Dark Soul, Vol. 1

  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.

  Despite the labyrinthine setup of the house, Stefano found the gym eventually. He spent a good hour on the treadmill, running his heart out until nothing mattered but getting enough air. He ran thirteen miles, then slowed, t-shirt clinging to his chest, too wet to wipe his hands on.

  The worry over whether Falchi would demand payment he couldn’t give hadn’t faded. Nor had the expectation that Silvio was bound to make his move soon. But on his runner’s high, the implications mattered less. He was no longer petrified by what might happen. He could take it all in stride.

  “I didn’t know you were a runner,” Silvio said, appearing in the doorway as if conjured.

  Stefano’s heart jumped painfully into his throat and needed several long moments to drop back down. He reached for a towel to wipe his face. It gave him time to collect himself. “Why do you care?”

  Silvio shrugged. “Didn’t say I do. I just said I didn’t know that about you.”

  “I was a fat kid.” Then my father told me to clean up my act or he’d kick my lard ass to the curb. Stefano shook his head, smiling. “Who gives a fuck?”

  Silvio’s lips curved. “I’m here to check if you’re okay, have everything you need or want.”

  Loaded question.

  “I packed light.”

  “I noticed. Like a man on the run.” Silvio crossed his arms.

  Clever bastard. But after breakfast with the master, the pupil didn’t faze him quite as much. “Gianbattista is still better at head games than you are,” Stefano shot back.

  Silvio gave a short laugh. “He’s quite something, isn’t he?”

  “Makes me wonder if he messes with everybody’s heads like that. What about yours?”

  Silvio grinned. “Maybe I like head games.”

  “Wouldn’t have guessed.” Stefano slung the towel over his shoulder. “Do you have any idea what he’ll ask for in return? You know I’m here to get help.” Silvio would know, wouldn’t he?

  “You’re not just trying to play me against Gianbattista?” Silvio’s smile vanished. No lessening; suddenly, it had never existed.

  “I’m not playing anybody. I just want to know if he expects me to suck his dick in more than a metaphorical way.”

  Silvio shook his head. “You’re not his type.” Emotionless again. The answer, however, summoned up the image of Silvio on his knees between Falchi’s legs. How was Silvio as a lover? He’d seen him yielding, almost pliant, and so sensuous it was easy to imagine him with anybody. Coupled with Falchi’s intellect and manipulation skills, they probably made their bed sheets burst into flames.

  Stefano exhaled. “I wouldn’t do it. I have my pride.”

  “Proud men are more of a challenge.” Silvio kept staring at him. “For me, not for him.” He stepped closer, heedless of Stefano’s dripping sweat, until they almost brushed. “I thought about what you did to me.”

  Shit if his dick didn’t like those words. He forced himself to match Silvio stare for stare. “You got off on it.”

  Silvio’s razor sharp lips quirked. Then, in the lowest, softest tone Stefano had ever heard, said, “But you didn’t.”

  “You’re crazy. It was torture.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Silvio murmured. “What would have happened if your goon hadn’t been there?”

  I’d have fucked you mercilessly and come on your goddamned face. “I’d have used a smaller gun.”

  Silvio huffed. No amusement broke the tension this time.

  Stefano half-craved a touch, half-feared it. Silvio was close enough, and no doubt felt the current too. “I’m here to ask for Falchi’s help. The last thing I’d do is fuck his . . .” Boytoy? Lover? Heir? Head of security?

  “‘His . . .’?” Silvio asked, but shook his head. “Yes. ‘His’ is a good description.”

  That made it sound like a matter of ownership. But it was, wasn’t it? And of course he didn’t sleep with men. Too dangerous. Sleeping with Silvio? Not just dangerous, but complete insanity. Especially if the killer still held a grudge. What kind of fool would get wild and dirty with someone who could just as easily kill you as bend over for you?

  Donata. He wished she’d come along as a talisman against these thoughts. He loved and desired her. He wanted to have children with her and spoil her rotten. He was fully planning to grow old with her. So whatever was going on here with this goddamned Italian catamite couldn’t happen.

  “Listen, I’m not going to interfere in— whatever you guys are doing. I don’t care. I don’t care if you’re . . .”

  “Gay?” Silvio watched him ever more closely. “I used to play the field. Still sometimes do.”

  Oh God. If anything, that was worse. For a hot-cold, shameful moment, he thought, great, he could . . . Silvio and Donata . . . but he reined those thoughts in. “Really,” he croaked.

  “There are things a woman can’t do to me.” Silvio’s lips twitched into an odd little smirk. “Well, they can, but finding the right one isn’t easy.”

  I don’t want to know this. “As it stands, I won’t get involved in any of this. You’re . . .” the most erotic, most intriguing person I’ve ever met, “With Falchi. I’m here to ask for help. That’s it. That’s all there is to it.”

  “If I went down on my knees right here and pulled your trousers down, you would fuck my face, though.”

  Oh God. “Listen, Silvio, I apologize for what I did. I was on edge that night. I normally don’t—” fuck a stranger with a gun. “I am sorry.”

