Dark Soul, Vol. 1

  He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t see this, but still he found himself crouching between the plants, hiding behind a pillar, suddenly breathless.

  If you’re not up for it . . .

  Stefano shook his head. I am. God damn it, I am now.

  Falchi rubbed against Silvio, hard dick sliding over his small, muscular ass, up to his flank, and Silvio reached back to touch him. He jerked Falchi’s cock, the angle clumsy, but Falchi still smiled and dipped down to brush Silvio’s ear with his lips. Maybe whispering. Something like I know you want it. Or, Tell me how much you want my dick up your ass.

  Silvio opened further, lifted himself up from the stone floor, and Falchi’s hand slid beneath him, taking hold of his cock. The younger man gasped audibly, rocking into a grip that seemed downright painful, then clenched his eyes shut when his lover squeezed his balls and pulled.

  Stefano’s own balls tightened in sympathy, but God, Silvio in pain was a sight to behold. It fed the same dark arousal that claimed him when he watched the kind of porn where the actors wore not just lust on their faces, but pain or shame or both. He’d never get shame from Silvio, but the way the young killer embraced his emotions during sex—regardless of what exactly they were—was a huge turn-on. Whatever happened to Silvio, he sank into it without reservation, possibly even without self-awareness.

  What would it be like to have a lover like that? Somebody he could do this to, mix the pleasure with pain. Someone who would take it all and more and never consider him a controlling freak. Donata sometimes liked it rough, but it was a mood thing, and he was still always careful. Always considerate. Silvio would be so very different.

  “Battista . . . ti prego,” Silvio begged, voice colored with real pain.

  Falchi nudged Silvio closer to the whirlpool, almost balancing him on the rim, released his balls and reached into the water to scoop some up. He lifted the hand over Silvio’s back and let the water run over his ass. Silvio curved his spine into the trickle, but then Falchi took him by the hips, positioned his cock against Silvio’s ass, and thrust.

  Silvio groaned and bit his lips hard, face showing nothing but pain. Stefano winced. Was that all the preparation he’d gotten? Water? When a bottle of bath or body oil stood not far away on a shelf right next to the nearby massage table?

  Falchi seemed to have some difficulty pressing inside. He reached down to position his dick again, strong hand digging into Silvio’s glutes to force his way, hips rolling to get to a better angle. By the look on the younger man’s face, Silvio struggled just as much to accept the essentially dry fuck.

  Stefano clenched his jaw, sickened and aroused.

  Silvio dropped his forehead to the tiled ground, breathing harshly as Falchi forced his way further inside, rocking his body with every short, powerful thrust.

  Somehow, Silvio remained painfully hard through it all: tight, tense, taut, every muscle clearly visible beneath his skin, all his considerable willpower directed at accepting what was happening to him.

  God, how Stefano wished he were the one doing it.

  He wanted to feel Silvio like that, force him to surrender and accept him inside. He’d been insane to blow him off, shouldn’t have let him walk away because of his stupid pride. He could’ve had this, and he’d chosen a goddamned workout.

  Silvio was crumpling under the assault. Relaxing, giving. The ability of this man to accept and yield mystified Stefano.

  It seemed his pain was melting away, beneath intense focus or maybe just emptiness. It was clear, though, that Falchi found it easier to fuck him now, his thrusts harsher, even brutal, thoroughly domineering. He clearly controlled Silvio, and, more impressively, himself. For all the hard fucking Falchi was dishing out, he never closed his eyes, never seemed to get carried away, while Silvio did all that despite the pain.

  Stefano tightened his fist in his towel, too aware of his maddening hard-on rubbing against the terrycloth. Could he get off without making a sound? He shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t be spying, but he was, and he couldn’t ignore what it was doing to him. Short of begging to join them, this was the only option.

  He pulled the towel apart, spit into his hand and began to stroke. Pleasure raced through him, his body jumping at the touch like an eager dog, as if mocking him for his prior self-control.

  Men are animals, Donata sometimes chided him. Like that evening when he’d stopped the elevator, pulled up her cocktail dress and tugged her barely-there g-string out of the way. Fucked her right there, standing up, from behind, her pussy wet and clenching around him.

