Page 23 of Burn this City

The bathroom was a wide-open space that would be perfect for their purposes. The large Jacuzzi in the corner upfront, two sinks to the left, two shelves for towels, wicker laundry basket tucked away discreetly, then the huge walk-in shower to the front and right. A sheet of milk glass separated the toilet and bidet from the rest of the bathroom just so that there was no direct line of sight.

“Why the fuck do you hate privacy?” Sal muttered, not expecting a response. “Your house freaks me out.”

“I spent a few years in a room sized six by eight feet.”

Six by eight … oh, prison. He’d known Barsanti had done time—he and the others had made the news. Being deprived of views for a few years made them precious even if the house’s layout was still stupid. “About the same size of your closet. Any flashbacks?”

“My …” Barsanti paused abruptly, then shook his head. “No.”

Now Sal was somewhat intrigued. Barsanti seemed chattier than before, maybe due to the tiredness, maybe he was determined to enjoy the time he had left. “You should have done okay. All the prison pussy you could want.”

Barsanti shook his head again. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Did your boss make sure you were safe? Nobody tried to take you down a peg? Good-looking guy like you?”

Barsanti laughed softly. “That all you care about? One of us reeks of sex, and it’s not me.”

Ooooh. Andrea’s lapdog had found his bite. Sal walked up to Barsanti and plucked the hood off his head. Barsanti blinked against the light but fixed his pale eyes on Sal quickly, looking defiant, aware that his last comment was pure provocation. But that look also told Sal that Barsanti wasn’t going to apologize, and that took some balls, considering how unevenly the power was distributed between them. “I don’t know. I figure it could have gone either way for you. Nobody even took a shot at you? Never felt lonely? No buddy to lend a hand?”

Barsanti blinked a few times rapidly, thoughts racing behind his brow. “I had privileges.”

“Such as?”

“My own cell. Guards making it pretty clear not to mess with me. Some other prisoners who had an interest in winning favors.”

“Not via blowjobs, but protection.”

“Exactly,” Barsanti said tersely.

Weirdly, Sal believed him. Enzo was the best example of how flexible “hetero” could be under certain circumstances. Though as a bisexual man, Sal himself might not have the wiring to understand how people would exclude certain groups of people as potential sex partners. Going years without touch because one’s preferred gender wasn’t freely available seemed stupid. Then again, Barsanti was five to ten years older than him—maybe it was a thing for Generation X. It wasn’t a Catholic thing—from what he understood about the faith, Catholics could get freaky as fuck and were absolutely fine if they confessed before they died.

“As you mentioned, I’m not a monk.” Sal remained in front of Barsanti, aware of his own naked chest and arms, but no bigot would ever make him stand down. Examining and accepting the urges he’d had since he could remember had been tough, and acting on them had been absolutely nerve-wracking at first. And at second. Becoming comfortable with his sexuality had taken hard work and Barsanti wasn’t going to make him ashamed.

He noticed how Barsanti’s gaze was fixed on his, and how he both didn’t avoid looking at his chest and almost paid too pointed attention to it. Sal ran a hand over his pecs; maybe Barsanti didn’t routinely get to see bar piercings through a guy’s nipples. Or maybe it was the simple gold ring on the chain around his neck.

He turned and walked past Barsanti toward the shower. The consigliere wasn’t going to see much of him as he washed, unless he craned his neck, and Sal didn’t expect he would. He shed his pants, dropped them on the pile with his other clothes he’d brought in from the kitchen, then stepped into the walk-in shower. The water started strong and hot; the dials indicated he had twenty options when it came to the spray, but he liked Barsanti’s pre-sets, so he took a quick hot shower and used Barsanti’s body wash and shampoo; mint and lemongrass, which was nicely refreshing after the night he’d had. He gradually dialed down the hot shower to cold to wake up fully.

He still couldn’t quite believe Barsanti had lived such a sheltered existence in prison. His own instinct would definitely have leaned toward testing the man’s mettle any way he could, had he been a fellow prisonder, and quite frankly, if not for all the baggage and history, Barsanti would have fit his preference easily.

He left the shower, grateful when he could towel down, and his body heat overcame the chill on his skin. But he was awake now. He dressed and heard Enzo approach as he was pulling down his shirt.

Enzo carried his tool bag and methodically spread out a large plastic sheet in the middle of the room. Barsanti’s eyes closed, but Sal had caught that look of pure terror when he realized Enzo was setting up the kill site. As things were going, they’d wrap Barsanti’s body in the plastic along with all the bits they would have removed and deal with him offsite.

“See,” Sal said, “at least Enzo knows what he’s doing. I can’t say it will be pleasant, because it won’t be, but he’s a pro.”

Barsanti didn’t open his eyes, didn’t respond at all.

“Changes one’s perspective, doesn’t it?” He cast a glance at Enzo who was lining up various tools, much like a medieval inquisitor would show the victim the implements of torture. Seeing saws and knives and claw hammers meant imagining what they could do. And Enzo had shifted entirely back into the capo who didn’t mind the dirty work and regarded it as part of the job, the same way as dressing an animal was part of filling the freezer with game.

Something Sal had found in his own career was that intelligent men had good imaginations. They assessed, ran scenarios, minds constantly flitting into the past and future to understand and respond to the present. Barsanti was intelligent enough to realize his future had drastically shortened.

“Look at me.” Sal stood close again, but Barsanti just sat there, breath labored, clearly terrified but still trying to maintain his dignity. “I said, look at me.”

It took several seconds before Barsanti forced his gaze up.

“You’re a smart man. So why are you propping up a fucker like Andrea? What do you owe him that you’re willing to go through this to win him time? Because that’s all it is. You’re giving an asshole a few more hours. Big deal. We all know you’re going to talk. So why do you want this?”

“No.” Barsanti looked up, eyes blazing. “This is your choice. I’ve fucking offered you peace. I offered you help to take your share. But you give me nothing I can negotiate with. Why do you hate me so much? What have I done to you?”

---