Page 49 of Burn this City

“I’ll send help. He’s been on business on your side of the Atlantic, so could be there tomorrow.”

“I can have him picked up. Whatever he needs, it’ll be available. I’m well supplied here.”

“I’ll trust you with the details. I’ll text you the flight numbers and a contact number for him. You liaise with him, and of course he’ll stay as long as necessary. I’m also going to look into more local assistance, but that will require a few more phone calls and some horse trading.”

“I hope it’s not too much of a bother.”

“Oh, no. I have favors outstanding locally, so I’ll make the calls today. I’m sure they’ll come through.”

So genteel, and yet Sal knew what Falchi was capable of. They didn’t call himIl Gentiluomofor nothing. Fuck, he’d thought Barsanti was reserved and classy, but Falchi in his prime had pretty much rewritten the rulebook that Jack adhered to. Jack would no doubt freak out if he knew Falchi played on Sal’s team.

And if that “he” Falchi had alluded to was the man Sal thought, then Port Francis would have a very interesting war. Legend was that Falchi’s free-roaming chief executioner had played a major role in the fightback against the Russians—before Stefano Marino had turnedpentito.

“Thank you. It would be an honor to host you over here if you felt drawn to our little corner of the world.”

“You know, I might. It would be good to catch up, Salvo, once you have more peace of mind.”

Peace of mind. Quite the turn of phrase there. Sal had wanted to express that he hoped Falchi would let him know what his help would cost—he didn’t believe Falchi was all that concerned with money anymore. The man traded in secrets and favors. One day, he might call and ask Sal for payment.

“But I should leave you to your preparation. Do call me when you have more time—I’d be interested to hear how things went.”

“Will do, thank you, Gianbattista.”

Sal ended the call and felt a weight slipping from his shoulders. Maybe the spiritual people were right and Catia was out there somewhere, watching over him. Even in death, she strengthened and supported him.

He glanced down the driveway, but nothing had changed, though the sun couldn’t completely defeat the chill in the air. It was a beautiful day to be outside, though, to soak up the brightness and wide open skies. If Falchi’s guy did arrive tomorrow, the schedule still seemed doable. He could shower and change and then select whatever automatic handgun and rifle he liked from their friendly supplier, sleep a few hours, and then have a briefing and discuss targets. Including the inevitable cleanup to keep it under the radar, the whole thing was going to be over before the month ended, and that thought alone made him half excited and half impatient to blow it all open already and charge into battle.

When he returned, Enzo was in the kitchen, jacket off, his gun holster openly displayed at the hip, eating a handful of grapes. He glanced at Sal and nodded toward the living room. “So he’s now moving around freely?”

“He’s given us everything we need. And still coming down.”

Enzo didn’t seem completely convinced but shrugged. “Your decision.” He dropped the last few grapes into his mouth. “How’d it go?”

“He’s sending assistance.” And considering the hitman’s body count, he’d be useful.

“At least he’s on your side, not Dommarco’s or Cassaro’s.” Enzo opened the fridge and gave it an up-down glance. “When are we going to finish here?”

The plan had been so simple—grab the consigliere, torture him for information, kill him, make the body vanish, and strike before Andrea Lo Cascio even missed his right-hand guy. But as they said, no plan survives enemy contact, and it had all become far more complex than originally expected. And Jack’s offer haunted him. The plan had been to kill everybody in the Lo Cascio, knowing that some people might still escape. But pinpointing who’d pulled the trigger on Catia meant he could make doubly sure the killer didn’t escape retribution.

When Sal didn’t answer, Enzo glanced over his shoulder, then moved his jaw around a few times, which he tended to do when he was thinking. “You seem to like him. Looked pretty cozy when I came back.”

“Doesn’t make you happy, does it?”

Enzo closed the fridge door and turned toward him. Mostly, he appeared to be a little baffled. “Dunno, boss. You tell me. You say the word, I’ll put a bullet in his head, chop him up, drive him to the other side of the bay, get a burger on the way back. Or not. But what keeps him from calling Andrea and telling him everything?”

“I’m just not like that. I’m different.”

“He’s gay, and Andrea wants him to marry and probably breed soon. Seems his boss caught a whiff that Jack here has been playing cards with his prostitutes, but remained fully dressed.” He had no idea if that had actually happened, though Jack Barsanti wasn’t the first man to hide strategically in obvious places to prove his manhood. Sal believed him when he said he’d never had sex—somehow, Jack didn’t strike him as the kind of man who forced himself to sleep with a woman for the benefit of others. He’d be the type to wave a bundle of money and flash his natural charm rather than humiliate himself that way.

And Jack’s situationwashopeless. He couldn’t afford to be found out—made men still got killed for that, and while a queer associate might be tolerated or beaten up and warned off, Andrea was unlikely to accept a gay man that close to him. Not a consigliere. Just the loss of face would drive a man like Andrea absolutely batshit. And even if Jack somehow managed to find a woman and did manage to father children (by whatever means), once these suspicions were out there, they never went away completely. Even if Jack Barsanti fathered a score of children and paraded around with several mistresses in tow.

“Maybe I made the wrong decision to keep it all locked away. I can’t help but wonder what it might have been like.”

And having had a taste of it, would Jack seriously remain celibate when it came to men? Forever rely on second-hand, but hollow pleasure, watching in secret, but never truly feeling a man’s hands on his skin? He’d kissed Sal too eagerly for that, too passionately, too breathlessly, even with his split lip and bruised face. Had wanted—so clearly—for Sal to touch him. Sal didn’t pretend to himself that he was special somehow—Jack could have gotten off with anybody in that state—but Jack had also been too clear-headed to simply ignore it had happened. In fact, he didn’t even attempt to flee into denial afterward.

A minute risk remained that Jack’s defenses were only temporarily down, that once he recovered them he’d go running to Andrea. Jack did have a good chunk of their plan—enough to allow Andrea to brace himself for the attack, prepare, and fight back harder than if he’d been surprised. It would counterbalance part of the reason why they’d done this whole thing in the first place. But all that it would do was buy Jack a few more weeks while Andrea was more preoccupied with fighting a war than with his doubts about his consigliere’s straightness. That problem wouldn’t go away.

“Do you figure there’s such a thing as reverse Stockholm syndrome?” Sal asked.

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