Dark Soul Vol. 1 (5 page)

Silvio retrieved his holster and then bent to gather up his shredded top. He seemed to be having trouble with fine coordination in his hands, the tightness around his lips betraying pain, or frustration at the lack of control, or both.

When he straightened up again, the impassive, dangerous mask was back in place.

A shame, that.

“I won’t tell anybody,” Silvio murmured. “Lesson learned.”

Stefano glanced at Vince, who looked as edgy as a goon at the OK Corral, then back at Silvio. “Go.”

Stay.

Silvio tossed him an ironic salute and walked—stiffly—to the door. When he was gone, Stefano’s head spun, exhaustion tamping down his desire. He glanced at Vince’s gun, still on the table. Vince clearly didn’t want to touch it anymore. “I’ll get you a new one.”

“I have a spare,” Vince said, flatly, as if shocked that the barracuda hadn’t attacked either of them.

Of course, much yet depended on whether Silvio had indeed “learned his lesson”—whether he would tell Falchi or not. But Silvio was a made man himself. He wouldn’t go running to his superior. And even if he did, the first transgression lay with him, not Stefano. Still, Stefano didn’t want to have to explain to a man like Gianbattista Falchi what he’d done to his lover.

And what, exactly,
had
he done?

Under the shower, nothing seemed particularly clear. Had he misread Silvio? Indulged in the dirtiest, most aggressive fantasy he’d ever had? He couldn’t flaunt it like Silvio and Falchi did, but he could—and did—imagine those lips around him as he jerked off.

It wasn’t satisfaction; it actually felt pretty fucking miserable just after the spray had washed the semen away. Silvio at least could lose himself in all that degradation and discomfort, could embrace what Stefano had forced him to accept.

Lesson learned.

Whatever Silvio had meant by that, Stefano knew it’d really been
himself
who’d learned the lesson tonight.

“It’s just a social call, Donata,” Stefano lied, hoping his wife would join him. Whatever he’d encounter once he left the car and entered the villa beyond the gate, he might want to have her around. But whether to protect or distract him, he didn’t know. Nothing about the family was purely social. Or about the killer with the black eyes.

She finished pouring her Perrier from the minibar and leaned back in the leather seat, crossing her legs. “I’m meeting a friend in Milan. I can’t cancel on her now, much as I’d prefer to be with you.”

Stefano glanced out the window at the wrought-iron gates. Vince had buzzed in, but so far, the gates hadn’t opened, nor had anybody shown up to grant access. Whoever was admitting guests was taking his sweet time.

“You’ll be all right?”

“Don’t worry about me, baby; Vince’ll take good care of me.” She leaned in close and kissed him. He breathed deep as he kissed her back; he’d miss the scents of her makeup, her perfume, her hair the moment he stepped outside.

“All right. Just leave enough room in the car to pick me up again?”

“If I buy too much, I’ll have it couriered.” She sounded a little mocking, playful. Nothing like a little teasing to get him worked up, get him rough and possessive with her.

He stroked her cheek and pulled back, glancing at the gate again. “I might end up having to climb this.”

“Just don’t break your neck,” she said.

“Never.” He nodded to Vince, who got out of the car and opened the door for him, then fetched his small suitcase from the trunk. Vince met his eyes for a long moment, and Stefano smiled. “You take care of my wife.”

“Nobody’s going to get close enough to touch her.”

Stefano patted Vince’s shoulder and dismissed him with a nod. “Go. The gates are bound to open at some point.”

Vince got back in the car and reversed out of the private street back to the main road, leaving Stefano standing outside a big locked gate somewhere in godforsaken Tuscany, armed only with a cell phone and a suitcase, waiting for someone to let him in.

He turned toward the gate at the sound of a motorcycle, one of those Japanese engines that emitted nothing more than an aggressive buzz. Moments later, the motorcycle rolled into view at an easy pace. Familiar. Mostly black with white highlights. It gave the rider away: young, black hair, black eyes. Silvio Spadaro. No biking leathers this time, just a light shirt with a pair of sunglasses tucked into the collar; tight, well-cut jeans; and leather slippers on his feet.
Shit.
Not unexpected, but he wasn’t quite ready to face the
sicario
again so soon.

Not after what he’d done to him.

The gate opened and swung inward just as Spadaro stopped and set his feet down on the gravel.

“
Buon pomeriggio
.”

What, no anger, mocking, or, worst of all,
flirting
? “Good afternoon.” Stefano stepped through the gates and walked up the gravel path, passing Spadaro. He wasn’t in the mood to stand around in the heat exchanging dubious pleasantries.

Spadaro accelerated again and turned the motorcycle on the loose gravel with a noise like ripping paper. “Get on, I’ll drive you.”

Stefano glanced at Spadaro, then up the sloping drive. The house wasn’t visible from here, but he still said, “It’s not that far.”

“It’s hot.” Spadaro rolled the bike beside him, so slow he had to keep one leg stretched out for balance.

Stefano said nothing, just kept walking up the gentle hill. But the house still wasn’t visible, and it really was hot, and Spadaro didn’t seem angry with him at all, so he shrugged and turned toward the bike.

