Page 51 of Burn this City

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Who even knew what the “right” strategy was anymore? That particular train of thought hadn’t just departed, it had jumped off the rails, rammed a mountain side and exploded. Search crews in high-vis jackets were now combing through the wreckage.

In some ways it was easier to just accept death. But, like that night on the bridge, he’d met an unexpected fellow traveler on the way to hell, and that changed everything. Strangely, Sal Rausa understood him better than Andrea or anybody else ever had, and he didn’t seem to judge Jack for any of it.

“I know you’re not interested in negotiations.” The way Sal’s shoulders immediately squared and he lifted his chin confirmed that. Jack smiled tiredly. “I understand. If you let me go, I’ll find out who killed her.”

Sal grimaced, baring his teeth. “Only difference that makes is that I’ll know which corpse to piss on.”

Sal was lying, though. It meant a lot more to him than he let on. He fell back on his gruffness when he felt his position weaken. At least that was Jack’s working hypothesis. Jack rubbed his face, tried to clear his head more. He was getting better, feeling less hung over, less heavy and drugged with every minute that passed, but he was nowhere near back to his usual sharpness. He needed forty-eight hours of restful sleep, several bottles of water, a good, hard run, and a couple sessions in a sauna to work the last vestiges of the drugs out of his system. Not for the first time this month, he felt every year of his age. Twenty years ago, he’d have let this weekend wash over him and emerged completely dry and ready to fight.

And then there were the other issues. How to survive the war. How to deal with having failed so spectacularly at keeping the peace, the one thing he’d been good at. How to avoid the impression that it was him who’d sold everybody out to save himself. He’d have to leave town, the state, and ideally the country, in case somebody came calling to collect on that debt. Without the Lo Cascio, he had no protection.

And all that because he couldn’t suppress those distracting emotions and needs? Didn’t that confirm that men like him couldn’t be trusted? That he was, on the most fundamental level, flawed and weak?

No. He’d seen enough men make terrible decisions because of money, drugs, or ego. Sometimes all three. He was no worse, and also no better. He’d tried for decades, and none of it had made even the smallest difference. He’d gone into the life willingly and with open eyes. Part of the draw had been that his father, who always found fault with him, had failed to get made. And, yes, he’d rubbed it into the old man’s face when the money started flowing. Because money was a language his father understood. The only one he spoke.

What mistakes Jack had made had nothing to do with his sexuality, because he’d spent so much energy on suppressing it and excelling in everything else. He’d worked so hard in part because he didn’t have to deal with demands from lovers or spouses or children.“You’re a machine”,his old capo used to say, part proud, part exasperated.

No, not a machine at all.

Sal Rausa came around the breakfast bar and placed both his hands on his shoulders, as he’d done right at the start, but now Jack’s body only welcomed the touch. It was firm and strong and warm, and with a sudden flashing heat he remembered that touch on his bare skin. All those pretensions—his role, his duties, his past—had bled away, and he had been no different from any other man, just as vulnerable and brittle as any other human being experiencing such intense pleasure.

If he could have that again—if he could strip away everything that had separated him from being just some man, just anybody, whose deeds and decisions ultimately meant nothing, had no lives or power riding on it … If he could even conceive such a life, maybe he could start again. Start better. Far away from Port Francis. Maybe he’d find somebody for himself, somebody who accepted him as he was, somebody he could lean on as much as he himself was willing to support. A relationship of equals, without lies and subterfuge. If he found that, it could be the kind of love that made Sal’s voice break when he spoke of his wife.

“Finding out who killed Catia … is that the only reason you can give me to keep you alive, Jack?” It was said almost with affection, and Jack swallowed. If he could have, he’d have scrambled to pull the comforting blanket of that drug back over his mind and emotions, because feeling those things while sober was too damn intense.

“I got nothing else. Andrea would have me killed if he knew what I am. That cat is out of the bag. There is no hiding now.”

“You could. Plenty of guys leave the closet, and plenty go back inside.” Those hands tightened on his traps, and all Jack could remember was that heated kiss and the taste of another man.

“It’d take even more rope than last night to keep me there.”

Sal gave a low chuckle that made the hairs on Jack’s arms stand up. “I’m pretty handy with a length of rope. Try me.”

Try me.Jack looked up and saw Enzo watching them, looking alert, but not surprised. If anything, there was a hint of amusement around his lips. Something in Jack’s perception had clearly changed because he could see easily why Sal would be attracted to Enzo, and vice versa. Maybe his brush with death had opened his eyes, or he now allowed himself to contemplate masculine beauty without a deep-seated terror that that alone might condemn him to death. Enzo was objectively very attractive, although Jack didn’t feel any erotic charge. But Sal Rausa was stunning, metaphorically and literally.

Jack half-turned to meet Sal’s eyes. “Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Something distracting you?”

“Yes.”

Sal laughed and stepped back. “Enzo, I’ll go grab a shower.”

“Understood.” Enzo leaned against the kitchen counter and watched Sal leave the kitchen, then re-focused his attention on Jack. “You guys seem to be getting on well.”

“I guess.” Jack rubbed his face. “I don’t know. That horse tranquilizer makes thinking hard.”

“Thinking’s overrated with Sal.” Enzo flashed him a smile. “Want to hear what I’m thinking?”

“Do I?”

“He’s turned on. You’re pushing his buttons, and that shower is so he can clear his head.” Enzo looked very relaxed now.

Jack blinked but it wasn’t mockery, not a joke.

“He’s turned on.”

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