  He realized he was jerking in time with Falchi’s thrusts, which made his skin crawl. He wanted to imagine himself fucking Silvio, so he concentrated on Silvio’s face, his movements, but the view of Falchi’s cock thrusting in and out was impossible to ignore, and besides, he didn’t have the focus to ignore anything when he was so desperate to get off. Falchi was just a proxy; Silvio was the main attraction.

  Falchi paused to whisper something into Silvio’s ear. But what? Do you like it, bitch? Stefano couldn’t imagine him being so crude. Not the gentleman.

  Silvio’s chest expanded with several rapid breaths, then a few slow, deep ones.

  The reason for which became disturbingly clear when Falchi grabbed Silvio’s head and pushed it over the rim into the whirlpool.

  Stefano jolted, shocked, as Falchi kept Silvio down with one hand and held him in place with the other while thrusting deep, long, and brutal into that tight ass.

  Silvio resisted—didn’t fight so much as squirm—but no bubbles rose from the water. In Silvio’s place, Stefano would have thrashed and screamed and probably lost every bit of breath in an attempt to free himself.

  But Silvio didn’t, even though every harsh line of his body spoke of panic held in check with an iron will and a dark lust that Stefano could almost taste. Falchi’s thrusts grew ever faster and harder, but Stefano couldn’t keep pace. He was too worried, even scared, and his erection faltered. He couldn’t interfere. How long had it been? A minute? It felt like five. Fuck, it felt like an hour.

  Thank God, Falchi climaxed and immediately released Silvio, who came up spluttering and drawing breaths in huge, noisy gulps, Falchi still buried to the hilt inside him.

  Silvio pushed back from the rim and lay down, tension draining from him, although he was still catching his breath.

  Falchi gently bit his neck, his shoulder, and Silvio blinked like he was waking up from a long, deep sleep, rather than returning from death’s door. He twisted to kiss Falchi, and Falchi responded by running his hand down Silvio’s stretched throat, rewarding him, pleasuring him while they were still locked in that intense but oh-so-tender kiss.

  When Falchi pulled out and rolled to the side, Silvio crawled over and turned to place his head on Falchi’s shoulder. How could he be so calm and tender after what Falchi had done to him? Hell, judging from his reddened ass, Silvio was still in pain.

  Yet there he was, as soft and pliant as a newborn, if half-drowned, kitten. Even more shocking, he’d clearly had his pleasure, his cock soft and a splotch of come marking out the lines of his belly.

  Stefano gathered up his towel, fastened it around himself again and made his exit before Silvio and Falchi started noticing anything beyond one another.

  Stefano wanted to skip dinner, but when Silvio came to fetch him, he didn’t have any good reason not to attend.

  Dinner was served in a large dining room, its floor-to-ceiling glass doors folded open to the cool evening breeze. Falchi was a pleasant enough host, which helped Stefano not to think of him as freak and pervert. He knew he was being unreasonable, though. Falchi hadn’t exactly meant for Stefano to watch him half-drown his lover during sex. Their house, their relationship.

  When the food was gone, Falchi took a wine bottle in one hand and two fresh glasses from a tray in the other and nodded to Stefano. “We have to talk.”

  Silvio glanced between them, but remained sitting. “Page me if you need me.”
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  Falchi nodded to him and led Stefano down the corridor, up a staircase, and into a room that was half library and half office. Dark wooden shelves full of books and antiques covered two of the walls floor to ceiling.

  A group of Chesterfields were gathered around a table near the windows, which was where Falchi now placed the wine, a local Chianti. More intriguing was an oil painting on the one wall not covered in books. Stefano stared at it, then nodded toward it when Falchi noticed. “May I?”

  With no protest to stop him, he walked toward the painting, the same tightness building in his chest and heart and balls as when he faced Silvio. In a way, he was. Same body shape, same face, and above all the same black eyes, though the painting mimicked those nude art shots that left most to the imagination, playing only on the lines and curves and hollows of the human body. Silvio was sitting with one leg stretched out, one drawn up, a strong arm wrapped around it. His left; Silvio was a lefthander. His fingers seemed too long and like weapons to slice and stab with. Silvio looked about sixteen and even more compelling and magnetic than now as an adult.

  Darkness half-obscured his face, the second eye not actually painted on the canvas, but still it stood from the black paint like antimatter against a lightless night. The sharp features made him look impish—but without any sense of mischief or fun. A kobold, something inhuman and vaguely threatening.

  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.”