Page 62 of Burn this City

Then Andrea gave him an update about business—a few phone calls he’d had, and his future plans for the redevelopment. Jack forced himself to pay attention, just in case Andrea lived to see it happen. Jack, for his part, informed Andrea that he’d changed passwords and money around purely out of an abundance of caution. He shared the passwords with Andrea and was prepared to show his boss the accounts and changes in case he flipped out about them. He waited for Andrea to call him a “dumbass”, but it seemed Andrea was too preoccupied with the party tonight and what he planned to achieve there to care about much else.

Despite everything, Jack didn’t hate Andrea. He’d worked hard to respect him even in his worst moments, of which there had been many. Andrea could be generous and energetic instead of petty and raging, and the good times had been good. He was willing to make tough decisions and live with the consequences, which was the trait that Jack respected most, and also the one that had made him believe Andrea would definitely have him removed if he didn’t fall in line.

Now, the only decision left to make was when to kill Andrea instead. Without Sal, Jack stood no real chance—he’d still be forced to run or fight a battle against Andrea loyalists.

And how completely the tables had turned. Here he sat, listening to his enemy over breakfast while Sal Rausa was his one remaining ally. More than two decades of his life turned inside out.

A few times, he considered bringing up Sal—but the moment never seemed quite right. Maybe superstitiously, any question in that direction could alert Andrea that Sal Rausa still existed, and why would his consigliere mention him now? And when Sal made his move, wouldn’t Andrea realize that Jack had something to do with it? No, Andrea needed to be more relaxed, less sharp, and ideally distracted. He’d try digging for answers about Catia’s death at the party.

He excused himself a little later, and, at the wheel of the car, texted Sal:Need to meet.It was a crazy thing to do. He could have used the burner phone to convey the information he had, but with everything now on the knife’s edge, he wanted to look into Sal Rausa’s eyes when he talked to him. But really it was just an excuse to meet him again, without being drugged, exhausted, scared and in pain. That would be a very different experience.

35

Spadaro hadn’t even taken off the biker suit, but at least the helmet rested on the table in the living room. A little arsenal of weaponry and ammo covered the rest.

Sal especially liked the part of Enzo’s and Spadaro’s plan where the targets would receive delivery messages from a courier with a link to a spoofed website that confirmed the delivery, and was also loaded with some handy malware that would allow them to track or access the phone in case things went wrong. Spadaro or somebody else posed as the courier requiring a signature, which got him close enough to strike either right then or later if the situation required it.

Spadaro had eventually settled on taking out the capos in a specific order, while Enzo and the other boys were going to focus on the soldiers. Sal wasn’t worried about the associates—those might report to soldiers and capos, but from the way Jack had told it, none of them had a specific investment in Andrea as boss, or even the Lo Cascio. If they received the same back-up, support, or simple pressure from any other family, they’d fall into whatever hand was open to receive them. They’d be approached and taken in when the time was right.

His phone buzzed.

Need to meet.

Spadaro remained laser focused on the map of Port Francis they’d pinned to the wall. They still had to decide when to deal with Andrea—though Spadaro had checked out his estate that morning and noted it offered several usable approaches to take him out in his own home.

Sal texted Jack the address and added:I’ll pick you up in the garage downstairs.

The response came immediately:En route. Twenty minutes.

“Jack’s coming.”

Enzo tilted his head. “Asking for protection?”

Now Spadaro also turned away from his map and regarded Sal. “The consigliere?”

“Yes. And I don’t know.” Sal slipped the phone back into his pocket. “In any case, he’s under my protection, but he might have an idea how to finish Andrea. Or additional targets who were involved with the murder of my wife.”

That last bit was more directed at Spadaro, whose dark eyes didn’t betray what he thought; he soaked up information without displaying any emotion. Still, Sal gathered that Spadaro loved his job the same way he loved fast bikes and Berettas. He didn’t tell war stories, but the kind of questions he asked, the way he approached everything here betrayed a ruthless intelligence that never rested, never paused, and had no ability to compute either hesitation or mercy. As a human being, Spadaro was clearly seriously damaged. As an executioner, he was perfect.

“Who’s going to kill Lo Cascio?” Spadaro turned his dark gaze on Sal. “Any specific thoughts about it?”

Over the years, Sal had entertained a lot of revenge fantasies. At first, they’d focused on Andrea, but they’d widened—not only was Andrea going to die, but everything he’d built, and his family had built, his very legacy would be scrubbed off the map. Ten years from now, people would barely remember his name. Whether he’d do it with his own hands, though, was a different matter. Spadaro was likely better equipped, considering he wouldn’t be blinded by rage.

“No, but if you end up doing it, send me a photo of the body.”

Spadaro flashed one of his cold, bright smiles, all teeth, and none of it reached his eyes. “Will do.”

“Why do they call you the Barracuda?” Enzo suddenly asked. “That’s an ugly fucking fish.”

Spadaro gave a small nod. “Because they only attackonce.”

Enzo pursed his lips in an “okay, I’m impressed” expression.

“And they’re fast.” Spadaro shrugged. “Battista’s idea.”

That made sense. Plus, the man’s coldness and expressionless face made that nickname even more fitting. As far as Cosa Nostra nicknames went, this one was both flattering and accurate.

Spadaro cast another glance at his map. “When do you want me to start?”

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