Dark Soul Vol. 1 (2 page)

“Gianbattista’s getting senile to rely on him,” the other man sneered. “Fucking wild card.”

“Well, seems Battista’s not coming personally.”

Stefano inched closer, ostensibly to settle at one of the small round tables scattered around the house, and pretended to be interested in the glass of salt sticks nobody else had touched.

“What’s he up to these days, anyway?”

“Breeding roses, they say.” The boss ignored his companion’s incredulous snort. “For all intents and purposes, Battista’s retired. I’d say the boy’s making sure nobody comes calling in favors.”

“Security?”

“Oh yeah. He killed Diego Carbone. In self-defense.”

The other man grimaced. “I’d heard Carbone was dead, but not who did him.”

“I have it on good information. He did Diego. Pumped him full of lead and then strangled him. It was a massacre. Diego shot him, too. Put the boy in the hospital for a few months—blood poisoning or some shit like that. People say he’s just as insane as Carbone now.”

“
Cazzo.
” The man glanced up the stairs, but the driver was gone. “I believe it.” He looked around as if trying to escape the conversation, then stood and followed a servant with a silver tray of canapés.

Stefano made eye contact with the boss who’d been left behind. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing that conversation. Stefano Marino.” Stefano offered his hand.

Gathering information beat sitting near the fireplace being bored. The thought that the driver had killed Diego—an enforcer so violent as to be virtually insane—made him uneasy. He didn’t hear much news from the east coast, wrapped up as he was in the microcosm of his own territory and his immediate interests. But some interesting names in all that.
Il Gentiluomo,
Gianbattista Falchi, cultured on the outside with his mild manners and graying temples, an old-style
consigliere
like straight out of
The Godfather.
Stefano had met him only once, warned and aware that Falchi was a trickster and schemer, yet still not immune to his charisma.

How curious that the old
consigliere
trusted his security to this young killer who didn’t seem to give a fuck about tradition. Maybe as a retiree with still-considerable influence, Gianbattista Falchi could afford to ignore tradition, too.

“You’re still here,” a voice said at his back.

Stefano turned around to find himself standing way, way too close to the driver. Those black eyes were without light, without reflection. The stare punched the air from his lungs, and those lips . . . God, those lips. Distantly, he heard his conversation partner making his excuses, but he paid the man no mind, and neither did the driver. He could feel the heat from the driver’s body. Imagined touching. Being touched. He blinked and stepped away.

Only then did he realize the driver had changed and showered, as promised. His short hair was still wet, and he was wearing a severe black suit over a white shirt. No tie. The suit was cut to hide the gun under his right shoulder, but also showed off a whole lot of lean muscle. Not an ounce of fat on him.

Stefano swallowed. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“They call me Barracuda.” No smile, just stating a fact. The name was oddly fitting for that expressionless face. “Silvio Spadaro.”

Spadaro was offering his hand. Stefano took it, the grip firm and dry, the skin rough. Of course, he was a killer, a
sicario
, so he’d have to touch guns enough to harden against them. Stefano swallowed. He shouldn’t be thinking about what this hand touched and how. “Stefano Marino.”

“I know.” Spadaro lifted an eyebrow, and didn’t release Stefano’s hand. “How long have you been waiting for the old man to die?”

“Leukemia takes a while. We’ve had some false alarms in the past.”

“This time it’s real. That’s why I’m here.” Spadaro kept holding his hand, and Stefano realized he was beginning to sweat. It wasn’t fear. The man was just so intense. Not freakish, not insane. Just mental games, psychological warfare. A killer’s job.

“So, how—” he forced his hand from the man’s grip “—is Gianbattista Falchi these days?”

“
Sta bene
.” Spadaro cast a quick glance around the room. When the eye contact broke, Stefano could breathe again. But then the eyes came back, staring him point-blank in the face. “He sent me to pay his respects.”

“Why’s he not coming personally?”

“Want the truth or a polite lie?”

Stefano huffed. “Surely he’d say goodbye to his old friend?”

