her eyes, he was weak and ineffective, especially when compared to her husband. But he forced himself to accept her derision, nodded with all the calm humility he’d practiced ever since he’d been a Cosa Nostra recruit.
Still in his bathrobe, he grabbed a quick bite from room service in the sitting area, but the beautiful view over a few trees and then the oceans did nothing to relax him. He still had to do this one thing and he’d be free. Then he dressed again and waited.
When the knock came, he was more than ready. It was Enzo, healthy and alive, though the weariness in his eyes betrayed he too had had a rough time.
“Sal’s ready to see you now.”
“Thanks.” They walked through the resort complex, and Enzo chose the longer route so people would be able to get a good view of what was happening. Jack did his best to play himself at his calmest and most dignified. He could have called upon a few surviving soldiers and recruits for some added security, but that wasn’t the visual Jack was going for. His presence here, without entourage, telegraphed the power balance very clearly.
They walked into the wood-paneled conference room. Sal sat at the large round table, centered from the door, his unruly hair brushed out of his face. The moment their eyes met, Jack felt the gasp trapped somewhere deep in his chest. None of it had been trickery, or an illusion, it hadn’t been due to hysteria or depression or that constant, low-level ache of never belonging. He hadn’t thrown himself at the feet of the first man who’d respected him despite knowing his flaws. Whatever had been going on between them, it had been mutual.
Sal wore a tailored suit and was clean-shaven, though Jack decided he preferred him with a bit of stubble.
Enzo moved to the door, clasped his hands there as if he were a security guard at The Matador.
Jack briefly acknowledged the other men—if he wasn’t mistaken, all of them Sal’s capos. They too, betrayed some of that tension and weariness of the past two weeks, but Sal, he burned as brightly as he always did. Jack wanted to ask whether getting his revenge had helped a little bit with the pain.
“Mr. Rausa. Thanks for seeing me.”
Sal folded his hands before him, elbows on the table. “Thanks for coming.” A slight grin could be read as sarcasm, but Jack took it as real humor. “I’m looking forward to hearing your proposal, Mr. Barsanti.”
Jack walked to the chair directly opposite Sal, but remained standing. He felt the men’s eyes on him, but he gave them nothing but studied indifference. In an alternative world, he might have been conflicted, might have been humiliated, might have strategized to salvage as much as possible, but none of that mattered anymore. He was here to wind down the Lo Cascio and end their history in this town, not score the few points that were still up for grabs if he played his few remaining cards skillfully.
“I’m here as the consigliere of the Lo Cascio family, Mr. Rausa, and speak on their behalf.” Or what headless, demoralized mess was left of them, but Sal knew that. Jack couldn’t wait for all of that to finish, and once this was done, he’d retire and count his blessings every day that he’d survived.
“We’re offering unconditional peace.” After a lot of thinking, he’d whittled his statement down to that sentence and rehearsed it until it sounded neutral and smooth. “The remaining people associated with us sent me to negotiate whatever terms suit you, in return for peace.”
Sal smiled. “I’m willing to hear you out.”
“Petra Lo Cascio would like to retain interests in certain businesses of her husband, in order to support herself and her family. Other associates are asking to be bought out for a suitable price and leave Port Francis permanently.”
The tension in the room dropped, and shifted toward anticipation as the capos considered which piece of the cake they wanted to claim. Sal’s focus didn’t waver as he seemed to consider the implications. “I doubt Mrs. Lo Cascio will want to hear that from me, but please convey to her that I’ll respect her wishes and the safety and security of her and her children. She, too, will be required to leave the city.”
“She’s willing to do that.” Or, in Petra’s words, Damn this whole fucking city to hell.
“Good. We’ll hash out which businesses are of interest to us and what price we’re willing to pay to speed up the peace process.” Sal lifted an eyebrow. “I trust you brought a list.”
“Of course, Mr. Rausa.” He handed over a few folded pages. Nothing on there would come as a surprise to Sal, it was all just for show. But however they played this, whatever people might end up thinking, Jack would still forever be the consigliere whose family had been soundly beaten, and who now had the job of clearing away the debris. But the true failure would hopefully be placed on Andrea’s shoulders.
Sal stood. “I’ll review this. In the meantime, I accept your surrender and that of the Lo Cascio. Hostilities will cease on both sides while we hammer out the details.” He offered his hand.
“Agreed.” Jack took Sal’s hand and shook it. The touch ran like a low, sweet current over his skin. He had to force himself to meet Sal’s gaze. They’d barely talked on the phone, just enough to let each other know they were both alive. We’ll talk when this is done, Sal had said.
“Please have a seat.”
Over the next hours, Jack hammered out the details, signed papers that the law firm running the Lo Cascio clan’s legit interests would enact, with Petra as one of the main beneficiaries, even though some of those assets changed hands for a song. When all of it was said and done, Sal stepped out to take a call, and Jack stood and walked out too. He didn’t return to his room, no reason to—he hadn’t brought his suitcase from the car.
This part was a lot harder than he’d feared.
He tightened his hands around the steering wheel of his trusty Porsche, already hating the thought of leaving it behind at the local airport.
Last man standing.
He started the engine.
Port Francis didn’t have a place for him. Three generations ago, the Barsanti had stepped off the boat in the hopes of becoming Americans and building a new future in this new world. While they’d succeeded, and he’d made more money than his threadbare, hopeful, hard-working grandparents could even dream of, he didn’t have a future here. The only way to cope with his total defeat was to leave and find a place where nobody knew him.
But he had his life, and the other positive was that, if he should ever meet another man like Sal Rausa—as unlikely as that was—he could now allow himself to feel and slowly explore where that feeling would take him. The thought was sweet and made his heart ache. There might be a place, but more importantly, a someone for him.
He’d almost left the resort grounds, when headlights appeared behind him, and a car was rapidly closing in. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was Sal’s truck.
Oh no, not happening.
He took the last corner faster than he wanted, but then it was open road, and the turbocharged 2.5-liter flat four generated a purring, smooth 350 horsepower. And after all of his tight control, the fear, the exhaustion, it was exhilarating to finally be able to run, and run fast.