Dark Soul Vol. 1 (9 page)

Yet the most disturbing feature was that little smile playing around Silvio’s lips, a smile that didn’t reach anything else in his face. It was knowing, that smile, full of dark awareness no boy that age should have.

“My Picture of Dorian Gray.” Falchi pressed a glass of wine into Stefano’s hand. “The painter said Silvio made him consider giving up painting. He struggled capturing Silvio’s soul. That is maybe because he doesn’t have one.”

Stefano shook his head. “It’s . . . impressive. Beautiful.” There, he’d said it.

“If you think he’s gorgeous now, you should have seen him eight years ago. Of course, he’ll age well. His father did, and his mother is still stunning.”

Only one response to that without betraying his emotions. “Luigi Ferretti said you were his father’s friend.”

“That’s the sanitized version. Paolo Spadaro was a gifted killer, cold, ruthless, utterly merciless. We got involved in a war. Very long story very short, because it doesn’t actually matter anymore, but when the time came, I went to prison for him. After all, I didn’t have a family, while he had three young sons, a beautiful wife. Also, I was terribly smitten with Paolo. Prison might have destroyed him, certainly destroyed his family, so, yes. And somebody like me can still thrive in such circumstances.”

“I heard you became more powerful in prison than outside.”

“Few things can’t be done over the phone or in face-to-face meetings as long as people on the outside stay loyal. I had my privileges,
certamente
.” Falchi took a sip of wine, rolling it around in his mouth, and Stefano copied him. The wine was nothing short of amazing. He almost regretted swallowing it.

“What happened to Paolo then? He retired?”

“He did. Maybe some form of guilt caught up with him, or a sudden awareness of mortality. From what I’ve gathered, he didn’t do terribly well as a father. Granted, trying to control and raise a boy like Silvio can’t have been easy, but there was apparently violence, also against the mother. I understand that at sixteen, Silvio faced off his father, and while Silvio never spoke about it, I assume there were weapons involved.”

“You mean . . .” Stefano stared at the painting again. The boy there didn’t look like he would tolerate himself or his mother being pushed around. Yes, that boy would point a gun at his own father. Two generations of killers facing off. “What happened?”

“Paolo beat him black and blue and kicked him out. Silvio, defiant as he is, vowed to make it on his own. He came to me. Apparently Paolo occasionally dropped my name after our relationship soured, and Silvio figured his father’s “enemy” might be his friend. Also, of course, I was his
padrino
, so practically family.”

Which made the whole lover angle more distasteful, but Stefano pushed that thought away. “So you introduced him and trained him.”

“That I certainly did.” Falchi smiled softly. “Silvio has all the talent of his father. That odd quality about him, that’s Paolo, but it’s stronger in the son. I sometimes call it the Spadaro family curse.”

“How romantic.” He wasn’t superstitious, but it did make a lot of sense, despite the fact that it sounded more and more like a ghost story. But Silvio
did
have a quality about him that, no doubt, would make old ladies in rural villages cross themselves when he passed. “Well, it looks like he found an arrangement he can live with. Happy ending and all that.”

“All paradises have gates,” Falchi said. “You’d wonder why God made Paradise with an exit if he didn’t anticipate having to use it eventually. Come, have a seat.”

Stefano settled on the couch and leaned back while Falchi refilled both their glasses and sat down opposite. “Now, I believe, you’ll have to tell me the details of your situation with your Russian guests.”

Stefano took a mouthful of wine, and held the glass in his hands while he answered Falchi’s questions. How they’d arrived, gained a toehold, then a foothold, then carved their niche. He hadn’t intervened hard and fast enough, but he’d not been ready for war, not back then. And now it would take more than a skirmish to get rid of them.

But Falchi—
Gianbattista
—didn’t seem to judge him. It was easy to confide in him, and even easier to believe that Falchi was now on his side.

Stefano woke to an insistent buzz and managed to wake enough to find his cell phone. “’lo?”

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Donata. “We’re about an hour away. Are you still asleep?”

“Not
quite
.” He sat up, rubbed his raw and swollen face. God damn it, how much wine had he had? He vaguely remembered a cozy evening with Gianbattista, some beautiful wines, and a platter of midnight snacks. “I had a bit of a long night talking to the guys here.”

“Oh, that means you’re looking all disheveled and grumpy now? And stubbly?”

She loved when he didn’t shave for a couple days. The stubble was enough to make her squirm when she was freshly shaved and sensitive. “An hour, you said?”

“Yes, sleepyhead.”

“I better get up. Call me when you’re outside the gates. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

He dressed after sticking his head under some cold water. The memory of that painting came back. What else had they spoken about? He’d trusted Gianbattista, remembered wondering if he should be telling him all this, about his life and his goals. He was reasonably sure they hadn’t touched upon his sexuality—even drunk, he’d have rebuffed Gianbattista. It was none of his business, and even a bottle of wine (or three) wouldn’t change that.

He tossed his clothes and toiletries into his suitcase and zipped it. On cue, somebody knocked on his door. Did Gianbattista have a camera in this suite?

“Coming.” Stefano opened the door, not in the least surprised to be face to face with Silvio. He was starting to get used to that gut punch every time he got near the man.

“Breakfast.” Silvio’s voice was even, but something about him was different this morning.

“Yeah, coming,” Stefano repeated. “How are you?”

Silvio glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve been better. You?”

What was wrong? Was it getting drowned while being fucked? “I’ll get picked up in about an hour.”

“That’s early.”

“Silvio.” Stefano’s heart jumped into his throat, and stilled there like a dead bird when Silvio turned to face him again.

