Page 43 of Burn this City

Jack Barsanti’s breathing was deeper and easier, shoulders and arms relaxed, knees opening a little, though shudders passed through him, and one of his feet twitched restlessly. Damn, that change was something to behold. His eyes were open, but his lids seemed heavy, and his gaze was turned inward.

“Shit. That’s a nasty fucking mule.”

“Trust me, he’s having fun.” The doc zipped the case.

Enzo cleared his throat. “Might be a good way to kill him if you don’t want to use a bullet. Make it look like an OD. Lo Cascio would freak if his consigliere turned out to have been a junkie.”

“And it’s strong enough that people get the dose wrong all the time,” the doc agreed.

Sal looked at Barsanti, twitches in his face betraying something, though Sal had no idea what. Was he fighting for clarity? To speak? Or responding to two guys plotting his murder out loud?

Sal rolled his shoulders and sat down on the side of the bed. “Do you hear me, Jack? I need names, addresses, and passwords.”

He needed to know everything Barsanti knew about every single member of the Lo Cascio … where they lived, who they fucked, what cars they drove. And where Andrea was hiding his money, everything about his bank accounts, his shell companies. Everything. And he would get it.

23

Jack couldn’t decide whether he was feeling light and dizzy, or warm and heavy. Both. The injection had poured liquid heat into his arm, from where it rapidly spread through his whole body, and he could feel and hear his pulse thunder in his ears. An unfamiliar feeling of joy bloomed in his brain, in his heart, a sense of complete happiness and sparking euphoria, as if he could shrug the restraints off and walk away, unharmed, through a hail of bullets. He’d never felt so strong and at the same time so peaceful in his life.

And yet, when he opened his eyes, his surroundings felt unreal, though he couldn’t work out whether they’d changed. They must have, their outlines alternately blurred then sharpened, though lacked depth. The wood paneling seemed too bright, lit from within. The pain in his head was gone. He felt no pain at all. The lightness changed, and with it, he could no longer figure out where his body was, or what position it was in. He thought his arms were lying at his sides, but he couldn’t perceive them, and his clothes caught on his skin as if it were sandpaper. But then his body simply faded, like a lever slowly pushing down and with it, any awareness of heavy or warm or restrained or throbbing diminished and then completely ceased to exist.

A good-looking man—Sal Rausa—sat next to him, but he, too wasn’t quite real. Jack blinked, couldn’t figure out how long he’d looked at him. Hours? Time had stopped. Nothing to keep track of.

“Listen to me, Jack. Tell me everything you know about Andrea’s business operations.” His voice was too loud.

There was a reason to not answer, but it didn’t seem real, didn’t seem important at all. He could have been watching a TV show, but he wasn’t the audience. He was watching the audience that was watching. Not quite a dream. It took forever between wanting to move his mouth and doing it, and the lag disoriented him even more. He couldn’t move, didn’t want to, and couldn’t grasp onto any thought—his head was simply empty, and somehow that was a tremendous relief and a heavenly pleasure.

When he spoke, he had the distinct feeling he was rambling, and as if he were losing track of what he was saying. He had no control of the words. They appeared on his tongue without first hitting his brain.

Was Rausa repeating the same question? Had they talked about this already? He couldn’t remember.

Rausa spoke. Questioned. Touched his face, though the touch was far away and happened to somebody else.

Jack wanted to curl into him. He believed Rausa had been in this room with him for their whole lives and there was nothing outside of it. The brightness increased. Light outside. Sun. Slowly, slowly, Jack’s body returned to him as if melting out of wax, though for an eternity he was convinced that all his joints were put together wrong so he couldn’t move them, but that feeling faded as well, and he slowly regained an understanding of where his limbs were.

He basked in the total relaxation and warmth in his body, and the maddening pleasure of breathing and looking into the sunlight, glaring as it was.

Sal Rausa leaned over him, took his face in his hands and placed a kiss on his forehead. “Unbelievable, Jack. You’re phenomenal.”

A trembling passed through him at the touch and the praise. He lifted his head from the pillow, bleary, struggling to focus. “Do … do that again.”

Rausa raised an eyebrow, but took his head in his hands and kissed his forehead again. “Feel good?”

Sal grinned and stroked over Jack’s face with his thumbs. “Fuck, you’re still so out of it.”

“It’s good. It’s really good.”

Sal turned away and talked to the other two men who’d been in the room, left, and then came back a few times, if he remembered right. “Enzo, get in touch with your buddies. Use what we have to refine the plan. Doc, do you want to go home?”

“Probably for the best, though I can grab another nap on the couch.”

“We’re done here. I don’t think we’ll need you again. Not for this.”

Sal touched Jack’s face again, skin rough against his stubble. And his chest, almost too intense, too much. “Fuck, I wish I could …” Sal said.

“I need to go to the bathroom.” As blissful as it was, just lying here, his bladder kept nagging him.

Rausa paused. “Can you move?”

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