Page 18 of Burn this City

“Not on that note.” Sal shook his head. “If we break here, we’ll do it on our terms.”

“Gotcha.”

Sal glanced at him and was so tempted to ask the question:What do you think Catia would have made of all this?

“You’re pretty wired,” Enzo stated.

“No shit,” Sal growled. The past few years of simmering anger had been a heavy weight to bear. Keeping the pressure in, slowly reorganizing, quietly removing pawns and people whose loyalty wasn’t to be trusted one thousand percent. He’d also retired some people who clung to how things had been before—some had fucked off to Florida or Mexico, others had been foolish enough to think there were other options.

He’d forced himself to wait even when he thought he was ready. Just in case. Played dead. All but allowed the carrion eaters to peck out his eyes—that kind of dead. Tested loyalties. Retired a few more people. Made more money to fill up the war chest. Spent a lot of money to grease the palms of people who were not even on Lo Cascio’s or Dommarco’s radars. Made friends in high and low places and anywhere in between. Always with the gnawing feeling that he might be waiting too long, that the opportunity would pass.

At this point, Sal didn’t even know anymore whether the agony of the wait would be worth the payoff. It seemed about even to his mind. Sometimes he wished he’d immediately gone in all guns blazing and slaughtered every last one of them.

Barsanti might not consider an easier death much of a reason to sell out his family. But Sal knew once the pain started and got bad enough, Barsanti would see it as quite the prize. Sal’s job was to push him there, and Enzo would help. But tomorrow. They should have that much time, but more than that was a risk. A man could drop off the face of the earth for a day. Two days, maximum. Three—and Andrea Lo Cascio might start to miss his consigliere.

But to break Barsanti tomorrow, he needed to be clear-headed. Too much of one kind of pressure was crashing, while another one was rising. Adrenaline would only get him so far.

He walked back in and noted that Barsanti’s eyes followed every single one of his steps.

“You’re in luck,” Sal said. “We’re going to take a break. Give you get some time to think. The fun starts tomorrow.”

“Lucky me.” It was said so calmly it didn’t even sound like sarcasm.

Now, how to secure him for the night? While he and Enzo could use some rest, Barsanti shouldn’t get any at all. There was a minute risk he might be able to topple the chair, maybe break it, maybe reach a phone. Who knew what a smart guy could come up with in those long night hours when left to his own devices? Or what if, by some freak accident, somebody spotted him through a window?

The bathroom was a little more protected, and so was the gym, but planting the man plus chair in the Jacuzzi and tying the chair to the armatures came second to using the walk-in closet in the master bedroom. Between Enzo and him, they carried a re-hooded Barsanti into the bedroom and then into the adjacent walk-in closet, which could be locked from outside and had no windows. A quick search revealed no cell phone, weapons or anything sharp that could saw through the zip cuffs. Sal tied the back of the chair to two clothes rails with some of the rope from his bag of tools, and stepped back. The knots weren’t the tidiest he’d ever made but functional, and the whole picture was pleasant to look at—almost architecturally symmetric, with all lines culminating in the sagging man on the chair.

“A bit shibari, isn’t it?” Enzo said softly. The odd gleam in his eye looked a lot like envy.

“Can’t have him hurt himself beforeweget a chance to hurt him.” Sal closed and locked the door. He pushed a chair against it, and placed a lamp with a glass shade close to the edge of the seat. Not enough. He went to the kitchen and found a shiny metal mixing bowl, which he placed where the lamp would fall if it got shoved. Its breaking on the carpet might not be enough to wake him up, but this should do the trick.

He picked up both his and Barsanti’s phone from the nightstand. Barsanti was an Apple man; Sal preferred Android. Even so, Barsanti had enabled an old-fashioned PIN with a limited number of attempts rather than touch ID or iFace or whatever the Cupertino crew had come up with. The quickest way to get into that phone was simply to get Barsanti to spit out the PIN. If that came with a spray of blood or broken teeth, then so be it.

He switched off the light in the master bedroom and took a few deep breaths. That wired, spiky feeling inside didn’t budge, and part of him wanted to rip the closet door off its hinges and finish all of this tonight, but Barsanti was dangerous. Sal didn’t underestimate the reserves some men could draw on when their lives depended on it. That, plus his recent sleep deprivation, and who knew what foolishness Barsanti could get him to agree to?

While Enzo examined the contents of the fridge in the kitchen, Sal headed upstairs. The office had a more intimate vibe than the downstairs floor. The lower ceiling felt more sheltering, and two shelves separated the office from another sitting area and a guest bedroom—both of which seemed unused. Sal set down his bag in the guest bedroom. When he turned back the covers, he caught a whiff of freshly washed and tumble-dried laundry.

“You could go grab a shower.” Enzo came upstairs with two large glasses of orange juice.

“Later.” Sal accepted the glass and emptied it, surprised how much his body needed this now though the chill from the cold juice froze up his sinuses.

Enzo moved around the bed, sat down on the edge of it, and drank more juice while reviewing the sight angles of the “room”. The nearest path down was via a spiral staircase. He could just jump down to the lower floor if necessary. In Sal’s estimation, whether the house was a good place for a shootout depended entirely on whether one liked cover.

Enzo turned the glass thoughtfully in his hands, while Sal got rid of his shoes and pulled the tactical turtleneck over his head. One of his capos had been raving about these being composed of specially woven fibers that cut the risk of infection if he got stabbed or shot, but on the outside it could have simply been normal survival gear. And since his capo was very persuasive, this brand had spread well beyond his own crew. Plenty of the local tech bros dressed like that, enough in any case that Sal didn’t even raise eyebrows when he picked up a latte among normal people.

Enzo’s gaze followed the turtleneck, and his hands stilled on the glass. “Would you prefer me to sleep downstairs?”

“Come here.”

Enzo didn’t hesitate to obey and set the glass down. Without his heavy boots, Sal was a little shorter than his capo, but Enzo made up for it by stooping slightly.

“What do you want, boss?” Enzo asked.

Shit. Too easy, too tempting. “You’re only doing this because I’m wired like a fucking cable plant.”

Enzo gave an open-handed shrug. “Maybe I’m wired like one too.”

Sal looked deep into Enzo’s eyes, didn’t detect any lies or subterfuge. The only thing Enzo had ever hidden was how much Catia’s death had hurt him. But frankly, Sal had been so trapped in his own pain there was no fucking way he could have carried Enzo’s too.

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