Spadaro regarded him with what might have been amusement if he’d moved a single muscle in his face.

“Is Falchi home?”

“Yes, he is.” Spadaro halted, and now he did smile. “Give me that suitcase.”

Stefano relinquished control of his few possessions and watched Spadaro stow them away in a compartment. “Now get on the bike. It’s faster.”

The thought of pressing against that lean body again, like he had that night he’d tortured—no, interrogated the man, made his mouth dry. Amazing that Silvio hadn’t yielded mentally (but
physically
, oh yes), despite the thing he’d done to him. He’d never forget the sounds Silvio had made.

Surely Silvio hadn’t forgotten either, but had he forgiven? Right now he looked almost normal, like any young Italian.

Getting on the bike behind him meant dragging up all those memories again. The heat of him, the firmness. The
yielding
.

“What are you afraid of,” Silvio asked, low, under his breath.

“Careful,” Stefano warned.

Silvio scooted closer to the front of the bike. “Get on.” He bent his neck, displaying more lean throat than any human being had a right to have. Oh, to feel that strong flesh between his teeth, his pulse and breathless groans. Stefano stepped closer and swung his leg over the seat, sliding in behind Silvio, who promptly pushed back against him, the bastard, pressing his ass to Stefano’s groin.

“Arm around me,” he said.

Stefano reached over and placed an arm around Silvio’s waist, feeling something like a chuckle when he touched the shirt above the man’s abs.

“Hmm, that’s a good start,” Silvio murmured, but before Stefano could come up with a retort, the motorcycle sprang forward like some living thing. Gravel flew away beneath the grind of the wheels, and Stefano involuntarily tightened his grip, hating that response but unable to suppress it.

Silvio reached behind himself and briefly squeezed Stefano’s thigh, then revved the bike into a high-pitched whine and off they went. Stefano cursed—speeding along in a sports car with a few hundred grand’s worth of highly-tuned, more or less secure carbon fiber and steel around him was one thing. But this was out in the open, with no protection, at a speed that made his stomach nudge up against his heart.

“Fucking bastard!” Stefano shouted into Silvio’s ear.

Silvio laughed and braked hard, jolting Stefano forward against him.

Stefano resisted the urge to punch him in the gut for that.

The second the bike stopped moving, he clambered down, hopefully looking more dignified than he felt.

Silvio stretched his legs out and straightened on the seat, languid as a cat. “
Benvenuto
.”

Ignoring the welcome, Stefano turned to regard the villa, an exotic hybrid of a historic Italian mansion and a fully modern one, like two houses shoved together until they fit. Roses grew in the front garden, and an enormous, sprawling wisteria, the main stem as thick as a man’s thigh, covered half the façade.

Silvio pulled the suitcase from the trunk, and Stefano took it. “I’ll show you your rooms,” he said, climbing gracefully from the bike and nudging the kickstand with his foot. He led Stefano into the house, his gait as sinuous as the rest of him.

The moment they stepped through the whitewashed walls onto the cool stone floor of the entrance hall, the heat of the Tuscan summer faded away. All along the length of the corridor, Stefano watched Silvio’s small muscular ass in those jeans. He could admit to his fascination when the man wasn’t looking at him; those black eyes always pushed him into the defensive—and he didn’t like playing from there.

Silvio paused in front of a door. “The guest suite.”

Stefano hated that he had to turn his back to Silvio, but he pressed the handle down decisively and pushed inside the room. It was a classy suite, decorated in warm colors and richly patterned fabrics that brought to mind Morocco or the Middle East. An air conditioning unit was ruffling the curtains at the far side.

“Thanks.”

“If you dial three, you’ll get the cook. She’ll prepare you something.” Silvio remained outside the door, like a mythical creature that could only step across the threshold when foolishly invited.

Stefano set his suitcase down and studied Silvio, who was leaning in the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest. He looked uncannily normal in those clothes, though Stefano preferred him in leathers or a severe black suit. Not that Silvio ever looked completely normal. He might pass for human, but he really wasn’t.
No, more like a siren or a succubus, as deadly as he was tempting.

“About earlier . . .”

Silvio met his gaze.

Stefano swallowed. He’d tortured this man. Pushed a gun into his ass, God damn it, fucked him with it until he’d come, all under the pretense of an interrogation.

Silvio pursed his lips. “What about it?”

“No hard feelings, right?” Apart from the obvious ones, those forbidden images and fantasies that fueled his relief far too often.

Silvio’s face was blank but for those intense black eyes. “You might not want to bring that up with Battista when you meet him.”

Stefano nodded, relieved. He’d suspected Silvio was Gianbattista Falchi’s lover, and the
consigliere
might not take too kindly to somebody
gun-raping
his lover and
protetto
and head of security. “I’m not here to talk to him about that.”

“Business, then.”

“Yes.” Stefano inhaled deeply, hoping to dislodge the tension that had settled in his chest. It might just have been the other man’s presence, but such close proximity was even worse. Breathtaking, electrifying. And often enough downright scary. “I guess you’ll hear it anyway.”