Page 58 of Burn this City

“I’ll talk to him first thing tomorrow. On his normal schedule, that’s around ten or so.”

“Talk about what?”

“Report in after my break away from everything. Myvacation.”

A soft, toneless laugh. “Sorry for fucking that one up for you.”

“Yeah, well.” And again, weirdly, he felt Sal meant it, but Jack still couldn’t wait to call the company looking after the house and telling them to scrub the place top to bottom to eliminate all traces of that weekend. They were discreet too—from what Jack gathered, they had a department dealing with sites where people had died, and that included those where a body had been found only after several weeks or months.

“Listen, Jack, I’d prefer it if you don’t show your face in this city for two weeks, but …”

“I can’t do that.” He couldn’t control anything that was going to happen, but if he hid, that was blood in the water. If anything, he had to be as visible as possible now or he’d be done in Port Francis. Maybe it was sheer pride that overrode the fear, maybe he was stupid for not grabbing a suitcase full of money—metaphorically only, because he kept his legal money in various places he could access from anywhere—and run now, while he could.

“Yeah. Just call me if you change your mind.”

Again, the temptation to throw everything away and join Sal—despite everything.Becauseof everything. But what he needed even more than reassurances from Sal, more than cashing out the promises that Sal had made with his touches and those kisses, he needed to keep his wits about him and play this exactly right. He couldn’t be at the wrong place at the wrong time and vanish behind bars again. He couldn’t trip up and lose the standing for which he’d sacrificed so much already. He needed time to think, recover, and figure out what the ground was like that he stood on before he could take a single step forward.

“I’ll call.” He ended the call to begin the painstaking work of repairing as much damage as he could. Right now, the best he could do was deny Sal a part of his victory and move the money beyond his reach. Money was leverage, was freedom, and it gave him options. It was also a great reason to meet Andrea tomorrow and give him an update and get the lay of the land.

32

Sal managed to catch a few winks on the way to the airport. Though the moment his mind relaxed somewhat, memories flashed by. As they so often did, many of them featured Catia. Not just the awful memories either, the funeral or seeing her pale and dead, almost blue in that tiled room and feeling his sanity slither away at the sight of the head wound. Innocent memories of her grimacing when she untangled her hair, or staring intently at her laptop reading the news. Sometimes, she’d ask his opinion about a nude photo or a film star’s physical attributes, watching him with her wide-set eyes. Those latter memories were well-worn favorites, soft with use and nostalgia.

But there were also very new memories playing in his mind, memories that felt a whole lot more novel and fresh. Jack tied to the chair, tense and defiant. Jack asleep, hands tied. Jack running hard on the treadmill. Jack pushing his head back against the wall, eyes closed just before he finished himself off.

Sal still managed to fall asleep, arms crossed, legs crossed, while Enzo next to him drove the truck. It was several hours before what counted as “morning rush hour” in Port Francis, but that hour-long trip helped to catch up his sleep after a restless night. He felt sharper and more awake as Enzo pulled into the parking space.

The local airport’s domestic connections to all the major hubs were good, which made Port Francis quite attractive for some IT and consultancy companies whose staff had to travel a lot. Consequently, most of the travelers Sal noticed seemed to be young and middle-aged professionals, with only a few families coming back from visits or vacations. He checked the text he’d received against the Arrivals board and motioned for Enzo to follow him to the gate.

With no more baggage than a backpack, their man was one of the first out of the gates. Sal remembered Silvio Spadaro from a short event years back when one of the other East Coast bosses had croaked his last, and Spadaro had been sent to transmit Gianbattista Falchi’s regards. Sal had just moved from capo to underboss, and on that night he’d been otherwise distracted, but he’d still noticed the ripple that went through the assembled old boys when Spadaro made his entrance.

Spadaro was just as eye-catching now in the slim-fitting black suit which he wore more like a model and less like an enforcer. In fact, Spadaro was smaller and slenderer than Sal remembered him—more the frame of a teenager than a man, and he played that up to full effect. That was what disconcerted many; Spadaro didn’t look like a leg-breaker, didn’t even look like he could fight and kill, and yet those who recognized him knew he did both well.

He pulled off sunglasses and there it was, that black stare that Sal remembered. Along with those strangely sexless features and slender build, the unblinking black eyes made him seem a creature all his own. And that was probably how he liked it. Sal nodded toward him and saw Spadaro change direction to walk to him. “Mr. Rausa.” No smile, not much in terms of movement in his face.

“Welcome to Port Francis, and thanks for coming. This is Enzo, my right-hand man. He’ll get you set up.”

“Battista sends his regards.” He reached inside his jacket and took a second to switch on his mobile phone. “Shall we?”

“The car is this way.” Sal turned and led the way, noticing Spadaro like a black shadow walking barely inside his peripheral vision. With that suit, and Sal’s and Enzo’s much more practical clothing, they looked like a couple of mercs or security guards picking up a young investor or internet millionaire. If Spadaro learned to smile, he could make a killing on Instagram as an influencer.

Back at the car, Sal took the wheel, Spadaro settled in on the passenger side, and Enzo went in the back. “Figured we’ll hit my place and order food in. We have a lot of intel.”

“Guns first.” Spadaro half-turned to look at him. “I’ll need a bike too, if we’re hitting that many targets so quickly. I’ve been looking at a map of the city. I’ll have to scout, get my bearings.”

“What are you using?”

“Beretta.”

“Great, we’ll stop at our main supplier. What’s your type of bike?”

“Fast.” Now Spadaro grinned.

“No problem. There’s a dealership in town, we’ll get a bike today. Enzo here will look after you and make sure you’re set. We’ll have to act quickly because I don’t know how long the intel will be good.” Enzo’s silence was very pointed, but Sal was glad his capo didn’t comment otherwise on why the half-life of the information was a lot shorter than ideal. Still, Sal doubted that Jack would be rallying the troops.

It was interesting to see Spadaro pick out his weapons—he didn’t have any exotic requirements, just grabbed two Berettas and a hunting rifle of the same brand, and a couple cases of bullets. Sal noticed that he wasn’t a man for small talk. If anything, he was slightly awkward dealing with the supplier, seemingly frustrated that the man asked any questions at all, as if he’d wanted to just walk in and the supplier should have been able to read his mind. Maybe it was because he was already so focused on the work he was here to do, but there was a lack of visible affect on his features. The black stare never lessened, hadn’t even softened when he’d grinned that once.

After Spadaro had picked up his motorbike, he joined them at Sal’s place. Sal had bought a generous condo in one of the luxury complexes after he’d sold the grander house on the outskirts because everything there had reminded him of Catia. Without her, the place was too large and too quiet, and sometimes he’d woken in their bed, heart thundering in his chest, believing for a hot-cold minute that she’d slipped out to go to the bathroom or grab a glass of water, and he’d hear the whisper of her bare feet on the carpet when she returned to bed, warm and alive. He’d simply been too fragile to live married to a ghost for long without losing the rest of his mind.

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