Dark Soul Vol. 1 (10 page)

He spotted Silvio at check-in, still wearing the biking leathers but carrying neither helmet nor suitcase. He’d just slipped his tickets into his leather top. Stefano leaned in to murmur to Donata, “I’ll see you in the business lounge.” He kissed her briefly, smiled and headed over to Silvio.

“You didn’t bring anything.”

Silvio shrugged. “I imagine you can arrange what I need.”

Weapons. “Of course. What about clothes?”

“Last time I checked, there’s an Emporio Armani store in terminal three. I’ll raid that.”

If anybody had been made to wear Armani, it was him. “Need help?”

Silvio gave him one of those cold, soulless stares, like he was a stranger, then shrugged. “I’m not good company right now.”

“What’s wrong?”

Silvio turned away. To avoid a scene in front of a few thousand onlookers, Stefano merely followed, even more concerned now. Something was eating away at that magnetism, that charisma, like Silvio was losing his way, his swagger, his earth-encompassing self-confidence.

Stefano waited outside the Armani store in terminal three; two men shopping for clothes together would send entirely the wrong message. Even though Donata and Vince were nowhere around, even though he was an ocean away from anybody who could rat him out, being seen as too comfortable around another—attractive—man was taboo. He hated how self-aware he was, how the suspicion of what he might be could poison even perfectly innocent things.

Except it wasn’t innocent. He madly desired the man. But more than that; he wanted to be there—to become a friend, if that was possible.

Silvio emerged in a dark suit and white shirt, oversized bags dangling from his wrist and two male staffers casting appreciative glances at his backside. He went off to buy sunglasses, which he pushed back into his hair. He could have been a young businessman or a model, but his personality hardly fit with the bland and the beautiful.

Stefano caught up with him at an espresso bar, where Silvio pushed into a removed alcove and sat down facing the crowd, espresso cup in hand. Stefano settled down opposite, feeling itchy with his back to the door.

“Silvio.”

Silvio stared at him. He barely ever blinked. At least not when he was looking at people. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Now the stare was downright poisonous, like Silvio was on the verge of drawing a knife on him. “Why do you give a fuck? You don’t, really, do you.”

“Because—”
I do care.
Stefano breathed deeply. “I don’t understand.”

“
Bene
.” Silvio downed his espresso with a jerk of his head, like a man taking medicine or drinking vodka, and almost broke the saucer when he slammed it back down. It went skidding, and Stefano caught it before it shattered on the floor.

“Gianbattista told me we’re done.”

“Done? You mean, you split up?” And how would he ever decide if what he felt at that was relief and hope, or sympathy and compassion? None of his emotions seemed to be easy anymore.

Silvio snarled. “We’re not lovers anymore. Fuck, that’s a cheap line. He’s informed me we won’t be having sex anymore.” He almost sounded like Gianbattista now. “That’s it, we’re done.”

And that a day after that pool sex? “You’re . . . you seemed happy.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t my fucking choice, was it?”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. Any reason—”
It can’t be easy for Gianbattista to find men who’ll let him do the things he likes.
But Stefano bit down on those words.

Silvio gave a laugh, incredulous and angry and, above all, terribly hurt. “Yes. Sexual preference.”

“What? He’s gay, I thought. He isn’t?”

“That would be too simple.” Silvio closed his eyes and shook his head. “If you tell anybody, I will kill you.”

“Okay.”
Just spit it out.

Silvio opened his eyes again, and Stefano was mortified to see them glistening. Silvio blinked rapidly a few times, looked away, anywhere, fighting not to spill those tears.

He collected himself enough to speak, though he still looked utterly miserable. “I’m too old for him.”

“What? That’s the most ridiculous— He’s twice your age!”

“Keep your
fucking
voice down,” Silvio hissed. “If you were unkind, you could probably call him a pedophile, but the technical term is ephebophile. Men desiring boys past puberty but no more than nineteen or so.” Just from the intonation in that sentence, Stefano could imagine Gianbattista taking Silvio’s killer hands and explaining it to him, calm and careful.

Silvio, of course, would have taken it in stride—only to be hit with the full implications when he was neither nineteen anymore nor able to keep looking like he was no matter how much body hair he shaved.

