Page 7 of Burn this City

Enzo lowered the thermos as he coughed. “What?”

“Just.” Sal made a circling motion with his hand, weirdly annoyed at Barsanti’s self-indulgence. “Fuck this guy. We should just walk up to his door, put a gun in his face, and bag him. We’re wasting our time here.”

Enzo gave him that “Now you’re speaking my language” look, but hesitated. “We might get more intel if we wait until tomorrow.”

There. Barsanti left the shower, dripping and glistening, crossed the bathroom as he was, and grabbed a towel from the rack. He wiped his face first, dried his hands, and then scrubbed it over his head. One swipe mostly straightened out his hair—it was too short to get untidy. As he began to dry himself with a second, larger towel, it was easy to see his skin was flushed from the hot water and the exercise.

Sal shook himself. “All right.” He’d chosen Enzo as his capo because he always came through when it counted. He never evaporated when the work got ugly. Some guys, once they’d been made, basked in their newfound status and slacked in their efforts. Of course, they never made it higher up the greasy pole, unlike Enzo who threw himself into the work with a certain type of glee that Sal found appealing.

Enzo took nothing too seriously—not killing, nor dying, not his pride. He didn’t love the politics of the business enough to aspire to boss or underboss, because that would remove him from the thick of the action. But he’d also always lived by that classic Cosa Nostra chestnut: never hold down a legitimate job. And with his anarchist heart and wicked smarts, he’d never have to.

Wearing nothing but a towel, Barsanti walked around the house to dim some lights and switch off others. A last drink in the kitchen—looked like a protein shake—then back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and comb through his hair. He discarded the towel and padded naked into the bedroom, where he slipped under the covers, propped up against the low headboard, and switched on a large flat TV mounted on the wall opposite. The lamp on the nightstand offered no more than a glimmer, but that and the changeable glow from the TV allowed Sal to make out the lines of his legs under the covers, his naked chest, and his sharp features, which remained impassive.

Without his smile and smooth words, Barsanti seemed oddly diminished, all eyes, processing whatever he saw on the screen without judging it, and periodically tapping around on his phone. Aside for Enzo next to him in the truck, who sipped coffee and kept an eye on the night forest around them, the consigliere was the sole focus of Sal’s attention, but he didn’t yield any of his secrets.

What was abundantly clear now had already been pretty clear before tonight—Jack Barsanti was a smart man, polished, thoughtful, but also disciplined and fit. More dragon than the pit viper Andrea Lo Cascio. Tonight was likely a waste of time. Still, Barsanti remained the most promising target to start with. A mere capo didn’t have enough intel. The only way to solve the Lo Cascio problem was to use the same approach as any gardener when dealing with ivy—you had to scrape off and dig up every last piece and burn every scrap or it would come back with a vengeance. Andrea Lo Cascio hadn’t appointed a new underboss or acting boss after taking over from his father. Sal had watched while the previous holder of that position had been chopped into pieces, dropped into a plastic barrel, and deposited into the foundation of a luxury development going up in the city roundabout that time. That meant there were two men at the top of the Lo Cascio: Andrea himself and Jack Barsanti.

On the screen, Barsanti ran a hand down his chest, then further to slide beneath the covers. He shifted his weight and pulled one knee up. Sal watched as Barsanti began toying with his cock, in no particular rush, but also with no teasing, no finesse. He jerked off in the same businesslike way he’d gone about everything so far; there was no true urgency. If anything, Sal thought, he most likely touched himself out of boredom or to help himself fall asleep. When he pushed the covers further down, Sal found himself fascinated by Barsanti’s good-sized, thick cock, and his strong hand around it.

Enzo cleared his throat and reached for the door handle. “I’ll have a look around. Back in a bit.”

“Not going to watch the show?” Sal nodded to the screen.

Several emotions flicked across Enzo’s face, surprise, suspicion, embarrassment, but he settled on pure openness, and Sal was glad for it. “First, I gotta piss; second, I want to stay clear-headed. Okay?”

There was no harshness in his voice, and he’d have stayed if Sal had asked him to. Enzo was probably worried about where this might lead otherwise, and Sal agreed with him, though neither of them was a sixteen-year-old with raging hormones. “Sure. Go piss.”

Enzo opened the door, and surprisingly chilly night air rushed in to replace their companionable warmth.

Sal focused on the screen again, watched Barsanti’s artless movements. As his arousal increased, Barsanti’s face changed. He gritted his teeth so hard Sal could see the tension in his jaw muscles, and when he got to the edge, he closed his eyes, and pushed his head back against the wall, stretching out his throat as his motions became punishing. He remained like that for several long moments, then reached for something outside the bed, wiped over his chest with it and then cleaned his hands. Finally, he slid down deeper into the covers, switched off the TV first, and then the lamp.

Darkness. Peace.

Laptop on his knees, Sal sat alone and enjoyed the frisson of arousal tightening his balls. A strange thing to get from an enemy, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it, but his body didn’t particularly care who Barsanti was, or what blood-drenched history had maneuvered them both to this exact time and space. As far as his body was concerned, things were very black and white. Mostly black.

He near-closed the laptop, put it down on the seat and pushed the door open. Enzo had walked a few steps down the unpaved road into the forest, and was looking up into the sky, where the cloud cover had broken open enough to reveal stars here and there. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder when Sal approached, but remained standing where he was until Sal stopped by his side.

“So?”

“He’s done. Just a quick one before sleep.”

Enzo glanced at him sideways. “You sound bored.”

“Meh. Straight guy rubbing one out. Not exactly thrilling stuff.” Sal pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and peered into the forest, listening, but he only heard a faint rustling of leaves. No movement, no snapping twigs, though the thought alone made Sal want to turn around and get back to the fake safety of the car. He knew better than most people that no place was ever truly safe. Cars certainly weren’t.

The forests around Port Francis were surprisingly deep and wild, as the occasional over-confident camper found out the hard way, and Sal was too much of a city kid to ever feel really comfortable more than a few steps away from a road. He’d gone out into the wild often enough to know that he could easily get lost, which was why he usually went with more experienced hunters. And while he might enjoy the comradery, he was also more than happy to sleep in his own bed, and have a fridge stocked with food he didn’t have to stalk first.

Enzo, by contrast, was at ease living off the land. Apparently, Enzo’s father had been a passionate hunter and his family had been poor enough that the only meat that landed on the table had to be dragged out of the forest. Enzo had told him that he’d shot and killed “Bambi’s Mom” when he was just nine years old, and he hadn’t been much older when he’d learned how to skin and butcher.

“I figure there’s nothing more tonight. We should go home.”

Enzo stood there, clearly thinking, then half turned to Sal. “Want me to come to your place?”

Sal’s first thought was that it would save them time tomorrow when they returned early to their stake-out, but then he saw the tension around Enzo’s eyes. “Nah. Come by at seven. Make sure you get some rest—long day tomorrow.”

The tension softened, so Sal reached out and placed an arm around Enzo’s shoulders and pulled him against his side before letting him go. “Come on. You drive.”

4

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