  “Liar,” Silvio huffed. He half-turned and glanced over his shoulder. Such a feminine gesture, so teasing, so inviting. Part of Stefano wanted nothing more than grab Silvio, push him against the wall and fuck him right there. The other part wanted to live.

  “Maybe,” Stefano conceded. “Yes, I enjoyed it.”

  “Would you do it again?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Tell me.”

  “Yes, I would.” Stefano breathed deeply a few times, trying to dislodge the tension in his chest. It didn’t work. Silvio’s proximity was like a pressure against his heart and a cold grip around his balls.

  Silvio’s dark eyes shone with . . . passion? “That’s all right. Let it out.” Your deepest, filthiest desires, those eyes said. I’m ready.

  Stefano swallowed. A trap, surely. “I need a shower.” He pushed forward, brushing Silvio on the way, and heard as he passed him, “I know what you need.”

  Stefano showered quickly, never allowing the soap to get into his eyes. Prison trick, he imagined, not that he planned to ever find out. He’d locked the door to his suite, but Silvio might still get in.

  What would he do though? Rape him? Hardly. Silvio didn’t seem the type, and Stefano was reasonably sure he could put up enoug
h of a fight to make it very much not worth Silvio’s while.

  But Silvio kneeling down in front of him with that “fuck me” expression . . . that threatened to make him hard, especially if he lingered on it. He couldn’t. He might take the image with him to bed, but right now, he was in control. Silvio was a fantasy, a forbidden thing made of razor blades and sweat and desire. He could be used and controlled as long as he only existed in Stefano’s mind.

  Stefano toweled down and dressed. Almost time for lunch. He made a quick espresso to perk him up after the hot shower.

  Somebody knocked. Stefano closed his watch around his wrist and opened the door.

  “We’re on the terrace,” Silvio said. “Vieni.”

  Stefano followed, glad that Silvio didn’t attempt any further mind games. He was even dressed, wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt and sneakers.

  The terrace was shaded and relatively cool, so Stefano’s linen suit didn’t feel stifling. Falchi had dressed up, too, in suit trousers and a short-sleeved shirt that was open at the throat, displaying a gold crucifix on a chain.

  “Stefano. Good to see you.” He waved to an empty chair at the round table. “Prego.”

  “And you.” Stefano settled and managed not to stare at Silvio when he sat down opposite. “I love your house.”

  “Grazie.” Falchi smiled. “Unconventional, but I couldn’t bear to have the old one torn down. It has the most magnificent wine cellar.”

  “You’d also have lost the wisteria outside. That has to be fairly old.”

  “Yes. The architects said they could make it work. I like the marriage of old and new.”

  Silvio huffed in amusement. “If you look at the floor plan, it’s like the new house is humping the old one.”

  Falchi flashed him a warning glance, and Silvio grinned. “It’s true!” He laughed. “I called the thing a ‘clusterfuck.’ And I’m right.”

  Falchi reached over and placed a fond hand atop Silvio’s, immediately tamping down the outbreak of humor. They were wise to not show up together in public; just from how they looked at each other, it was obvious theirs went far beyond a mentor/protégé relationship. These men knew each other inside and out. And seemed content with each other’s company, too, like they needed nobody else.

  Watching them together, Stefano felt an odd tingle, like hope and maybe a dash of envy. And it wasn’t just because he knew Silvio would follow him into that realm between sleeping and waking, when his imagination was at its most troublesome.

  The meal passed with small-talk about the wine, the olive oil, the village that lay down the hill, history.

  When the maid served them coffee, Falchi asked, “So, are you going to war?”

  “Yes.” Stefano reached for the sugar and dropped a rock of it into his espresso. “I just need more troops.”

  “You are aware that you and your wife will be in danger?”

  “There’s no other way. If I fold, I’m dead anyway. Then the other sharks will finish me off.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it.” Falchi gestured, as if looking for the best way to prepare him for the truth. “Your situation. The price you’ll have to pay.”

  Stefano fought for nonchalance, glancing at his fingers on the table to make sure they were perfectly relaxed. “I’m trusting you to be a gentleman about the payback.”

  Falchi smiled. “Don’t fear. I won’t put your masculinity into question, Stefano. Contrary to popular belief, we deviants do other things than recruit the unwilling.”

  Stefano pressed his lips together, embarrassed, relieved, and embarrassed at his own relief. Most people didn’t know about Falchi’s tastes, or maybe it was willful ignorance that everyone insisted he was merely a “confirmed bachelor.” The fact that Falchi was still alive meant he knew how to play his cards.

  “It’s hard to ignore your . . . arrangements. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  But you did, a small voice whispered.

  “I don’t have to pretend anymore. Not that I’m flaunting it, mind you, lest some guardian of morality come rub the stain out.”

  “They can try.” Silvio snarled, tensing in his chair and baring his teeth.

  Falchi reached over and touched Silvio’s hand again. “I’m telling you this, Stefano, because you’ve come to me for help.”

  Which places me in your power. Stefano nodded. He owed Falchi now, despite the man’s tastes in bed companions, and the retired consigliere didn’t so much trust his discretion as his understanding of the code. “I know my place.”

