Page 55 of Burn this City

“We were talking about the car?” Sal pretended ignorance, but he didn’t fool Enzo. And the car was so tied up with Jack that there was some kind of connection.Fun to drive, indeed.

“Can I ask a question?”

“That’s already one.” Sal winked at him, but nodded. They’d had that exact exchange a couple dozen times, and for the first dozen of those, Enzo had responded with exasperation.

“What happened in there?”

“One of two things.” Sal shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets while they walked down the driveway toward the busted gate, gravel crunching under their shoes. The shadows were noticeably lengthening and the chill deepened as the humidity climbed and became more penetrating. In one version of events, he’d have walked a bound and blinded Jack Barsanti along the same path, and then into the virgin forest to a place without too many roots. Or dragged bags with his pieces along, blood sloshing in the construction-grade plastic. Instead, he could still feel the ghost of Jack’s tentative touches on his skin. “Either I’ve gone soft and lost my touch, or we’ve made an unlikely ally.”

“I call bullshit on both.” Enzo pushed the gate open and waited for Sal to walk through. “First, you didn’t exactly go soft on him.” Enzo groaned when Sal raised an eyebrow at him. “I mean, not that way, but sure, okay, you got off with him. Means nothing, right?”

Means everything, apparently.Sal stopped walking and looked at Enzo. “He wasn’t out, Enzo. Can you imagine getting to that age without ever …” He gritted his teeth. “Living with that fear?”

Enzo had stopped as well, reaching out to touch Sal’s shoulder. “So what? You spared him because he’s gay?”

“Looks like I did. Fuck.” Sal drew a deep breath and shook his head. “Definitely losing my touch, then. It doesn’t make sense. We can’t afford a war with the Lo Cascio if they know it’s happening. Andrea on his own will make mistakes. But Jack is a real asset.”

“We’ll manage,” Enzo said grimly. Sal had worried that Enzo might lose respect for him, which would pose problems for all aspects of their relationship. Seemed his capo was still rock solid.

“I thought you’d be pissed.”

“I’m not.” Enzo let his arm go and looked him up and down. “Want me to be completely honest?”

“Yeah. Though you might regret it.”

Another one of those well-worn exchanges, but Enzo smiled only weakly. “For the record, I checked he wasn’t going into the bathroom to attack you, but I left you to it once I saw he wasn’t a threat.”

“Him grabbing a kitchen knife might have been a giveaway.”

“You know what I see? I see some glimpses of the old Sal, the guy you were before fucking Lo Cascio ripped out your fucking heart, okay? God bless you, Sal, but it’s been hard these last few years. Some nights I didn’t think you’d make it all the way through to morning, but in there …” He didn’t point at the house or even glance at it, “You were who you were before all that. I have no idea whether that’s some psychological hacking from fucking Barsanti, or whether he’s played you; and he’s going to backstab you. If he does, I’ll find him and rip him apart.”

He drew a deep breath, and Sal thought he might be done, but then Enzo continued. “And maybe I’m getting all stupid now, but I missed you.”

Sal stood stunned, then closed the distance between them and embraced Enzo. It made sense—their relationship had changed after Catia’s death, it had lost most of the lightness and joy, but Sal hadn’t had even an idea that Enzo felt that way. He’d thought they’d both been drowning men clinging to each other—now he realized he’d used Enzo as a life raft. He kissed the side of Enzo’s head while he held him so tightly he felt the man’s heartbeat. “I’m sorry.”

A halting, shuddering breath. “I love you, you know that, right?”

“I do. And I love you too. In an almost heterosexual, manly way.”

Enzo laughed and pushed his head against Sal’s. “Yeah, and you’re full of shit. I couldn’t give a fuck about Barsanti. He wastes that second chance you gave him? He’s dead. I only give a fuck about you, and I’ll do what it takes. Whatever needs to be done.”

“I know.”

“Good.” Enzo patted the back of Sal’s shoulders. “Let’s get moving.”

30

Nothing said “close call” like being spared while sitting in a room that had been prepared as a kill site. The tools were gone, but the plastic sheets remained. The chair still remained where they’d put it. Sal’s discarded towel. And even though the house’s temperature was perfectly set, Jack shuddered relentlessly. He didn’t know whether that was the tension leaving, or the moisture trapped in the bathrobe cooling around him.

Breathlessly, he rose and cast a glance at his wet clothes in the Jacuzzi, remembering viscerally how they’d ended up there. Everything still echoed with Sal Rausa’s fierceness, his rage, his pain, the violence in every turn of his head, every flash of white teeth. And still …

Jack should probably feel shame, guilt, but he didn’t. Even when he dug deep down for those feelings, because surely he deserved them, didn’t he?

He went looking for his phone before he remembered that Sal had taken it, and that was the last he’d see of it, or the laptop.

He did own a burner phone—just in case—but right now he couldn’t face leaving the house. Instead, he walked to the master bedroom and the walk-in closet to get clothes. For the first time in his life, he didn’t like what he saw. He stared at those nice suits and tailored shirts—all the same color because he’d never wasted time making such trivial choices first thing in the morning. Or at least, that was what he’d told himself. In truth it made him look the same, day in, day out, as if that could protect him from too much attention. He’d hidden behind inoffensive grey, and off-white and black, and accessorized with one of a small, restrained collection of expensive watches. And who even wore watches anymore?

His sudden aversion didn’t matter though. He didn’t have any other clothes here, so he put on a suit, then walked into the bathroom to look more closely at his face. Yeah, there was no hiding the bruise; it was a swollen blueish purple where his cheekbone and temple had hit the floor, and the location didn’t lend itself to covering it with sunglasses or something similar. The doc had dealt with that cut high up on his forehead, and while the area was sore, and he could feel some swelling, the bruise was much more dramatic. And then there was the split lower lip. Any attempt to cover up his injuries would draw even more attention and raise questions as to why he felt he had to hide them.

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