“He fucking hates the rest of the family,” Spadaro said flatly. “And he hates the smell of hospitals. The lies, the polite smiles. He said he wouldn’t trust himself not to make a scene.”

Seemed Gianbattista had embraced his retirement. Or saw a danger to himself here. Stefano filed the thought away. “So he figures you of all people won’t?”

Spadaro’s lips quirked. “Maybe I’m here to make sure the old guy meets Death properly this time. Do you know what’s going on in people’s heads here?”

“I have an educated guess.” Stefano reached for the glass of salt sticks, more unnerved than he wanted to admit by the killer’s comments. He didn’t expect violence, but you never really knew with the family, did you?

“Yeah, well, fuck ’em.” Spadaro cast another glance at the assembled Mafiosi. “I wouldn’t change places with any of them.”

Was that a slip of the mask? Calculated provocation? “Oh? Why not?”

“You know what they did to Joey D’Amato?”

Stefano straightened. Why would Spadaro mention the faggot? Way too crass and unsettling, especially considering he’d been vanished, not even a body to bury.

Spadaro studied him, head tilted. “That’s why I don’t belong to anybody,” he said quietly, but with the force and conviction of a kidney punch. “I’m not following their fucking rules.” He swept the crowd again with his expressionless black eyes, then fixed them on Stefano’s face.

Stefano’s lips tingled. It was still hard to breathe and he had no idea why. He couldn’t let this man intimidate him. Couldn’t be seen as too interested. Barracuda or not—even Gianbattista Falchi’s
protetto
or not—he could afford zero suspicion. He’d be dead. Fuck Spadaro for flustering him so, and fuck himself for getting flustered, but he’d never show it. “Well, give Falchi my best wishes when you return to him.”

“Will do.” Spadaro sketched an ironic salute and stepped away.

Stefano fought the urge to straighten his tie, fought harder against the urge to watch the Barracuda cut through the assembled groups of men.

He caught Vince’s gaze, and though his bodyguard relaxed a little, he still looked worried. Stefano could see why. A
sicario
who belonged to a “retired”
consigliere
, and not just any pensioner, but crafty old Gianbattista Falchi, who’d been more powerful in his own right than many bosses. That was all manner of disturbing. “Paying his respects” by being anything but respectful. Mentioning D’Amato like killing the faggot was somehow wrong. Mentioning him in fucking
public
.

He stood around, restless, then noticed Luigi approach Spadaro and touch his shoulder. The black eyes flared and Spadaro glowered at Luigi as if he were about to take the older man’s head clean off. But he reached into his suit jacket, pulled his gun from his holster with two fingers, and handed it to Luigi. The
consigliere
took it without batting an eyelash, then went upstairs. Spadaro followed.

Vince stepped to his side. “That’s really fucking impressive. Arrives here and gets seen almost immediately.”

“Well, he was sent by Gianbattista Falchi.”

Vince nodded solemnly. “I don’t like his attitude.”

“I fucking hate it.” The way the man’s presence made his skin tingle wasn’t hatred, but that wasn’t something he could admit. Spadaro seemed to have that effect on people. The fact that he clearly carried weight and power was even worse.

So what was this guy’s game?

Spadaro returned from upstairs while dinner was being served. A couple men bolted from their places at the table opposite Stefano—not having finished their starters, even—and Spadaro settled into one of the newly vacated seats, unperturbed. He was carrying his gun again.

“So how are things on the west coast?” Spadaro asked him.

Stefano shrugged around a mouthful of baby spinach. “Where are you based?”

“
Italia
.” Spadaro reached for the wine and poured himself a glassful. Red. Ignoring, completely, the people serving them—all lesser peons of the various families. He took a big gulp of the red and kept his dark gaze on Stefano. “Battista has a few nice places there. Thinking about using the old vineyards again.”

An older Mafioso cleared his throat when Spadaro referred to Falchi in that oddly personal way. Spadaro didn’t react to that at all.

