Dark Soul Vol. 3 (5 page)

When it was over, Silvio rested his forehead against Stefano’s shoulder, and Stefano kissed his ear.

“How are you feeling?” Stefano asked.

“Good. I’m feeling good.” Silvio kissed his throat. “What about you? Still too hurt?”

“Yeah.” Stefano pulled his fingers free and wiped them on Silvio’s skirt. “Or I’d have turned you around and fucked you against that wal .”

Silvio actually half turned to glance back, then rested his head again on Stefano’s shoulder. “Damn shame.”

Stefano chuckled, content to hold Silvio for these more gentle moments. “Trust me, nobody regrets that more than me.” He kissed Silvio’s neck again. “You’re insane, you know that?”

Silvio chuckled. “It makes sense in my world.”

“I bet it does.” Maybe there was just no way to control Silvio, not even to protect him. But trusting that he knew what he was doing?

So far, it had all worked out fine. At the very least, this cross-dressing masquerade added a layer of protection they’d both needed against their own kind. He couldn’t get too visibly infatuated with Silvio, couldn’t let his fascination show to the other members of the family.

Moments like this were stolen and incredibly dangerous to them both.

“Do you like to pretend?”

Silvio nodded.

“Once I feel less . . . more myself, I want you to dress up like this, sometimes.”

“Getting a taste now, are you?” Silvio chuckled. “No problem.”

“I want to pick you up in my car, take you to a motel, and fuck you there.”

“Pick me up on the street?”

“Yes.”

Silvio chuckled. “I’m up for that. Or a blowjob in the car, right there.”

Stefano took his chin and made Silvio look at him. “I want more time than that. But we need to be safe.” If anybody caught them, they might mistake Silvio for a girl. In terms of the family, fucking female hookers wasn’t a cardinal sin by far.

Silvio nodded and kissed his finger. “That, too.”

Yes, Silvio was getting way too much into that hooker fantasy.

Things you don’t know.

Pointless to tell him that Donata sometimes entertained the same kind of fantasy, but on the higher end of the usual pay scale; she liked to pretend to be a high-class call girl, which spiced up their lovemaking every now and then. He enjoyed those games: Forced seduction, challenging him to make her to enjoy herself until she screamed. Paid sex. Or pretending she was a barely-legal virgin teenager with no clue about sex. He’d always thought this was something between man and wife, but he was ready to do the same with Silvio.

But this was a breach of trust, of fidelity, wasn’t it? Yes. Getting off with a whore was one thing, but playing trust games, indulging fantasies, actually caring about the other’s pleasure as much as he’d care about Donata’s . . . he was crossing a line there. Only a small step, though, after he’d committed the same sin a hundred times in his head already. And what kind of scumbag did that make him? Oddly, it seemed like it wasn’t Silvio’s fault at al , just his own.

He took Silvio’s neck and kissed him again. “Go, change. I want you up in the house, just for company.”

“Not my specialty.”

Stefano smiled. “Then I’ll broaden
your
horizons. For a change.”

Dark Brother

hat’s a nice tan,” Silvio said. First words he spoke after “Tthat moment of recognition when he’d opened the door and found Franco standing there. Silvio’s dark eyes had widened briefly, and then he’d grinned, gaze sweeping him up and down.

Franco exhaled the tension and smiled back. “Africa’s good for something.”

Silvio grinned wider at him. “Come in.”

The address he’d received belonged to a handsome bungalow located on the grounds of an extensive manor house, like a servants’

outbuilding. And what kind of servant Silvio had turned into became apparent when Franco stepped into the living room: on the coffee table rested the carefully arranged pieces of a pistol on a square of cloth, oil and other cleaning implements lined up at the side.

“Interrupting you?”

Silvio flashed another grin. “Fuck, you got a funny accent.”

Franco shrugged. “Where should I put the suitcase?”

“Bedroom.” Silvio pointed the way. “You okay to share?”

No.
But Franco had learned one thing in the last eight years, and that was not to hesitate. “Sleeping on my own would be weird.” He backtracked over that thought. They hadn’t said a word about him staying overnight. There were motels in the city not ten minutes away if he needed to crash after crossing the Atlantic.

