Page 50 of Burn this City

Enzo scoffed. “That what’s going on?”

“Not sure.” Sal blew out a breath. He’d been fooling himself for most of the weekend. He wasn’t going to kill Jack, and wouldn’t give the order, either. He’d never ask Enzo or anybody else to do something he felt incapable of.

He couldn’t put his finger on when things had changed—maybe when Jack hadn’t been as expected. Maybe when the man had stared at him, scared and tense, there, tied up on the bed, exhausted and yet clearly turned on. Maybe it was the fact that Jack Barsanti was queer—and what it had taken emotionally to hide for so long, Sal couldn’t even imagine. They were more alike than either of them was ready to admit. Except Sal had been lucky with Catia, while Jack had been turned into a sharp, pure diamond under all that pressure. Working and cutting a diamond took another diamond.

He’d gotten under Jack’s skin, but in the process somehow cut himself open too in some strategic places. Jack might not be aware of it, he probably still thought Sal was playing a version of good cop, bad cop with him, but Sal knew the openings existed.

On the one hand, he couldn’t wait to drown the Lo Cascio in their own blood. On the other, he could have happily locked himself away for a week with Jack and a couple 30-foot coils of rope, and figure out what Jack liked, and where his limits were. But the latter wasn’t an option—he had a war to fight and surely Andrea would eventually call and ask his consigliere whether he knew why his capos weren’t answering their phones.

Another option was to make Jack “vanish” first, and Sal had no qualms about stashing him away in a safe place with a guard until the dust settled.

“Ah, fuck.” Sal walked toward the fridge, almost shouldering Enzo out of the way who belatedly stepped aside, opened it, and pulled out the orange juice. While he busied his hands with taking a glass out of the cupboards, and pouring himself juice, then drinking it, Enzo stood too close to be polite.

“I know it would be smarter if we killed him. I know that.”

“So why not? Just trying to understand it.”

“I think he’s on their side as an accident.” He rested most of his weight on his knuckles on the work surface. “And I know that’s bullshit. You don’t become consigliere as a fucking accident. Vic Decesare would have advised on that. He must have been a very good capo.”

“Right. And if you leave him alive, the Lo Cascio can recover. He could become boss or lift somebody else into that position. Then we’ll have the same problem in a couple of years.”

“Kingmaker? Jack?” Arguably, though, he’d find the one guy in the family who could actually do a decent job. Sal didn’t relish the thought of having a skilled opponent who had the same level of insight into him that Jack had now. Peace negotiations would be easy, though, as long as it involved pulling Jack’s clothes off.

“You got that grin.”

“Yeah, sorry. Trying to figure out how to remove the last bit of risk without killing him.”

Enzo took the carton of orange juice and took a deep sip, standing close enough that Sal could smell him, and that didn’t help his hormones. Enzo was already available, could always be switched into submissive mode, like a kitten went slack when grabbed by the scruff.

“Saw something on TV once. You know what the Triads did? They might still do it, not sure.”

“Enlighten me.”

“They’d kidnap people and hold them for ransom. Family gets pictures, pays up, prisoner is released, everybody’s happy, right?” Enzo shrugged. “Except not. While they have the prisoner, they’ll rape them or force them to have sex with like guys, or women, or animals, and they keep those photos. And when they need a favor or some extra cash, they’ll send a reminder. You get grabbed once by the Triads, they own you forever. And with everybody trying to keep face, the shame is worse than death.”

Sal laughed. “Gotta love the Triads.”

“Think about it. Fuck Barsanti, get it on video, and threaten to upload it to all of your sites. With his face, one of his guys, or someone who knows him will eventually stumble across it. That would end him—Andrea or no Andrea. Especially if he enjoys getting a cock shoved up his ass.”

Sal swallowed at the image. “You’d even shoot the video.”

Enzo’s lips tightened in a small, somewhat malicious smile. “And warm up the lube if that helps.”

“I’d put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger.” Jack stood barely inside the kitchen, legs spread somewhat apart like those of a newborn foal that wasn’t quite sure yet how to use them. “Saves you work but doesn’t answer that other question Sal has.”

Enzo pulled away, mostly to keep Jack in view. Jack looked disheveled, his shirt was hanging open from his shoulders, and Sal studied the contrast between sunkissed skin and white cloth for a long moment.

“Enzo’s got a point. If I let you live, who tells me you won’t return to heel?”

“My secrets are all I have, and what respect I have, I’ve fought for. You do that to me, you destroy everything.” Jack moved slowly, hand outstretched, clearly dizzy, and made it to the breakfast bar, where it took him several seconds before he managed to climb onto the stool. “I’d have nothing to lose, so I’d end it myself before Andrea sends somebody.”

Not empty words from a man who’d intentionally breathed in water.

Sal stood, undecided, but not because the idea appealed to him. It did appeal on the level of pure fantasy like he’d perfected with Catia, where she’d play a role and he’d play a role and they’d both get off on it. He could even see it as a video—though it was more likely to be special content for those who paid for it than a wide release. Part of him wanted to go over to Jack and see if he was okay, but another part was increasingly resentful over keeping his urges and impulses on such a short leash.

And, hell, feeling Jack tremble under his fingers, the small sounds he made, and the tensing of his stomach muscles before he’d come. He could easily have turned all of that into a weapon. In fact, Enzo probably hadn’t gathered all the cameras around the house yet, and despite the window blinds, maybe they’d recorded the handjob, or enough of it.

“Question remains, Jack. If I let you live, who guarantees you won’t turn around and tell your boss?”

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