“I thought he was growing roses,” Stefano said.

“Yeah, and raising men, too.” Spadaro glanced pointedly at the older Mafioso. Maybe he smiled, but it was hard to say with his lips on the glass. “Taught me shooting and killing.” Oh yeah, that was a grin, but it was a “fuck you” kind of smile, barely better than a sneer. “And biking.”

Did the man blink at all? Stefano wasn’t sure.

They say he’s insane.

Or maybe he just didn’t give a fuck.

Stefano cleared his throat and tried to not stare at those wine-wet lips. It wasn’t that Spadaro was conventionally good-looking. He was too cold for that, too expressionless, too predatory. At the same time, there was something off about him. A turn of the head, a glance, the long legs. Feminine. Camp? If it weren’t ridiculous to think of a seasoned
sicario
as feminine. He didn’t speak with a lisp or wave his hands around in a limp-wristed kind of way. But something about him exuded sex like a cat in heat. Knowing, tempting eyes that sucked all the light from the room. Centers of gravity.

The other men at the table surely felt the same. Most tried very hard to ignore Spadaro, but Stefano couldn’t help wondering what exactly the
sicario
’
s
relationship to Falchi was like. Against custom—almost unforgivably—Falchi had never married. And like many, he’d spent a good ten years in prison—time he’d used well, advancing from powerful to very powerful. Did Spadaro only provide security? Or comfort, too?

“So you killed Carbone?” Stefano asked.

Spadaro looked up, something flickering in his eyes. “Yes.”

“Congratulations, he was a bastard.”

Spadaro’s hands on the table turned into fists, and he cocked his head as if listening to a voice. Maybe the guy
was
insane. “Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t.” Stefano kept his voice low, but of course people were listening. “But since you seem keen on small talk . . .”

Spadaro weighed that, then flashed a grin, baring a lot of starkly white, straight teeth up to the molars. It wasn’t a very reassuring gesture. Nor did it look very natural. “I’d tell you. I’m in the same guest house as you. Last room on the same floor.”

Thank God Vince was too far away to have heard that. From any
sicario
, that was an unveiled threat.
I know where you sleep. I can come and get you.

And yet . . .

Wanna come?

Stefano shook his head. “You keep doing that.”

“And?” Spadaro folded his hands and leaned across the table. Black eyes framed with long, dark lashes. The eyebrows were almost straight, the same black as the hair, silky and shiny like mink. “Don’t like it?”

Stefano balled his fist around his napkin and tossed it on the plate as he stood. He couldn’t be this close to the man. Couldn’t just listen to the teasing.

Not teasing. Flirting.

Fucking faggot was flirting with him. He still felt those black eyes staring at his back as he retreated. To save face, he headed for the toilets and washed his hands, staring at soap suds traveling the whole length of the caramel-colored marble basin.

He checked his cell phone, but what emails he had he could deal with later. No text messages. He typed a quick
Thinking of you
to Donata. For whatever reason, she considered regular text messages better proof of his love than big flower arrangements or jewelry. But who understood women?

The door opened, and for a moment he half-expected, half-feared to see Spadaro, but it was just one of the regular guys. He shook his head, examined himself in the mirror, plucked off a speck of imaginary dust and knew he wouldn’t have fooled anybody. God damn it. What was it about Spadaro that flustered him like that? Was it that he’d killed Carbone, the closest thing to a psychopath Stefano had ever met? Or that Stefano could very easily imagine Falchi being affectionate with Spadaro? Could imagine them kiss. Yes, maybe that was it. And Spadaro was flaunting it. Flaunting his influence and how dangerous he was.

When the other guy emerged from the stalls, Stefano tore himself away from the mirror and left the bathroom. His phone vibrated on the way out.

I like hearing that :-)
, Donata had texted.

Stefano smiled and slid the phone back into his inner jacket pocket, then went directly to the kitchen, where Luigi was just tucking into a folded flatbread with cheese and ham. The
consigliere
chewed with obvious pleasure.