“Yes?”

“God, I . . . was an idiot. Still am, because I have no fucking clue how to take it from here. What I should say or can say, but . . . the things in here . . .” Stefano touched his own temple. “Shit. Sorry. Ignore me. I didn’t say a thing.” Bravo, Stefano. Babbling like a fucking idiot.

Silvio’s razor sharp lips quirked. “You’ve blown me off every time.”

“I have.” Stefano would have given a nervous laugh, but he just didn’t have enough air. “That’s why I’m an idiot. And now I’m leaving.”

“Not quite yet.” Silvio stepped closer, and his hands were suddenly on Stefano’s head, his neck, and Silvio was so close that everything else blurred. All-consuming darkness in those long-lashed eyes. The kiss was a slap to the face, a shock to the system. Every system. Stefano almost stumbled, but grabbed hold of Silvio’s head and pulled him closer, clashing teeth and lips.

Now he knew what it felt like to kiss a man. If it destroyed him, so be it.

“You have some fucked-up timing,” Silvio murmured against his lips, pushing him back.

“I . . .”

“Gianbattista’s waiting. Breathe. Relax.”

Stefano laughed, sounding shaky even to himself. “God, I . . .”

“Breathe.” Silvio placed his hand flat on Stefano’s chest, and Stefano touched it for a long moment.

“I have no idea, none at all.”

Silvio grinned. “You know more than you think.” He led his gaze slide down Stefano’s body, then broke the contact and turned away.

Stefano was reeling from the touch. The kiss. The fact that Silvio hadn’t told him to get the fuck lost. Not that he could do anything with that implicit promise, but it still hit his brain like 200 proof alcohol. After all the tension of the last forty-eight hours, of the days and weeks since he’d met Silvio, the relief was enormous. He had to quash the urge to giggle like a hormonal teenager as he followed Silvio through the maze of the house.

Finally, he stepped onto the balcony, wishing Gianbattista a good morning and joining them at the breakfast table.

Gianbattista smiled at him. “Seems the Chianti agreed with you.”

“I just needed to sleep it off.” Stefano grinned. “How are you?”

“Ah, the strength of youth . . . entirely wasted on the young.” Gianbattista nursed what looked like Alka-Seltzer in his glass. “Silvio says you’re leaving after breakfast?”

Stefano nodded. “I’ll have to. If you two want to come over at some point . . . I’m happy to visit again, but I have a packed schedule, so it might be a month or two.”

“I think we’ve covered all angles for the moment. You have my phone number, and I know how to reach you.” Gianbattista emptied his glass and grimaced when he’d finished. “
Terribile
. An insult to a good wine.”

Stefano chuckled, but there was an odd tension in the air. It didn’t center on him, but rather hovered between Silvio and Gianbattista, who hadn’t exchanged so much as a glance.

“Excuse me.” Silvio stood and left.

“Trouble in paradise?” Stefano asked.

“Ah. He’ll get over it. Silvio is indestructible.” Gianbattista’s face betrayed no accusation, anger, or disapproval. If anything, he looked relieved, even smug.

Stefano glanced after Silvio. He believed Gianbattista, but he couldn’t help being worried.

“Besides, it was a long time in coming. He knew it,” Gianbattista added.

Stefano merely listened, eating a croissant and sipping his coffee. Finally, his phone buzzed with a text message. He checked the screen. “That’s my signal. I have to go.”

Gianbattista nodded and stood with him. “It was truly a pleasure to meet you, Stefano. I hope your little worries are soon resolved and you’ll find time to visit again.”

“Thank you. It was a pleasure.” Stefano didn’t mind Gianbattista leading him to the door with a hand between his shoulder blades—something he’d have objected to just a couple days ago, in light of Gianbattista’s tastes.

Just as he was wondering if Silvio would take him down to the gate on the motorcycle again, he recognized the large Mercedes rolling up the driveway.

“German car?” Gianbattista asked.

Yes, because I don’t want to get stuck in rural Italy with a piece-of-shit Lancia or Fiat.
Stefano smiled. “My driver’s choice.”

The car stopped and Vince opened the door for Donata. Somewhat awkwardly, Stefano made introductions, casting about for Silvio, who remained invisible. Gianbattista had the excellent sense to compliment Donata on her new earrings.

Just as the situation was beginning to call either for an invitation or for them to leave, Stefano heard the buzz of Silvio’s motorcycle, which promptly appeared from a side path and braked hard just in front of the car. Silvio was clad head to toe in his leather and Kevlar suit. He gave Donata a nod, but didn’t take the helmet off. Just stayed on the bike, one long leg on the ground.

“Silvio is going to travel with you to America. He’ll handle your challenge there.”

The words knocked the wind from Stefano’s lungs. Silvio? With him? Over there? And Donata. Oh God. “Are you sure you don’t need him here?”

“I’ll be all right. There’s little interest in my old hide presently.” Gianbattista bowed and kissed Donata’s hand. “
Mia cara
, a pleasure.” He offered Stefano a hand and a touch to the upper arm accompanied by a squeeze. He leaned in. “You’re back on the initiative. Use it wisely.”

“But Silvio . . .”

“Just be wise, Stefano. You’re clearly clever.” Gianbattista stepped back. “
Buon viaggio
.” He didn’t look at Silvio when he turned to go back into the house. Stefano glanced at Silvio, who slapped the visor down over his black eyes like a challenge, then revved the engine.

Stefano got back into the car. “Vince, whatever you do, don’t race him. I’d really like to arrive at Fiumicino in one piece; I don’t have to be first.”