Dark Soul, Vol. 1

  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.”

  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 brea
k 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.”