Page 45 of Burn this City

But he wanted Jack to feel it.

Alcohol, drugs, all of that could be good fun with a partner you knew well, but Sal wanted Jack Barsanti clear-eyed and with a clear mind. He’d ripped through the man’s defenses for information, but when it came to sex, that moment of surrender, of yielding was so much better if it was a choice. It already felt weird that Jack had been so startled by the kiss, seemed so tentative, so hesitant in those first few moments. It seemedhewasn’t a kisser.

Sal drew a deep breath while he watched Jack drift off, then shook his head. It would be at least two hours until Enzo returned, and unless he wanted to tie Jack up again, he couldn’t afford to sleep yet. Still, the man didn’t pose a threat now. He’d given up everything. He could possibly attempt to escape or fight back, though Sal didn’t expect him to do either.

A knife or gun was a great leveler, though, so better safe than sorry. Which meant the idea of having a cold shower to shock him awake was out. Too bad. His banked arousal made him restless, especially with Jack spread out temptingly like.

He forced himself to sit down with Barsanti’s phone and laptop, and typed “6823” into Barsanti’s phone. Interestingly, its content was pretty bare, and intentionally so. The mail app held about fifty emails in total—mostly confirmations of services Barsanti had booked, such as dry cleaning, or reservations for tables in restaurants, though he didn’t seem to entertain a lot. There were a couple bookings for two people, but it seemed Barsanti mostly ate alone. Meanwhile, the “Sent” folder was empty, and so were the ones for junk mail and deleted messages. An investment app told him that he had “new documents”, but it didn’t include a link, and Sal wasn’t that interested in how much Barsanti had in investments. Living in this kind of house and driving that kind of car outside, it was clear the man was comfortable. Some made men blew everything on sex and drugs, fast cars and mistresses, but Barsanti struck him as more circumspect.

No photos. Browser history cleared. Call history empty. Seemed Jack Barsanti relied entirely on that phenomenal memory of his. A text message from a number that was likely Beth’s:Tried to reach you, please call me back.

Sal called voice mail and listened to her. “Jack, this is Beth. I hope you’re well. I’ve had some time to sleep on it, and I think we should talk. I’m free tomorrow, so let me know. Please take care. Call me!”

She did sound worried but also tried to hide it, likely for Barsanti’s sake. Sal assumed Barsanti didn’t have the slightest clue how much Beth worried about him. While she obviously couldn’t know that her worries were more than justified, maybe some part of her did catch how serious the situation was. She seemed good at interpreting emotions.

A reading app, but flicking through the books didn’t flag anything special that would have attracted Sal’s attention. Seemed mostly business related. Barsanti’s music app had rock and pop music, a few jazz compilations, and again nothing special.

And, despite all of the many apps he could have had, not a single dating app. No hook-up apps, not gay, not straight, nor those that catered to both. Huh.

The extensive collection of Queen albums was possibly the only truly gay thing on that phone. Barsanti had been willing to die to protect this? Maybe the clues were on the laptop.

He opened it and typed in the password.

The background desktop was tidy, making him expect the worst, but while the mail app was synched to the phone and thus held nothing of any value, there were spreadsheets and text documents, though all of them were locked. Painstakingly, Sal had to match every single doc and spreadsheet to the long list of passwords Jack had given them. It was a long fucking list.

There they were, Andrea Lo Cascio’s business activities, at least one of the things they’d come for. These seemed to be only the legal businesses, or businesses made to look legal—whether they actually were was a different matter. But in any case, after a quick skim of the spreadsheets, Sal estimated Andrea Lo Cascio’s various interests were worth mid-eight figures. A lot of income would be cash, other inflows looked legal because the Lo Cascio would obscenely overcharge to account for their “fees” and “consulting”. There were letters to various lawyers about contracts and ongoing activities.

All of this would be useful when it came to picking the meat off the bones after neutralizing the Lo Cascio. Some of these cash flows would be redirected into Sal’s pockets, others would be leverage.