After the constant drone of the air vents in the plane and then the long queues at immigration, his mental resistance was worn thin.

He’d covered thousands of kilometers and four countries in the last thirty-six hours: first Marseilles, then Tuscany, then Rome, London Heathrow, O’Hare, and finally this hop. His brain needed to catch up, and the best way to do that was to sleep for twelve or even eighteen hours.

Silvio eyed him. “Just put the bag down there. The wardrobe has plenty of space. Same in the bathroom.”

And so it was. The left side of the wardrobe held suits and shirts, casual clothes all in either black or white, all neatly organized, which told Franco that Silvio had to have a housekeeper, and that his achromatic tastes had proliferated into his adulthood.

Franco closed those doors and opened the ones on the right, where he hung his clothes in the empty space, as neatly and efficiently as he’d been drilled. The bungalow was set up for a couple—an abundance of room after the crammed quarters he’d lived in for many years.

He finally shed his jacket, changed into a clean T-shirt, and came back into the living room, where Silvio was playing with a mobile phone that he slipped back into his pocket when he noticed him.

His brother looked exactly the same—very much Silvio. Yes, he’d grown into his frame, less knees and elbows now, and more graceful and self-assured than he’d ever been. But then, the last time he’d seen him, Silvio had been a teenager with hormones raging.

“You’re looking good,” Franco said. “Like you’re happy.”

Silvio flashed him a grin. “I’m doing well. What about you?”

“I just got my papers.” Franco pointed back at the bedroom. “I’ll need to find a job soon, but right now, I’m . . .”
Getting used to not
follow orders. All the freedom and insecurity. I forgot how hard all that
was, making my own decisions.
“Relaxing.”

“You can relax here. My house is your house.”

“Thanks. Whose house it is really?”

“Stefano Marino’s. I’m working for him. Providing security.”

Silvio sat down in front of his pistol and began to reassemble it. His fingers found each piece and slotted them together without him so much as looking at the weapon. Even from a soldier’s perspective, Silvio looked natural and smooth. “I’m a bodyguard.”

“To an Italian?”

“Well, yeah.” Silvio grinned again, baring his teeth. “Battista said you’d come here.”

“Mr. Falchi put me on your trail, that’s true.”

“He’d do that.” Silvio wiped the completed pistol and put it down on the table. “You figured my godfather would know where I went.

He told you I went to America and for whom I’m working there. He called me, told me to expect you. Were you in the room when he did that? I think you were.”

Hell, how could Silvio know? He’d been weird as a kid, making outrageous statements out of the blue that, uncannily enough, were more often right than wrong. “That’s the skinny.”

He remembered the smile Falchi had given him.
Silvio won’t
mind. He’ll love to have his brother back.
That reassurance had held up until he’d actually rung the bell here. Eight years later, and here they were. Silvio a man that still looked a lot like the boy Franco had grown up with, yet not quite.

He also looks a lot like Paolo.

And wasn’t that a huge can of worms.

“So, tell me.” Silvio leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, hands folded between them. He was gazing intently at Franco. “What happened. Where were you?”

Franco settled down and reminded himself to relax. “After you left, it all fell to pieces, really.”

“Explain.”

“Sebastiano didn’t come back from university. He’s now practicing criminal law in New York, even though he had great offers to become a corporate lawyer. But you know how he is. That wouldn’t satisfy him, ever.”

“No.” Silvio shook his head. “And . . . mother?”

“She’s doing well.”

“Father?”

“No idea.” Franco pressed his lips together. Cal ing Paolo “Father” took a totally different level of strength. Maybe Silvio was just proving he could do it. “She won’t ask, he won’t tell, it’s like . . . it is. No changes there.”

“His stomach?”

“Ulcers. Doctor says something’s eating him alive, but . . .” Franco shrugged again. “Nothing you or I could do about that.”

“No.” Silvio rolled his neck. “You want a drink or something?”

“Water.”

Silvio stood and walked toward the open-plan kitchen and pulled a water bottle from the fridge, then another. He returned and handed Franco one of them, then settled back on the couch. “And then you.

