Page 76 of Burn this City

Andrea swaggered toward Spadaro and leaned against the back of the seat, watching from up close, almost breathing down on the girls while Spadaro had her fingers up the blonde’s skirt. Jack felt uneasy—he still recognized the killer in the girl, aware that that sinewy strength wasn’t for pleasure, but for snapping back and striking without warning. And while the blonde seemed to enjoy it, based on her breathy moans and squirms, bait was all she was. Chum in the water.

And yet, even to Jack it was hot. Maybe it was because he’d spent a lifetime watching bodies do what bodies did, or because he knew Andrea had finally met more than his match while still thinking he was in control, or maybe it was because Spadaro played both the girl and the audience perfectly. Jack turned to pick up another drink from the bar, and then watched as Andrea used his well-worn pick-up smile.

But Spadaro made it difficult for him, seemingly a whole lot more interested in pleasuring the blonde. Andrea spoke, but Jack didn’t pay attention to the words. It didn’t matter what he’d said. Andrea knew he was good-looking, and could even be charming, but he displayed his wealth and wore his power with the subtlety of a jackhammer. He had made his expectations of the two women clear.

Dragging her mouth away from the blonde, Spadaro gave Andrea a smoldering black look, licked her open lips and smiled invitingly. Andrea sat down and kissed the blonde too, which, dazed and turned on, she responded to, while Spadaro’s fingers remained where they were. Spadaro whispered something into Andrea’s ear and then closed his teeth gently around the outer rim of it, pulling noticeably. When Andrea jerked, Spadaro merely laughed.

Jack took a sip from the alcohol and forced himself to look away. There was no reason why he should be too interested in what Andrea got up to sexually, even if his alleged “sometimes lover” was involved. He walked slowly to the one-way mirror wall that offered a great view of the pulsing dancing crowd on the first floor. He gazed down at the writhing bodies, holding his whiskey glass in one hand, and trying to look thoughtful and calm instead of stressed, while the music vibrated up against his feet.

When he turned around again, Andrea was on the move, one arm around each of the girls. The blonde staggered as if extremely drunk and Jack was worried she might fall and the whole plan would go sideways. He caught a quick glance from Spadaro, who seemed to have it all well in hand. She definitely didn’t look like she needed support or help.

Jack took a deep breath and forced himself to remain where he was, but watched the reflection as Andrea walked past the upstairs bar and down a rarely used corridor. That way were two private lounges—round rooms that had only enough space to seat six or eight people around a table. Low light and soundproofing made them suitable for a lap dance or other more private business. Good choice, they were close enough that even the very drunk blonde would be able to make it. Also, considering how eager Andrea had looked, he wouldn’t give them a tour of the club first.

A week ago, my life still made sense.

Jack didn’t pay attention to the girls or the guests. He waited for the time to pass, measured in heartbeats that were hard and fast enough that he could feel them. He measured in breaths, in the beat of the music, and the laughter coming from the sitting area. After about ten minutes, he set down his glass and followed Andrea with all the purpose of a man headed toward the restroom.

Down the corridor, the door of the first private lounge was closed. Jack approached it, heart pounding up into his head and against the base of his skull. He’d never enjoyed betrayal, never relished the twisted power it came with. Even now, he remembered the shocked and hurt expression of the man he’d killed to secure his place among themen of honor. Jack wasn’t made to turn against people he would have otherwise considered allies. It was a sad fact that not everybody had the same compunctions—he’d spent his life watching his back, wasted it, because he’d never really trusted anybody with any of the things that truly mattered to him.

He couldn’t hear anything on the other side of the door, so he leaned closer. After a minute or so, he heard something soft and heavy fall onto the ground. A quick glance down the corridor, and he opened the door.

Inside, he first noticed the blonde stretched out on the seats, heels on the floor, wearing lace panties and nothing else, hands above her head. She was breathing. Passed out. Andrea had fallen between seats and table, shirtless and face first, and Spadaro was kneeling on him, pulling a stiletto from his back. Andrea was still moving, trying to push himself up, fingers trying to find purchase against the fake red leather seats, or maybe reach the gun holster in his back, but while he was strong and fit, Spadaro was working against him and didn’t let him come back up. Andrea made a wheezing, wet sound that gave Jack goosebumps.

“Come in and close the door,” Spadaro said calmly and stabbed Andrea in the back again. He pulled the knife out and tossed it carelessly on the table.

Andrea was choking—his chest moved but he was unable to breathe. Spadaro must have stabbed him in both lungs. Nasty way to go, but mostly, it kept Andrea from screaming or fighting.

“What about her?”

“She shouldn’t have drunk the cocktail I gave her,” Spadaro said calmly, still focused on the man dying underneath her. “Anyfuckingthing could have happened to her.”

“You drugged her?”

Spadaro shrugged. “Didn’t want her to freak out and get in the way.”

“That’s … surprisingly nice of you.”

“Not like she’ll remember enough to tell the cops. Not that there’s any reason for her to talk to anybody.” Spadaro glanced down to Andrea who’d stopped moving. “Job’s done.”

“Yeah, looks like it.”

Spadaro reached out to place two fingers against Andrea’s neck, then straightened, gathered up the knife, wiped it on Andrea’s shirt and closed it, then put it back in her clutch. “Don’t tell me you were worried?”

“No, I’ve heard you’re …” Good? Ruthless? Efficient? None of the words did Spadaro justice.

“Scary?” Spadaro volunteered. “I get that a lot.”

Spadaro’s lipstick was smeared slightly, but while that would have made anybody else look more vulnerable, it looked more like war paint on a surprisingly delicate face. Jack was tempted to offer his jacket and chided himself for the impulsive chivalry.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to do it,” Jack confessed.

“I know a guy who says I have so much Scorpio in my horoscope, hard to be anything else.” Spadaro offered a weird, thin-lipped smile. “Sal wants the body to vanish.”

Much of Sal’s plan would work better if the rest of the Lo Cascio didn’t know what hit them at least for a day or two, and the Dommarco stayed in the dark as well until it was all done. Taking out those Lo Cascio capos who displayed more initiative than the others would be the next move, and Spadaro was unlikely to get any rest until that work was done. But witnessing Spadaro’s fierceness and focus at work convinced Jack that those capos would find their match and more in the killer.

“Do you have a plan to stay safe?”

“What?” Jack did his best to ignore the one dead and one unconscious body, as if either of them could hear him or were in any state to care. “You mean during the war?”

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