Dark Soul Vol. 1 (6 page)

Silvio’s lips curved into a small smile. “I’m not a powermonger. I just make things happen. Usually to other people.”

“That’s plenty of power.”

“The power to heal, the power to kill . . .” Silvio shrugged. “Get settled in. Battista will see you tomorrow.”

“He’s not welcoming me?”

“He sent me to do that. I did say welcome.”

Yes, he had. Still, it bristled that the man himself didn’t deem him worthy of at least a moment’s face time. Silvio might be the lover, the heir, and the stand-in, but Stefano hadn’t expected Falchi to be so rude. “Tell him thanks.”

Silvio quirked an eyebrow. “That sounded like an order.”

“You’ve been ordering me around, too,” Stefano snapped.

Silvio gave him another strange smile, then pivoted on his heel. “Battista takes breakfast at ten in the winter garden near the outside pool.”

“Is that an invitation?”

Silvio didn’t answer, just vanished down the corridor. Of course he didn’t close the door.

Stefano closed it himself. Thankfully, it could be locked from the inside. Falchi probably had the master key, though. And even if he didn’t, one flimsy lock wouldn’t protect him from somebody determined to break in. Silvio had already proven that doors were suggestions rather than obstacles.

With nothing else to do, Stefano explored the suite. The kitchenette fridge was stocked with fruit, an unopened bottle of low-fat milk, uninspired-looking sliced bread, butter. In the corner sat a Gaggia Titanium coffee machine, right beside a moka pot to make coffee the traditional way, and a Krups coffee grinder in matching brushed steel. Coffee was the last thing his nerves needed; just
looking
at Silvio had jolted him. He still felt that firm ass pushing back against his groin, the echo alone enough to make him semi-hard.

He forced the sense memory away and set about unpacking his bag. Just enough for two days: a couple shirts, underwear, socks, pants, workout clothes in case he found the time to run. He could have brought more, prepared to stay longer, but two days was dangerous enough with Silvio nearby.

He was here for political reasons. Silvio might even have believed him when he’d claimed that. Might have been disappointed.
Bullshit
, he chided himself, balling his fists. Why would the killer have any emotional investment in his presence? Apart from anger born of humiliation.

There
would
be some kind of payback—some nasty, painful revenge that would make him regret the liberties he’d taken with Silvio. He expected nothing less.

And in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind, the prospect aroused him enough to warn him that the next encounter would be for higher stakes. He had only two days to make an ally of Falchi. Two days of opportunities for Silvio to settle accounts.

Stefano wandered around in the villa in search of the winter garden. He passed a decorative eternity pool on the first floor of the modern wing, found the stairs down from there, and exited through an open door into the garden. There he located the second pool, Olympic-sized and more suitable for strenuous exercise than relaxation.

The water slushed and gargled softly into the overspill sieves as he made his way to the garden. It connected to the house but wasn’t easy to see from there. Much more visible from the outside.

Entering, he took off his sunglasses and met the gaze of the older man settled at the table. With his classical Roman profile, Gianbattista Falchi was handsome enough to be cast as a romantic lead. He could have stepped straight out of a classical forties Hollywood movie. His temples were gray, his face well-worn.
Character,
Donata would call it, but Stefano doubted his mature beauty would last much longer. He’d sag, and wrinkle, and the outdoors tan would no longer hide the age spots. Falchi had to be at least twice as old as Silvio, which put him in his early to mid-fifties.

Stefano inclined his head and waited to be acknowledged. Decorum.

“Ah, Stefano Marino. Please, do come in. Breakfast?” Falchi lifted a napkin to his lips and glanced at the lady serving him toast. “
Cosa prendi? Tea? Caffé
?”

“Coffee, please.” Stefano approached, noticing the table was laid for three.

“I’m honored you’d receive me.” Stefano inclined his head again, sat down at the wave of Falchi’s hand.

The maid served him coffee and placed a basket with butter-drenched croissants on the table, then poured orange juice into a thin, tall glass in front of him and topped up Falchi’s.

“
È
tutto per il momento
,” Falchi said to her. He finished the fruit salad on his plate, kiwi and melon and strawberries, then leaned forward. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you yesterday. I had the most atrocious migraine.”

Migraine, really? “I hope you’re better.”

“Yes. You could say they were one of the reasons I retired. It’s very hard to outthink the competition when you can’t think.” Falchi smiled—a loaded, introspective expression. “I knew your father, but not very well. A good man.” And then, as if to mock him, he repeated, “
Un brav’uomo
. Lovely wife.”

“Yes, I stepped into his role when he died of cancer four years ago. My mother is well, though—she travels all over the world.”

“Four years already. I’m sorry to hear.” Falchi measured him—and probably his lineage and who his ancestors had hired and married—with a glance. Despite his odd living arrangements, Falchi was said to be a traditionalist, hence his relocation to Italy in retirement. Yet, rather than Sicily, Campania, Calabria, or Apulia, he’d chosen a region more crowded with British retirees than any branch of the family. “You’re married?”

“Yes. My wife Donata is on her way to Milan to meet friends.”

“But no children yet?”

“No, we want to settle in more first. She wants three, I want two. We’re still negotiating the details, but in all confidence, I think she’ll win.”

Falchi laughed. “They always do, Stefano. They always do.”

The tension dropped a notch. Stefano felt it physically, as though the electric resistance of his skin had changed. He managed to remember putting milk and sugar in his coffee. Strong—eye-wateringly strong compared to what he drank at the coffee chains at home. Stirring, he grinned, thinking fondly that Donata would have broken through Falchi’s armor faster than him. Or was that what the man wanted him to think?