A while later, he closed the documents and opened the browser. He didn’t expect much going through the few bookmarks, but then scrolled down and hesitated over a familiar link. More than familiar. So, Barsanti didn’t use hook-up apps, he didn’t even like any YouTube videos, and wasn’t subscribed to anything, but that one saved link went to a large porn site. Mixed porn, so not in itself a problem.

Sal clicked on “log in” and was taken to a login screen. This was one of the sites that made him a pretty penny each month, and he now had access to Jack Barsanti’s email—and yes, it seemed Jack had used that one to register, because sending a password reset link to the man’s inbox worked.

Jack, Jack. You use a throwaway for that kind of thing.

Such a Generation X mistake to make.

Probably not such a big surprise that Barsanti had subscribed. The team had plastered Port Francis in virtual advertising, in part because it had tickled Catia to, as she’d put it, “walk incognito in Port Francis as its God-Empress of Porn.” As the site had grown, so had the money inflow, and then it was network effects all the way down. After the War, with his family suffering and on the retreat, Sal had doubled down on this site and others. The benefit was almost nothing about online porn or online high-stakes gambling and poker required any kneecapping. Without that money, going invisible would have destroyed his family, and Sal had dealt with those dinosaurs who’d disagreed with his strategy.

Sal reset the password and logged into Barsanti’s account, but this was where his lucky streak ended. Barsanti had cleared his browsing history, which should have been the end of it.

Would have been for anyone else.

But Sal pulled his tablet closer and switched it on. He went into Barsanti’s account details and pulled his user ID. Then he used the tablet to log into the site’s back end and fed the customer number in.

The site had started as Catia’s side project and was successful because the algorithm that suggested “what you might like” was top notch, all powered by a sophisticated tagging system. The system quickly learned a user’s preferences and ranked new content so it was almost impossible to miss out on anything that fit a specific kink or practice or body type, among many other criteria. After his big restructuring following the end of the War, most of Sal’s biggest cash cows now grazed happily and one hundred percent in cyberspace.

The back-end analytics functions were razor-sharp and originally meant to ensure they got enough of the most popular content, though users were probably not aware how much data they were giving the algorithm. Barsanti didn’t “like” or comment on anything, so the social features of the site were completely lost on him.

He visited very regularly at what Sal assumed were his bed times, stayed for ten to twenty minutes at most, and logged out. Sometimes he visited early in the morning, but there was no regular pattern to it.

Going by the tags associated with Barsanti’s profile, his tastes ranged widely, with a distinct lack of hits toward the heavier and exotic kinks on the spectrum.

Solo performances, couples and threesomes of a mix of body types and skin colors, though Sal felt there were very few twinks in the mix. It seemed he preferred the kind of ubiquitous and interchangeable, clean-cut muscular types, though he didn’t seem peculiar about age. Flavors ranged from sweet to harder, scenarios from seduction, gay for pay, straight “first times” (yeah, right) to “you scratched my car, now suck my cock”. He had about thirty most-played videos; the engine called it his “heavy rotation”, and Sal clicked on his most watched one.

It started without any preliminaries, both actors already naked. Both were dark-haired, in their thirties and forties respectively. It was one of the semi-professional offerings, which had both amateur charm and higher production values than two out-of-focus bodies slapping together in a badly lit motel room. Sal actually knew the couple—they were pretty prolific and made a decent living. Part of their appeal, beyond their nicely muscled bodies and sizeable cocks, was how clearly they were into each other. One of them, older and more tattooed, was kneeling on the bed in profile, lubing up his cock, while the younger partner scooted back. Then the fucking started, by turns slow and gentle and more passionate, with the older partner grabbing the younger guy’s throat in a show of possessiveness. He didn’t squeeze or choke him, just rested that large, powerful hand on his lover’s arching throat. Very sexy, especially when coupled with their noises and groans, and all their passionate kissing as they moved together.

Sal cleared his throat. Again, he couldn’t fault Barsanti’s taste.

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