Page 8 of Burn this City

Jack stopped shaving and fixed his eyes in the mirror. He held the safety razor in a death grip over the rim of the sink.

Coward.

But he knew that already, didn’t he? If he were truly as courageous as some people seemed to think, he would have already enacted his Plan B and retired. Or ended it all. There was no way he could ever be truly honest with Andrea and keep his job and his life, but instead of accepting that and getting the hell out one way or the other, he hadn’t. Instead, he’d smiled and nodded and tried to fit in. But now he’d reached the end of this particular rope, and found all it offered was a noose for him to put his head through.

“I’ll do it. Fuck you.”

He looked away and ran probing fingers over his jaw to check for any remaining stubble, then washed his face, dried it and rubbed some cooling after-shave balm into his skin. He preferred a barber doing all that, but making the long drive back just to get swaddled in hot wet towels held no appeal. Mostly he wasn’t up to dealing with anybody on the outside—he was in that state of mind where “Buongiorno,SignorBarsanti” was already overly familiar and just too much. And he’d put the fear of God into the whole barbershop if he had a meltdown when they asked him whether he wanted a newspaper.

He buttoned up his shirt and pushed it into his trousers, then combed his damp hair, all the time with the beginnings of a decision sitting heavy in his guts. He’d given himself a full eighteen hours to mull this through—and that was already too long. The few facts hadn’t changed and there was nothing he could do to move or twist them. He’d tried approaching the whole problem laterally, out of the box, unconventionally, had briefly considered doing the exact opposite of what he had to do, had turned everything around and around in his mind, but he kept running against the same old walls.

“We all want you happy, okay?”

He knew Andrea well enough to be certain that Andrea wouldn’t let this one slide. As far as Andrea was concerned, he’d started the clock, and the past had taught Jack one thing—Andrea had no patience whatsoever. He was the kind of man who escalated from a hunch to a plan to pulling the trigger in a matter of days, not weeks.

Sometimes it was all Jack could do to slow Andrea down, or break him out of his internal spirals where he whipped himself into a frenzy, and made rash decisions because he trapped himself in a web of paranoia and prejudice. It was one of the less endearing qualities of his boss, but also made Jack a vital part of the Lo Cascio. Few people approached Andrea directly, and all capos knew that their own business, as well as that of their soldiers and associates, should be brought to Jack, who did his damned best to defuse all the hand grenades, anti-personnel mines, scandals and “beef”, before any of it reached Andrea. Ultimately, it was a consigliere’s job, but Jack often wished Andrea would calm down enough to interrogate his own hunches before he made decisions nobody could reverse except God—and He never did.

Jack settled down for a breakfast of coffee and yogurt with some cut-up fruit he’d found in the fridge, then he pulled his phone from the charger, tapped open messages, typed Beth’s number, and then a message.

Hey, what's your schedule like today? I'd like to see you.

He forced himself to put the phone down and eat. He’d finished the yoghurt and was halfway through his coffee when the screen lit up.

Working today. :( How are you doing? Long time, no text.

Yeah, it’s been awhile. Sorry about that. Can you meet up after work?

The next response was faster, thank God.

It'll be late, but sure. Everything okay?

Yeah, just wanted to talk face-to-face.

Breathlessly, he waited. He didn’t like playing this game, but he was flat out of other options.

Oh, sure. I get off work at ten and can come right over.

Great. I’m not in the city. I’ll send directions. I’ll have food to make it worth your trip out here.

Gotta get back to work now, but look forward to seeing you.

Sending the directions now.

He texted her the address and detailed directions because it wasn’t unheard of for people to get lost here, then deleted the whole exchange. The temptation was strong to smash the phone on the stone floor of the kitchen, but he put it carefully down on the breakfast bar. Still, it was difficult to look at it, so he stood and headed upstairs to get some work done.

Jack only broke away from the laptop to hit the indoor gym for an agonizing two hours, trying to beat the worries out of his system until his bones groaned and his muscles screamed. Half an hour in the hot Jacuzzi afterward, plus a Tylenol washed down with a protein shake represented something of a physical armistice after all that pain, but he definitely wasn’t thirty anymore. He’d feel this session tomorrow.

Again, he tried to withdraw with a book to the couch, but just like yesterday, the words rushed straight past him and ended up meaning nothing while his mind continually reminded him of all the ways this was bound to go terribly wrong. With a silent curse, he put the book back where he’d found it and picked up one of the lighter novels he’d read a hundred times in prison, and which no longer required much focus or imagination.

Outside, the shadows grew longer, the shift in light betraying that the sun was on the other side of the hill; both the sky and the water in the bay darkened and deepened with the expectation of night. Jack looked up every now and then, memories of prison coming to him as he skimmed the well-worn scenes. Echoing voices, too-small, grimy rooms, and guards who still called him “Mr. Barsanti”, because everybody had known exactly who he was; most had also known their families and loved ones were fair game should anybody harm as much as a hair on his head. Who needed a protector in prison if “Lo Cascio” was both promise and threat?

He finished the book and checked his phone again.

No calls, but a message:Leaving now.

Time to get the food ready. Briefly, he surveyed the treasures in the fridge—his order had included more food than he could eat by himself, but he always liked having options.

He took the large lasagna dish out and removed the plastic wrap. After referring to the notes the restaurant had included, he set the correct temperature for the oven, and pushed the lasagna inside. He busied his hands with putting together a small arugula and cherry tomato salad with a basic oil and vinegar dressing. Once that was done, he spent a moment contemplating the wine shelf. He’d never learned all that much about wine—he had a dealer he trusted and who bought wines directly from small vineyards in Italy that were too precious, and whose harvests were too small, to ever make it into any kind of wholesale catalogue. He placed a bottle of Chianti and two glasses on the kitchen island, then started a fire in the fireplace.

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