God, looking at Silvio like this . . . Despite all that raw sexuality, he seemed no more than a boy struggling desperately to mature in a man’s world.

“He said he can’t . . . he can’t deal with me getting older.”

Stefano couldn’t think of a reasonable response to that. Right here was the most desirable person he’d ever met—male or female—and Gianbattista had just tossed him away?

The painting.
That was the Silvio Gianbattista desired. To him, the Silvio who’d grown from that vicious-looking boy was somehow spoiled. Ruined. At least for sex.

“Yeah, sick,” Silvio said. “Way to make me feel worthless.” He shook his head, fighting tears again. “It’s a sexual orientation; nothing you can do about it. I was the first in a long time he felt comfortable with. He’s not some asshole who fucks children.”

“Silvio.” Stefano reached over and took both Silvio’s hands on the table before he realized what he was doing. He half-expected Silvio to pull back, punch him for using the same gesture Gianbattista had. “I am sorry.”

“So he’s sent me away to get over it. When I return, or even if I return, that’s it. There won’t be any . . . you know. Shit. He knows me too well. I’ll get over it.” Silvio pulled his hands away to wipe at his reddened eyes. “So, that’s done. That’s it. If you’re worried about him when you fuck me, you don’t have to be.”

When
, not
if
. Just a matter of time.

Really? But even worse than that thought was the sneer in Silvio’s voice that said,
Of course we’ll fuck. It’s the only thing I’m good for
. Deep down, Silvio seemed lost, and who wouldn’t, at that age, after how many years again with Gianbattista? Eight?

Was that the lesson Silvio was taking away from that relationship—that he’d been used for sex? Stefano’s guts clenched with guilt. Here he was, obsessed with Silvio’s body, his aura, his sensuality, ready to use him just like any other asshole might to get off.

Stefano cleared his throat. “If you need time . . . I have no idea how I’ll get my head around—”
The possibility. You.
Touching, kissing, and fucking a man.

Especially one who’d just emerged from a painful breakup. It might be so easy to kiss it better. And bite it better, and fuck it better. Make Silvio forget, maybe, with patience and time, that other man.

He had no idea where that would take him. The danger was still too great to comprehend. He’d be cheating on his wife, whom he loved, and sleeping with a man, a desire he’d hidden all his life. Gianbattista, retired and still powerful, could get away with it, but it could destroy Stefano and everything and everyone who mattered to him.

And I still won’t be able to resist the temptation for long.

“Silvio, I’ll try. You can have whatever you need.”

Silvio stared at him for a long moment, but it was like watching a lake freeze, glass turning opaque with frost. “I’ll need some C4, a lot of intel, and a bag full of guns. The rest is details.”

Stefano blinked at the sudden change, affronted and relieved at the same time that Silvio had found his footing again, even if it meant shutting him out. Whatever helped Silvio keep going, get back on the initiative—another thing Gianbattista had doubtlessly taught him.

The killer reached inside his jacket for his wallet, placed a five euro bill on the table, and left. “See you at O’Hare.”

Thanks to Sara and Cornelia for their help with Italians and Italian.

Break and Enter, with Rachel Haimowitz (Samhain Publishing)

Counterpunch (Storm Moon Press)

Scorpion (Dreamspinner Press)

Dark Edge of Honor, with Rhianon Etzweiler (Carina Press)

The Lion of Kent, with Kate Cotoner (Carina Press)

For a full list go to
http://www.aleksandrvoinov.com/bookshelf.html

Aleksandr Voinov is an emigrant German author living near London, where he makes his living as an editor at an investment bank. He published five novels and many short stories in his native language, then switched to English and hasn’t looked back. His genres range from horror, science fiction, cyberpunk, and fantasy to contemporary, thriller, and historical erotic gay novels.

In his spare time, he goes weightlifting, explores historical sites, and meets other writers. He single-handedly sustains three London bookstores with his ever-changing research projects and interests. His current interests include World War II, espionage, medieval tournaments, and prisoners of war. He loves traveling, action movies, and spy novels.

Visit Aleksandr’s website at http://www.aleksandrvoinov.com, his blog at
http://www.aleksandrvoinov.blogspot.com
, and follow him on Twitter, where he tweets as @vashtan.