“I don’t envy you young people. All that stress and exertion, when life is such a struggle and so many things are at risk.”

Falchi’s eyes strayed away from him, and Stefano half-turned in his seat to follow the man’s gaze.

Silvio made an entrance wearing almost nothing, though a black Speedo probably counted as clothes near the pool. Stefano hadn’t seen him properly naked, had only been able to guess, but this was almost like he’d imagined. All lean, deadly muscle and definition, with a V-shape that saved him from looking too feminine—at least when he was almost naked. Again Stefano noted no hair on Silvio’s legs or chest. Or anywhere on his body, really. Like a fashion model, but for the two words tattooed over his heart.
Anima nera.
Black soul.

Or the round gunshot scar just above the Speedo.

Stefano schooled his features; too much depended on Falchi not knowing what he was thinking or how that body fired up his imagination. Few men did that to him, and none as badly as Silvio. He could ignore it with everybody else. But Silvio got into every cell of his body and left him breathless with possibilities. With danger.

Silvio drew near and stood behind Falchi, almost brushing the man with his groin and abs. “Want me to breakfast with you, or can I go swimming?”

Falchi shrugged. “We’re just chatting.”

Silvio stepped forward, between them, to snatch a croissant from the silver bowl, then pulled it apart in his long fingers. Stefano’s pants tightened, and he looked elsewhere. Elsewhere, he noticed with a hint of belated panic, being the bulge in Silvio’s Speedo. God help him.

“Call me if you need me.” Silvio pushed the other half of the croissant in his mouth and walked off.

“I assume he meant to show you he’s not carrying a gun.” Falchi’s eyes sparkled. “Or what do you youngsters call it? Not ‘packing heat.’”

Oh, Silvio sure was
packing
. “That sounds like a gangster movie. No, I wasn’t worried about that. After all, I’m here to ask for help.”

“Yes, I was wondering about that. Why would a young boss visit an old bore when he’s clearly a busy, much-wanted man. Hardly to escape a wife’s extended shopping trip.”

Much-wanted.
What if Falchi already knew how all of this would play out? He might not have been paying much attention to the American side of things recently, but he surely wasn’t stabbing into the dark. As it were. “I’ve recently been on the defensive with regards to my . . . interests.” And wasn’t that the truth in several ways.

Falchi didn’t look surprised. “What are you going to do about the Russians?”

“Well, they are attempting to strangle the lifeblood from my own operation. When companies I
own
outright are approached for protection money, we’ve reached the tipping point.”

“Feckless foreigners.” Falchi spooned more fruit salad onto his plate. “You could team up with other families.”

“No. If I go asking for help, I’d be the junior partner in any alliance I could make. I need help from the outside.”

Falchi lifted an eyebrow. “Like advice on how to beat them?”

“And maybe contacts who’d help without taking the rest of what I own: Unattached outsiders with no interest in usurping my position. People who will
leave
afterward.”

“The trouble with the so-called ‘Eastern Mafia,’” Falchi scoffed, “is that they only understand one language. You have to be more brutal and cunning than them. I’ve long said they challenge us to return to our historical roots.”

“Good.” Stefano leaned forward. “I’m ready.”

“And very angry.” Falchi smiled a paternal smile and stabbed a slice of kiwi. “
Ti capisco.
I would feel the same in your position. The question, though, is if you understand the full scope.”

Not the kind of statement he wanted to respond immediately to, tempting though it was. If he’d learned one thing, it was to watch the hands of the players at the table in the mafia politics game. He leaned back, mimicking Falchi’s body language, but he didn’t feel like eating at all. “What do you think I’m missing?”

“Well, this kind of help wouldn’t be for free.”

“Of course not. I’m willing to pay.”

Falchi plucked up a grape with his fork and chewed before saying, “At this stage in my life, I’m not interested in money.”

Stefano stared at his plate. That tone of voice was hard to read. With any other Mafioso, Stefano would simply have shrugged it off and pledged a favor in return. But not with
Il Gentiluomo—
and what he suspected about his tastes. He couldn’t show fear or even half the mortification twisting his guts now, but it was a struggle. “What are you interested in, then?”

Falchi leaned forward and regarded him for several moments. “I might ask something personal of you. Something that might change your life.”

Stefano pressed his lips together and forced himself to look Falchi in the face. He found no malice or arrogance there. “That’s an awfully vague thing to say.”

“Yes. I’m afraid I don’t yet know you well enough to be clearer.” Falchi smiled at him and picked up his newspaper and reading glasses off the empty chair. A clear dismissal if ever he’d seen one.

He finished his coffee, stood, indicated a little bow.

Falchi glanced at him over the rimless glasses. “I’ll see you for lunch in four hours.”

“I’ll be there.”

Outside, Silvio was cutting through the water as if he had a race to win, all defined shoulders and deep breaths whenever he broke through the surface.

Stefano walked slowly along the length of the pool, and had almost passed it when Silvio launched from the water, pushing up on the rim and to his feet in an impossibly graceful motion, and wiped the water from his face. The killer was grinning at him, chest heaving, face and skin flushed. Stefano paused, but refused to be hypnotized by how it all conspired to show Silvio off. Falchi was within sight and possibly within earshot.

“I’ll see you around,” Silvio said, and tapped the corner of his eye before he backflipped into the water.