Why do you have a French accent?”

“I’ve just been released from the French Foreign Legion.
La
Légion
.” And again that sense of displacement. Of being not actually
here
but drifting, floating, like he was in a dream and would wake to a place of dust and dirt and flies swarming around his face to get to the moisture in his eyes.

Franco resisted the urge to wave the invisible flies away. Silvio was here, though. He was more real than most people. If the surroundings were a dream, he was probably sharing that dream with his baby brother. “I’m thinking in French. Putting an English sentence together is more daunting than I thought.”

“Italian?”

“I’m really rusty in Italian.” Franco opened the water bottle and figured he probably didn’t have to wipe and disinfect. The water here was fine, and the packaging would be clean. God, Africa and the Legion had turned him into a germophobe and a neat freak. “Now that I can move around on my own, with my papers and everything, I wanted to catch up. I was worried about you.”

“I’m all right.” Silvio watched him drink. “Battista caught me on the way down. He taught me. I’m his heir, and he has more money than he can ever spend.”

“He doesn’t have family of his own?”

“No.” Silvio glanced at the door, then back. Restless, always moving, always observing. It was one of those ticks. He’d been extremely perceptive as a kid, but now it was probably the “bodyguard”

part of his life. “Battista doesn’t really give a fuck about any of that.”

Mr. Spadaro, how nice to meet you. Please, do come in. You would
like to find your brother?

So very cultured and attractive that Franco had immediately felt on edge with Falchi. Twenty years ago, it hadn’t registered, but now, later, grown up and less innocent, he’d felt something from Gianbattista Falchi. A teasing flirtation that made him ill at ease.

And Silvio was his heir?

But in the end, Falchi had called Silvio, had then handed him the address and even advised him on the best travel route.
I think you
might be exactly what Silvio needs.

He’d considered that while his plane had crossed the Atlantic, mildly alarmed at the idea. After all those years, Silvio could have done anything—become anything. Maybe gone back to school, maybe started a family, built a life for himself.

Instead he was another man’s bodyguard, living on his own, with pistols and tailored suits for company. Franco wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t even really disturbed, though Silvio’s employer being Italian didn’t bode well. Not at al .

But who was he to pass moral judgment?

“What have you been doing in the Legion?” Like he’d read his mind. That famous intuition again.

“I shot people in the head.”

Silvio’s face lit up and he laughed softly, tonelessly. “You’re a shooter, too?”

The tension bled away. His brother. Possibly the only person in the world who understood him, who really got him. Silvio of all people would never recoil from him—would never be disturbed at what his eyes had seen and what his hands had done—and the relief in that was so enormous it almost took the breath from Franco’s lungs.

“Sniper. Yes. One hundred sixty-nine confirmed kills.” And a few dozen that were just guesses.

“Nice work.” Silvio grinned bright and happy at him. “I’ve only had about thirty.”

That should’ve disturbed him, that Silvio had killed people. It was the bad blood. Paolo’s ancient poison they both carried. Silvio possibly more than he did, because he looked more like Paolo with those black eyes. And not just the blood. The family relation, the connections, the old web of loyalties and tradition that tied them into obligations worse than the contract for the Legion. At least joining up was voluntary.

“Last time I checked, it wasn’t a competition.”

“Hey, even Sebastiano’s turning into a killer . . . sending men to death row.” Silvio stood, almost jumped to his feet. “He’s made no bones about that.”

“It’s his way to rebel against our father.” Lawyer spawned from killer, with two killers for brothers. Sebastiano had to think he was the black sheep, but a case could be made that any of them was the black sheep—or, conversely, that Paolo should have died in some gutter before he’d had the chance to transmit the evil he was carrying.

Silvio cast him a sudden glare. “Somebody should have taken him out.”

“Paolo? Yeah.” Franco shook his head. “His stomach’s going to finish him off. Ironic, really, if you think about it. Even his own fucking body hates him.”

He yawned, the emotional outburst almost too much. He checked his watch, surprised it was so early, but then took it off and added the six hours’ time difference. Way past midnight, then. He wasn’t used to staying up for so long, not with
appel
so early. “I’ll have to crash.