Page 82 of Burn this City

Sal smiled. “I’m willing to hear you out.”

“Petra Lo Cascio would like to retain interests in certain businesses of her husband, in order to support herself and her family. Other associates are asking to be bought out for a suitable price and leave Port Francis permanently.”

The tension in the room dropped, and shifted toward anticipation as the capos considered which piece of the cake they wanted to claim. Sal’s focus didn’t waver as he seemed to consider the implications. “I doubt Mrs. Lo Cascio will want to hear that from me, but please convey to her that I’ll respect her wishes and the safety and security of her and her children. She, too, will be required to leave the city.”

“She’s willing to do that.” Or, in Petra’s words,Damn this whole fucking city to hell.

“Good. We’ll hash out which businesses are of interest to us and what price we’re willing to pay to speed up the peace process.” Sal lifted an eyebrow. “I trust you brought a list.”

“Of course, Mr. Rausa.” He handed over a few folded pages. Nothing on there would come as a surprise to Sal, it was all just for show. But however they played this, whatever people might end up thinking, Jack would still forever be the consigliere whose family had been soundly beaten, and who now had the job of clearing away the debris. But the true failure would hopefully be placed on Andrea’s shoulders.

Sal stood. “I’ll review this. In the meantime, I accept your surrender and that of the Lo Cascio. Hostilities will cease on both sides while we hammer out the details.” He offered his hand.

“Agreed.” Jack took Sal’s hand and shook it. The touch ran like a low, sweet current over his skin. He had to force himself to meet Sal’s gaze. They’d barely talked on the phone, just enough to let each other know they were both alive.We’ll talk when this is done, Sal had said.

“Please have a seat.”

Over the next hours, Jack hammered out the details, signed papers that the law firm running the Lo Cascio clan’s legit interests would enact, with Petra as one of the main beneficiaries, even though some of those assets changed hands for a song. When all of it was said and done, Sal stepped out to take a call, and Jack stood and walked out too. He didn’t return to his room, no reason to—he hadn’t brought his suitcase from the car.

This part was a lot harder than he’d feared.

He tightened his hands around the steering wheel of his trusty Porsche, already hating the thought of leaving it behind at the local airport.

Last man standing.

He started the engine.

Port Francis didn’t have a place for him. Three generations ago, the Barsanti had stepped off the boat in the hopes of becoming Americans and building a new future in this new world. While they’d succeeded, and he’d made more money than his threadbare, hopeful, hard-working grandparents could even dream of, he didn’t have a future here. The only way to cope with his total defeat was to leave and find a place where nobody knew him.

But he had his life, and the other positive was that, if he should ever meet another man like Sal Rausa—as unlikely as that was—he could now allow himself to feel and slowly explore where that feeling would take him. The thought was sweet and made his heart ache. There might be a place, but more importantly, a someone for him.

He’d almost left the resort grounds, when headlights appeared behind him, and a car was rapidly closing in. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was Sal’s truck.

Oh no, not happening.

He took the last corner faster than he wanted, but then it was open road, and the turbocharged 2.5-liter flat four generated a purring, smooth 350 horsepower. And after all of his tight control, the fear, the exhaustion, it was exhilarating to finally be able to run, and run fast.

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“Fuck!I’ll call you back.” Sal floored the pedal, but his truck didn’t exactly offer super car acceleration, speed or handling, and he was not going to wrap himself around a tree trying to catch up to that damned Porsche.

He speed-dialed Jack’s phone, but the man had his hands full driving at, fuck, much faster than 130 miles per hour.

At that speed, he didn’twantJack to answer the phone.

No response.

Sal slowed down, even though that meant the Porsche was rapidly getting smaller, and speed-dialed Spadaro.

“Yes.”

“Jack’s just … fucking vanished.” Wrong. He was running, just when everything had looked like it would work out. Where had he gone wrong? Pushed too hard? Humiliated him? He’d fuckingpromisedthey’d talk, and surely Jack knew by now that he always delivered on his promises. “Not vanished. Running. He’s driving. Fast. I need to catch him.”

“Where to?”

“He’s taken the highway headed northwest.” Now, if Jack fled in a straight line, that would take him past Port Francis and straight to …

“Airport,” Spadaro said. “Is he driving his usual car?”

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