Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov
7
What burglar said something like that? Maybe Jack was still hazy, maybe shock and surprise had rattled him too much to think clearly, but now he forced himself to backtrack, because the alternative would be to lose it and freak out.
They’d definitely targeted him with a measure of preparation. The gate that no longer worked. Attacking the instant he was out of the house to let out Beth, and—
Beth.
He was almost positive that she’d gotten through the gate and driven off. Yes, he was. He remembered seeing the taillights moving away. They’d definitely targeted him, not her. Or rather, they’d targeted the owner of this nice expensive house in the hills. And whose fault was it? Beth had unwittingly provided the opportunity for them to strike, but it was him who’d insisted on Mauro leaving. Had Mauro been lurking around, these burglars might have realized that he wasn’t as soft a target as he might appear at first glance, and chosen another house.
The shock of being grabbed from behind and around the throat. Sheer horror when he’d feared the attacker would break his neck, but also the greying of his vision, the knowledge he was passing out and yet could do nothing about it and then a strong hit of his own body’s sedative signaling that, yes, he was dying and it would be okay. Some merciful mechanism in his brain gave him a strange, fucked-up calm and peace while his body went numb, and his vision faded. It would probably feel like that when he actually died, if he ended up like he expected to: bleeding out on the pavement somewhere.
But this brought the horror home, and in more ways than one. He shuddered hard.
Who were these men? Two at least. Their voices sounded muffled because of the hood over his head and his own pulse thundering in his ears; hard to concentrate while his thoughts raced and very nearly screamed at him. He forced himself to breathe—he couldn’t move much, securely tied hand and foot to the chair as he was. That limited his options. The thin restraints with their sharp edges felt like plastic zip cuffs. He knew those could hold a big man. Twisting his wrists against them had proven they could hold him at any rate. He wasn’t going to try again. All of this left him, still breathing but blinded, tied to a chair in his own house at the mercies of men he didn’t know.
The man who’d spoken to him last was also the one who’d pressed a gun to his neck and physically maneuvered him inside. He remembered the warmth and strength of his body and the harsh, focused movements. There was nothing unsure or probing about him. Rehearsed. He’d done this a dozen times.
Didn’t burglars usually try and avoid having to deal with people? If you were after jewelry or a laptop, why risk looking into the muzzle of a gun? The most prolific burglar Jack knew was a potbellied, nearly-bald guy, easily mistaken for a plumber, but had some of the sharpest senses Jack had ever encountered, as well as a natural gift for observing people. In that way, he’d been much like a seasoned pickpocket—selecting a mark carefully because ideally the mark never realized what had happened. Similarly, burglars liked to be far away from the scene of the crime by the time it was discovered.
Robbers, though, were a different breed—they lacked the finesse of a pickpocket or burglar. These guys struck Jack more like robbers.
“So what’s the problem? Do you want more money?” If they were robbers, a larger haul might sway them.
No immediate response, which made Jack’s skin crawl. They weren’t amateurs. But if they were professional criminals of any stripe, they should know who he was, and give him wide berth. Nobody touched a made man.
Except.
Except if they were made men too. In that case, it was a declaration of war. He pushed that thought to the side as a worst-case scenario. If that was true, he was dead. Still, to lay hands on a consigliere was a move so breathtaking it wouldn’t have been done lightly.
Or it was an inside job. Had Andrea already decided Jack needed to be dealt with? Would Andrea cut off his own nose to spite his face? Before that wedding, Andrea hadn’t made any noises about being displeased with him. Not a single threat, not even a veiled one. Granted, Andrea was impulsive, but even he wouldn’t act so quickly when it came to removing Jack. Going against Jack so brazenly without any proof of things he still only suspected was dangerously short-sighted. Andrea knew the Lo Cascio were better off with Jack than without him.
If Andrea was behind it, these men would be drafted from among his own capos and soldiers. Except Jack was closer to all of them than Andrea was, and would surely have recognized their voices. All members of the Lo Cascio clan came to him first. Dealing with their grievances was his job. Andrea had nobody to replace him with—there was no overflowing talent pool in the organization and nobody who’d been sawing at Jack’s chair. If he’d missed this going on in his own family, then he deserved no better, but he couldn’t recall any grumblings. To the best of his knowledge, he was liked and respected. There were others whose positions were a lot less secure.
Dommarco? He hadn’t caught a whiff of anything wrong between Cassaro and him. Why would Cassaro slather on the honey to have him killed a week later? They had nothing to gain from another war. Surely this wasn’t about that missing associate?
But if these were made men, why wasn’t he dead already? If they planned to torture him first, they were also taking their sweet time. Only one way to narrow the field.
“Do you know who I am?”
A snort. “Next you’ll ask to speak to the manager.”
Jack bit back on his first response. “If he can help clear things up, I’m all for talking to somebody else. The question is, do you know who I am and what this means? I can’t work with nothing.”