Page 48 of Burn this City

Sal pressed his lips together, but also didn’t push Jack’s hand away.

“I could help you find out who did it.” It was a flash of an idea, but if anything, Jack had much better chances to get to the bottom of it. And it might just buy him his life. Here was something Sal surely wanted, and that no amount of drugs or torture could give him, because for that, he’d have to capture and torture those who did know. Jack remembered Sal had asked him while he’d been drugged, and he also remembered his response: I don’t know. But at least that meant that Sal knew now that Jack had had nothing to do with it. “If it was one of ours, I can find that out.”

“To head off the war and save Andrea’s miserable fucking hide?”

“No, to help you put your demons to rest.” Sal’s eyes flashed, and Jack added quickly, “Or at least calm them down. I have no idea if revenge actually does help—I’ve never been in that situation, but I understand that you have to do what you have to do. Find the guy who gave the order, and the man who pulled the trigger.”

“To prevent the war?”

Yes, ideally. Kill two or three men, instead of risking all-out war that could cost all of them everything. But he’d tried that argument multiple times before and had only hit granite and rage. If he managed to divert all that rage toward the parties that were actually guilty, maybe Sal would no longer feel the need to burn Port Francis to the ground and salt the earth on which it stood.

“Make that decision later.” Of course, it was still a breathtaking betrayal of the Lo Cascio.

Sal bared his teeth in a not altogether friendly smile. “You’re still not giving up.”

“Let’s focus on the cause. You want revenge; I’ll give you the murderer. Take it from there.”

Before he could push Sal to consider it, the door opened and Enzo walked in. Sal’s focus returned to his capo, and he stood. “Any news?”

“Well, yeah.” Enzo locked the door behind him and shed the jacket, only pausing briefly to hang it up. “Time to make that call?”

That question seemed to sober Sal and refocus him the same way as it might if it were a reminder to call in a bomb threat or deliver a blackmail or ransom demand. He glanced at Jack, features sharpening again, then walked off, picked up his phone and left through the front door.

“The call?”

Enzo gave him a quizzical look, as if asking,We friends now?But shrugged. “Next step. Now that we’re done with you.”

Yep. They were done with him. Now everything was truly out of his hands.

26

Fuck, it was a chilly day, and possibly felt chillier because Sal was exhausted and wired at the same time. While he could cope with the frustrated arousal, the emotional fatigue pulled on him. But they were dealing with schedules that were only partly in their control, thanks to timezones, so he dialed the number he’d saved years ago.

He’d only ever called it a handful of times since Catia’s funeral. Gianbattista Falchi had approached him after everything was done and Sal had been so sore and broken inside that somebody could have cut his throat and he wouldn’t have lifted his hands to defend himself. Not that the old man still did the dirty work himself. Sal didn’t remember much of the conversation, except that Falchi told him he’d “liked Caterina very much indeed”, and wished to “extend every possible assistance and help to her widower”.

It had taken a long time for Sal to get over the word “widower” as if it had been some kind of deliberate move to test his reflexes, his bite, whether he was going to come back from the ashes and ruins. Falchi was cruel and cunning. Some said that was the only way he’d survived that long. He didn’t offer his support to just anybody. So Sal had assumed Falchi had an interest in avenging Catia for his own reasons.

A year after the funeral, Sal had finally dialed the number on the card Falchi had given him. It’d felt like a pact with the devil. He liked to take care of his own business, and asking for help was always a sign of weakness in their circles. But Falchi couldn’t have been more pleasant, asking him how he was faring, “all things considered”, and Sal felt that Falchi remembered the anniversary.

And then that question: “Did you mean it? Can I count on you?”

“You’ll find, Salvo, that I don’t make frivolous promises. How can I help with your interests in Port Francis?”

He hadn’t exactly consulted with Gianbattista Falchi on every step since then; it hadn’t been necessary because he was simply better placed to lead the re-organization of his family. But now that he was going to do the same to the power structure of Port Francis, he could definitely use some support, if only to increase the force he could bring to bear in dealing a decisive blow to settle matters once and for all.

The unfamiliar call tone of an Italian cell phone. Sal shifted his weight back onto his heels and waited.

“Yes?” It wasn’t that harsh “pronto!” that awaited a caller from Italy, so Falchi knew he was calling from abroad.

“Gianbattista, this is Salvo. Port Francis.”

“Salvo, how nice.”

“‘Nice’ doesn’t cover it. I’ve been pretty busy here.” Falchi would know exactly what he meant. “And I’m getting to the point where I’ll need help.” No point making pretty words about it. He was outnumbered. The main thing he had going for him—aside from an absolute fuckton of intel and data that the Feds would never have been able to gather in years of observations and wiretaps—was that the enemy didn’t see it coming.

“But of course.” Sal could almost hear that smile. “Now?”

“Yes, now or as soon as you can make it.”

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