  “And I imagine you’re more than a little sympathetic.” Falchi pointedly turned toward Silvio, cutting off any protest. “What do you think, Silvio?”

  Silvio shrugged. “Might be a shame to see him go down.” He looked at Stefano. “I kinda like him.”

  Falchi chuckled. “That’s settled, then. I will help you, Stefano. I’ll have to make some arrangements, but I’m sure we can help you defend your interests.”

  “Thank you.” Stefano managed to breathe deeply, more freely than he had in months.

  Falchi smiled warmly, then stood. “I need to cool off. Please, feel right at home.” He walked away, and Stefano leaned back, rubbing his face.

  “You’re doing well with him,” Silvio murmured. “He likes you.”

  “He’s . . . impressive.” Like you. Stefano groaned and shook his head, but froze when he noticed Silvio’s speculative gaze on his middle. He straightened in his seat. “I’m heading home tomorrow.”

  “When?”

  “Around noon, I expect.”

  “That’s enough time for Battista.” Silvio poured himself cold water from a pitcher, then poured Stefano some too, as if suddenly remembering his manners.

  Stefano watched the play of muscles and tendons in Silvio’s arm, how steady it was despite the awkward extension and the twist of the wrist to pour. A killer would have strong wrists and that kind of control, of course, but it still seemed somehow important.

  Silvio pushed the glass over and leaned forward. “You’re still working it all out, aren’t you?”

  “No, I know exactly what’s going on here.”

  “But not what you’re feeling.” Silvio bared his straight white teeth like a shark snatching at bait, but then turned that into a smile. “How much you want me.”

  Stefano snorted. There were a lot of denials rushing through his mind, even the notion to get up and return to his suite. But it was too hot to be affronted, and the rich food made him lazy. Besides, he could stand his ground against a killer. “Like I’d make a pass at something that’s owned by Il Gentiluomo.”

  “If you’re not up for it, I’m getting my rocks off elsewhere.” Silvio stood, deliberately showing off his sinuous grace. And the bulge in his jeans. The cocky smile was just the icing.

  Stefano grimaced, paged through several potential responses to this, each one harsh and insulting enough to warn Silvio off despite the images racing through his head: Frantic, then lazy sex on the fine cotton sheets in his suite. Touching that body any way he wanted. Fucking Silvio so hard it would hurt them both. Yeah, there was no way he could get up now. “Sure. Enjoy.”

  Silvio brushed past, rubbing deliberately against his arm, trailing fingertips over his shoulder. But then he walked off, hopefully without spotting the shudder racing through Stefano’s body.

  God, he’d never had sex with somebody like Silvio. Like, male. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. This kind of obsession was embarrassing and downright dangerous, especially when he needed to keep his shit together. He needed a clear head, needed control to deal with the Russians, and Silvio was slowly wrestling both away.

  He sipped water until he felt calmer, taking in the landscape with its hills and trees and the breeze that made the heat bearable. Driving up here from Rome, it had all looked so strangely familiar, until he’d realized this was the landscape painted over and over by Renaissance artists. Hills or mountains in the background; gently curved, open fields dotte
d with proud cypresses and pines arranged in lines or small clusters; houses built from large stones and topped by flat red brick roofs, perched on ridges or leaning into hills, at once remote and inviting. The Val d’Orcia was the perfect place for Gianbattista Falchi.

  The food had settled, so Stefano returned to the suite to get his workout clothes—which had been washed and dried already. He headed for the gym again. Nothing better to do, and a reasonably solitary pleasure. He sometimes spent hours conditioning, stretching, while somewhere in the back of his mind little wheels clicked and turned, working through whatever it was that needed working through.

  He indulged in a light workout with weights, bracketed by rowing and skipping as warm-up and cool-down, then a long stretching session. It refreshed him like only a night of good sleep after sex did. He texted Donata—Things are going well, still miss you—and she texted back that she was just leaving the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. That conjured up thoughts of Milan’s majestic Piazza del Duomo and its white cathedral, which he remembered from their honeymoon as a squat but graceful building with a million delicate spires reaching to Heaven, drenched in pink morning light.

  He headed for the showers, washed the sweat off and wrapped a towel around his waist. There had to be a sauna somewhere.

  He passed through several frosted glass doors and another changing room, when the air got hotter and more humid.

  When he opened the next door, the first thing he saw was another swimming pool, and beyond that, the sauna. To the side of it, half-shielded by large potted ferns and white marble columns, was a whirlpool. And Falchi. With Silvio.

  Silvio was lying flat on his belly on the marble path around the whirlpool, wriggling out of his black Speedo. He pulled one leg up, revealing just how aroused he was. And opening himself up for Falchi, who draped atop him, covering him.

  Falchi was already naked, and for his age, he’d kept himself exceedingly well. The hair on his chest was graying, but he wasn’t yet sagging much, just not young anymore.

  And what a contrast he was to hairless, pale Silvio, who pushed back against Falchi, inviting him like a cat in heat, black eyes closed, lips open, looking so young and so needy it clenched Stefano’s heart.