Page 6 of Burn this City

“What’re you thinking?” Enzo licked his fingers and crunched up the aluminum foil into a tight little ball.

“That I appreciate how you’re up for this kind of shit.”

Enzo pulled his lips back from his canines in that wolfish grin of his. “Ever tell you how I got that restraining order as a teenager?”

“Girl told you to get lost?”

“Her parents thought I was no good. I’d sit out there in my cousin’s car and watch her house all week for a chance to talk to her.”

“Can’t blame the parents.”

“Really can’t,” Enzo agreed good-naturedly.

After a while, Sal asked: “So, how did it end?”

“Told you. Restraining order.”

“And you fell in line?” Sal raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Turns out, I’m not into women who don’t know what they want.” Enzo said it lightly, but the statement hung between them in a way that made Sal refocus on Barsanti wandering his house like a ghost. The man was restless; he’d sit down, reach for a book, then put it back again to choose a different one, run a hand through his hair while pulling at it, and then put that book down too.

After a while of wandering in and out of the kitchen and around the furniture in the living room, Barsanti eventually walked into the master bedroom, where he stripped out of his clothes.

“Enzo.” Sal nodded toward the screen.

“Anything interesting happening?”

“Depends.”

“Letting his hair down finally.” Barsanti stripped to his socks, boxers and undershirt, first putting the clothes away before he put on dark running shorts, one of those compression T-shirts, and finally running shoes. “Reckon he’ll run outside?”

“I imagine he’ll be using the gym at this hour. There’s no light along the road.”

That turned out to be true. Barsanti switched on the light in the gym. He chose the treadmill, and after a light trot, sped up to a full-throttle run that had Sal mildly impressed. Gaze empty, Barsanti ran his heart out for a solid forty minutes, then gradually slowed down, face still blank but now glistening with sweat, chest pumping hard. He didn’t have much patience for the cooldown; once he’d slowed to a light jog, he brought the treadmill to an abrupt stop and stepped off.

He pulled off his top, which hung, soaking wet, from his grip, and tossed it into a basket in a corner, then proceeded to do some stretches.

Enzo glanced meaningfully at Sal. “What are you thinking?”

“He’s ripped, but he’s still the consigliere of my enemy.” Sal narrowed his eyes. “You?”

Enzo drew back slightly. “Just saying, good to know in advance that he’s fit. Think he’s a fighter?”

“That’s why I brought you. In case he is.” Sal watched Barsanti stretch his quads. The restless, driven man they’d been observing for the past few hours didn’t fit the tentative, friendly dealmaker he’d so briefly encountered at the Prizzi wedding. He also didn’t fit Sal’s memory of the quietly focused capo Barsanti had been about fifteen years ago. Neither of those had looked as if they were being chased by demons.

Guilt? Bad news he needed to shake off? Or the tension of waiting for a major plot to fall into place?

Of course, a few hours of observation wouldn’t give him the key to the man’s secrets. He’d hoped to catch Barsanti in the act with the wrong woman or scheming with the wrong people, something to get a bead on why he’d isolated himself here. Men like that didn’t leave the city just for an uninterrupted treadmill workout.

Barsanti finished up and left the gym, already pulling at his waistband. By the time they’d switched cameras to the bathroom, he was completely naked.

He’s ripped, but he’s still the consigliere of my enemy,Sal repeated to himself.

More than ripped, actually. Barsanti was on the wrong side of forty, though arguably on the right side of fifty, but no middle-aged paunch had taken hold. His chest was well-defined, the fur on his front either sparse or trimmed, and his short salt-and-pepper hair that had been so well-groomed was now raked back and plastered to his skull with sweat, making him look lessbusinesslike. At the wedding, he could have been a car salesman—though for an expensive European brand—a bit too polished, too eager to please. But this man was a man who had dropped all that as he stepped into the walk-in shower and started the water, head bent forward under the spray, his whole body pumped up after that run, veins popping on his arms.

Hot steam soon obfuscated their view, though the hint of muscle, legs, shoulder, flank, ass in the condensing steam was strangely hypnotic. And, fuck, he took his time—after the way he’d punished himself on the treadmill, he clearly felt he deserved half an hour under the hot water.

Sal only lingered that long in a shower when he wasn’t alone in there. “Motherfucker,” he muttered.

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