Page 2 of Burn this City

Maybe those concerns were not so small after all. But such information had to be inveigled from the consigliere. If not timed correctly, outright questions made people uneasy.

“Arguably, you know more about it than I do. Mind you, I’ll do what it takes. I’ve paid my dues; I’ll do it again.”

Above the pond, dragonflies flitted back and forth, here one second, gone the next, no more than sparks of metallic green and blue.

“Jack.” Cassaro changed his grip on Jack’s arm and now took both of his hands in his, which reminded Jack of the way his local priest had often spoken to his parishioners. “Of course. I didn’t say I doubted that.”

“So what’s the problem?” He searched Cassaro’s dark brown eyes for any hint of suspicion and found himself similarly weighed.

“One of our associates has been gone a while. He was mixed up in all kinds of things, and some of those might have involved Lo Cascio interests. We’re still piecing the situation together. Mind you, he might just have grabbed the money and run without telling anybody where he’s headed.”

An associate, so at least not a made man, but in Port Francis, people “vanishing” left a particular taste.

“I’ll take that to Andrea, but I can already tell you that no hit has been sanctioned. I’d know about this.” And if a hit had gotten past him unnoticed, he had much more urgent problems than dealing with a Dommarco-associated lowlife going on the run or dying. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention. And thanks for the caution.”

Cassaro let Jack’s hands go and clicked his tongue in vague acknowledgement, but he didn’t pursue the topic further. Every time they met, Jack was tempted to ask him what exactly had happened during the War from his point of view. Jack had only witnessed the very beginning of it as a freshly made capo. His had been a battlefield promotion because the sheer scale and viciousness of the War between the Rausa, Lo Cascio and Dommarco crime families had taken bigger players than him off the board permanently, and they’d needed to replenish the ranks fast. But how the three-way war had started, or exactly why it had carried on as long as it had was still a mystery to Jack. Everybody’s recollections differed so wildly that he’d never managed to piece it all together.

Navigating the shifting quicksands had been both scary and exhilarating, and still, Jack much preferred the peacetime. When, after six years of bitter war, Andrea’s father had ordered him to broker peace between the families, Jack had at first felt he’d been promoted way beyond his competence. But there had been nobody else left. Jack’s predecessor’s health had already been failing, and there was so much bad blood that the Dommarco refused to even listen to the original Lo Cascio consigliere.

Jack still remembered the day when he, as acting consigliere, had finally managed to get Guy Dommarco to sit down with Andrea’s father, terrified the meeting would just lead to a final flare-up. To his surprise, Guy Dommarco had been reasonable enough, and Andrea’s father had made generous concessions in return for peace. And in that way, Jack’s reputation had been made and his position became permanent. With every year that the peace held, people seemed to respect him more.

“Let’s go back this way.” Cassaro turned, this time without taking Jack’s arm. The slow walk through the extensive park around the manor was enjoyable—the September afternoon was still warm, though not so warm that Jack felt uncomfortable in his formal suit. Across the lawn he noticed a large white tent that would serve as a much more relaxed barbecue area and bar for later in the evening, with staff already setting up.

When the path curved back toward the house, Jack spotted a man he hadn’t seen in years—even rumors of him had been difficult to come by.

Salvatore Rausa sat on a white marble bench. He leaned against the backrest as if he’d been poured there, his only company four crystal tumblers, two of them empty, and two of them filled with an amber liquid. He held one against his flat stomach and stared sullenly into the distance.

Jack cast a quick glance at Cassaro, but if the old fox had led him here on purpose, he didn’t show it.

Salvatore Rausa was the boss of the third crime family involved in the War. Unlike Guy Dommarco, he’d refused to come to the negotiation table, regardless of how many threats were issued, and, in the end, promised generosity. He was still a presence—his family had painted its name in red across the city and the state—but he kept such a low profile he was damn near invisible. As a rule, Jack didn’t like invisible players.

Jack took a step toward the man, and another. “Mr. Rausa?”

Rausa looked up at him with a kind of piercing glower that indicated he still wasn’t interested in talking. Now in his late thirties, Rausa looked confident, healthy, well-groomed, his wavy hair was tousled, and his light hazel eyes were bright and clear. If he’d retired—if he’d stopped being a player—he might not even know who Jack was. Though the fact that the Dommarco consigliere had all but walked Jack directly to him should at least signal that he wasn’t a hapless wedding guest. Rausa studied Jack for a few intense moments, raked him head to toe, then emptied his whiskey glass, leaving the ice cubes to clink together. “Andrea want anything?”

“No, Mr. Rausa. I just wanted to say hello.”

Rausa seemed on the verge of sneering, but didn’t. “Yeah. And hello to you too, I guess. And you, Don. Now kindly fuck off, this is a wedding.”

Jack lifted an eyebrow, but forced himself to smile. “Of course.” He withdrew, deciding Rausa was planning to get drunk, and that was his privilege. Still strange that he didn’t have anybody with him—no capo, soldier, or his own consigliere.

The Rausa had seemingly collapsed at about the same time as the War had ended. People had died and vanished, and Salvatore Rausa, up until then underboss, had become boss without any contest or opposition. Maybe he’d spent the time since on whipping his outfit back into shape or focused on repairing the tremendous damage, but, whatever the case, Jack was pretty sure Salvatore Rausa was the reason the Rausa clan had faded from view.

Jack had already turned back toward Cassaro when he heard Rausa’s voice: “Jack Barsanti, isn’t it?”

Jack hesitated, but turned around again for politeness’ sake. “That’s correct.” And now he felt the full weight of that moody stare. Something was off about Rausa, something beyond lining up whiskey tumblers like shot glasses, and sitting out here while the actual party was still mostly indoors. Fact was, Jack didn’t know enough about Rausa to even guess what the problem was. Though, if he could establish a connection, he might be able to finally get Rausa to the table, and remove one unknown that had, in a faraway corner of his mind, been nagging him for years.

He lowered his hands and angled his body toward the man in a show of openness. “If you want me to arrange a meeting with Andrea …”

“Lo Cascio can get fucked,” muttered Rausa.

Jack turned away with a shake of his head and caught a miniscule twitch of Cassaro’s lips. As casual as this chance meeting had been, it seemed no progress could be made today.

They’d nearly circled the manor when Jack excused himself to check on Andrea. In no particular hurry, he returned to the ballroom, idly scanning the crowd for the face of his boss—or that of his boss’s wife, because she’d know where her husband was.

Petra Lo Cascio stood in a small group of other wedding guests, but seemed to have caught the general gist of his questioning eyebrow raise. She nodded toward the large central staircase, so Jack climbed the stairs with another glass of prosecco he’d picked up on the way.

He found Andrea sitting in one of the rooms open for guests to regroup or make phone calls, which Andrea was ostensibly doing. He was smiling for the camera of his phone and said, “Daddy loves you too,” so Jack stood back and blended into the background.

---