Page 22 of Burn this City

He managed to get her to a motel, then took an Uber back to the bridge to pick up his car. By then, the sun was climbing into a pale and sickly sky and Jack didn’t want to do anything but sleep for a couple of days, which he would have done if Beth hadn’t texted him about the coat in the afternoon.

12

When Sal checked his phone, the alarm was seven minutes out, so he deleted it and rubbed his face. Six full hours of sleep, deep and dreamless no doubt thanks to Enzo, who lay next to him on his back, not quite snoring but wheezing in his sleep. Weird to wake up with another human being. With a random hook-up, he was usually out of the door after a little rest, or, if he did fall asleep, this would be the moment to vanish.

Paid professionals always left afterward—they were welcome to shower and change, that was all. He could no longer be bothered to hunt. Hunting meant getting gradually invested in the person, wondering about them, trying to please them outside the bed, and living with that questioning inside—could this be more? Could this besomethingat least?—but Sal had found it put too much strain on the stitches in his soul. Regardless of who he met, he always compared them to Catia, and they never measured up.

Sex was different. He knew how to get people off, enjoyed pleasing them, but as he liked to tell them from the start, “anything goes, but I’m not emotionally available”. That worked for those who also weren’t emotionally available, or couples who sought a discreet third who wouldn’t insert himself into the relationship. If anybody asked about the ring he still wore on his hand, or sometimes on a chain around his neck, he told them he was widowed, and that was usually enough to shut down that topic.

Casual hook-ups never questioned beyond that word. Widowed. It made couples he slept with glance at each other with that sudden realization that love could die, and sometimes it won him brownie points he didn’t want. He wasn’t one of those pathetic fuckers who expected special treatment because of how he’d suffered. His response to suffering was very different—he’d go straight to the root of it and take out those who were responsible.

Which brought him to today’s work. Another simple beating wouldn’t solve his Barsanti problem. The best way to proceed was to attack the consigliere from all angles at the same time, and then exploit any cracks that appeared. Made this more complex than he’d originally thought, but Sal was nothing if not adaptable.

Enzo next to him groaned and blinked. “Fuck.”

“Good morning. You can have the shower up here, I’ll check on our gracious host.” Sal swung his legs out of bed. He picked up his pants and put them on.

“That’s unnatural. How are you so awake?” Enzo muttered.

“Busy day ahead.” Sal regarded him, noticed that in the early morning, the house was filled with soft golden light, and it worked miracles on Enzo’s skin, hair and eyes. “We’ll need to go in hard and fast, so get the doc on standby.”

Military trained, the doc hadn’t switched to civilian practice, but when it came to gun and knife wounds, Sal didn’t know anybody better, and he was especially good at stabilizing bodies. That dishonorable discharge hadn’t taken away the man’s skills or his cold-bloodedness.Thank you, Uncle Sam, much appreciated.The doc had worked hard to reconnect to the Rausa clan, indicating heavily he wouldn’t mind killing if necessary, but Sal had kept him out of the thick of it, and paid him a generous retainer to keep him there. Paradoxically, he was too valuable to get made.

Enzo yawned. “I’ll call him.”

“There’s another thing. Work out who that girl was last night. We might have her license plate on camera, so run it; let’s see who she is.”

“Yeah, will do.” Enzo took his phone and sat up on the side of the bed.

“Meanwhile, I’ll find out how that coffee machine works.” Sal grabbed his other clothes and walked down the spiral staircase. Wow, a clear, sunny early autumn morning made the hills and bay look downright magical. He started to see the point of those huge panoramic windows. Maybe someday he’d buy a plot up in the hills and build less of a security nightmare.

First things first. A quick check of the master bedroom told him that his improvised booby trap hadn’t gone off. Nothing had left the closet or entered it.

Great, now coffee.

The kitchen had a gleaming metal-cased mid-range Gaggia machine. Figured that a guy who liked Apple would go for the brushed metal look with only a few buttons. Sal switched the machine on to heat it up, checked on the beans and water—the Gaggia took the water straight from the main, and the beans smelled fresh. He dropped his other clothes on the kitchen island, found two small porcelain cups and set them under the nozzle. Less than a minute later, black liquid adorned with a proper dark golden crema gathered in the cups, and the smell lifted Sal’s mood even more. He grabbed the cups and walked back upstairs, not surprised that Enzo was still blearily sitting on the side of the bed.

“Any updates?” He offered Enzo the double shot, who knocked it back as if it were vodka or medicine. Sal grinned and drank his slightly more slowly, but not much.

“Left a message for the doc, license plates are in progress. What about Barsanti?”

“Still where we put him.” Sal took the empty cup from Enzo’s hand. “I’d say we’ll do it in the bathroom. Less exposed.”

“Yeah.” Enzo looked back toward the bed. “Burn the house down when we’re done?”

“Yes. When we’re done.” Sal was tempted to touch Enzo. Hug him or pat his shoulder, but they were now in that slightly awkward transition from what they’d done last night to how they normally were, and it would feel weird to get physical with each other while they set about destroying another man. Better shut down the more tender parts and let Enzo put on his killer self. “You good?”

Enzo snorted without derision. “No regrets. I don’t do regrets, but even if I did, this isn’t one of them. You?”

“I do regrets, but same.” Sal headed back down. He dropped the cups off on the breakfast bar, then went to the master bedroom. He took the lamp and bowl and put them on the bed, then moved the chair back where he’d found it, and unlocked and opened the door.

Barsanti sat exactly how they’d left him, and looked very tense even hooded and bound, from the way his shoulders were pulled up and his stomach pulled in as if he expected a punch or slap to wake him up or set the mood.

Sal took down the ropes, grabbed Barsanti, chair and all, and dragged him along out of the walk-in closet.

“So this is it,” Barsanti said.

“Yep.” He dragged the chair across the wooden floor and into the bathroom. He briefly checked Barsanti’s wrists, but while the skin felt hot to the touch, he didn’t seem to have fought particularly hard. He was likely in some discomfort—he smelled of misery and a exhaustion, a metallic tang that was beginning to overpower his deodorant. One sleepless night wasn’t enough to break a man, but it chipped away at his resilience. Another card stacked against Barsanti, and they’d all add up. And that was before he played any of the others.

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