Dark Soul, Vol. 3

  “Fast.” Franco held a glass in his hand, the red wine earthy and deep, different from the wine they served Legionnaires. Probably a hell of a lot more expensive, given the furnishings in the room and Marino’s casual elegance.

  Despite having been battered, Marino was fiendishly attractive—wholesome and masculine, like all the darkness snapping at Silvio’s and Franco’s own heels didn’t exist. A “normal” person, despite the money and power and the fact he was very clearly a wiseguy. Easy to understand what Silvio saw in him—not innocence, exactly, but a fresh, untarnished strength.

  “Whereabouts in Europe are you from?”

  Too many possible answers. “I started in Marseilles, France. That’s where I was when I was released.” Marino’s eyes narrowed in speculation, and Franco hurried to add: “Not prison.”

  “No, you’re too tanned for that.” Marino smiled a disarming, entirely pleasant smile that would normally have triggered some kind of defense mechanism. Bullshit smileyness and happiness wasn’t worth shit, but Marino somehow slipped through his defenses.

  “Military,” Franco added gruffly and turned away. Still felt Marino’s pale eyes on him, and stood to walk over to the windows looking out over the garden, glass still in hand, sipping the wine.

  “French Foreign Legion,” Silvio assisted. “He’s a shooter.”

  Franco pressed his lips together. Only a matter of time before Silvio told his boss—told Marino that Franco could be useful to a wiseguy. Cosa Nostra. He didn’t want to get involved. “I was stationed in Djibouti with the 13th Demi for a while.”

  “That explains the tan,” Marino said, not missing a beat over the mention of the dwarf state at the Horn of Africa. “And what are your plans now?”

  Franco pulled his shoulders up, rolled them, and then his neck, concentrating on the complex structure of muscles and tendons and bones. Short of the brain, no part of the human body seemed as needlessly complex as the neck. If he concentrated on his body—the unstoppable rhythm of breath and pulse and blink and the subtle shift of all the muscles he needed for those small activities, maybe the rat trapped inside his skull might calm the fuck down and do nothing. Fall asleep. Die. How good would it be to be just creature. He dropped his shoulders. “I will eventually have to decide whether I’ll reenlist or get a proper job.”

  Come on, do it. Offer me a job as a killer.

  “Can’t be easy,” Marino said.

  Franco blinked and turned, facing that oddest of all things: A mafia boss not pushing his advantage. A man’s man who didn’t dominate, didn’t brag, simply offered . . . empathy? He glanced to Silvio, who watched them both with a hungry expression. “I’m getting used to it.” Choices. The idea to speak my mind. To speak at all.

  “Well, feel free to hang around, Franco. Silvio’s friends and family are my, well, friends.” Marino poured Silvio more wine, then lifted the bottle to offer Franco a top-up. Slowly, Franco closed the distance and extended his wineglass, half-expecting a trap.

  But nothing. No attempt to touch him or drive him into a corner.

  Marino placed two fingers under the bottom of the wineglass to steady it for the pouring—the gesture not unlike that of a man lifting a woman’s chin to kiss her. Franco’s mouth was suddenly dry, and why was that affecting him so? Marino focused on the glass, pouring deliberately, but flashed him a quick glance, waiting for his cue. Franco cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

  Marino lifted the bottle while turning it, not spilling a drop of wine on the expensive carpet. He put the bottle back on the table and lifted his own glass again.

  Silvio watched them both, and Franco knew without a shadow of doubt that his brother was reading him. “Silvio says you might be able to get us two Bushmasters. And a clean car we can ditch.”

  Marino nodded. “Any particular specifications?”

  “A small van or SUV would do it, especially if we can rip out some seats and drill a few holes in the back.”

  “Will you shoot from there?”

  “Yes.” Franco took a long, steadying breath, not unlike readying himself to shoot.

  “No, I’ll do it.” Silvio leaned closer. “It’s my idea, I’ll kill the bastard.”

  Franco shook his head. “I would only let you out killing somebody protected by pros after weeks of training. I’m not risking your life, Silvio.”

  “Bullshit. I can do the shooting just as well as you.”

  “It’s not your usual weapon. You can’t make any mistakes with this, and I’ve done it a lot more than you.”

  “I won’t make any mistakes,” Silvio snapped.

  Franco glanced at Marino, who sipped his wine and seemed undisturbed, as though they were quarrelling about a soccer game. He sighed. “I’ll pull the trigger. You’ll have to identify my target, act as the spotter, keep my back clear, drive the car.”

  “Fuck this!” Silvio hissed and shot to his feet. “I’m not pulling you into this. I’m not!”

  I’m already deep in it, and I’ll be damned if I know how that happened. “You’re my brother. I’m already part of it.” He glanced at Marino, whose lips quirked with a soft smile that nevertheless lacked malice or triumph.

  “I’ll get the weapons and car, Franco.” Marino put his wineglass down and offered Franco his hand. Franco took it and was surprised when the man held it with both of his, covering his hand completely. An oddly protective, paternal gesture—only, of course, that his father would never have done anything like this. Their eyes met for that long moment, and something like an electric current closed between eyes and hands and everything else. Franco forced himself to stand his ground, forced himself to acknowledge his response, but didn’t allow it to cloud his emotions.

  Silvio stared at Marino. “He’s not part of this, Stefano.”

  Marino turned to face Silvio. “Your brother cares a great deal about you. He wants to help.”

  “And what is he getting out of it? Huh?”

  “Whatever he wants.” Marino looked at Franco. “I mean it, Franco. I’ll owe you a big favor.”

  Whatever he wants. What a temptation for a man who knew what he wanted. Too bad I’m not one of those men.

  Silvio narrowed his eyes, then pushed his chin forward in that old gesture of defiance and turned on his heel to leave. Franco looked after him, but let him go. When he turned back, Marino was pouring them both more wine.

  “How angry is your brother?”

  “He’ll calm down,” Franco said, and accepted his refilled glass from Marino’s hand. Seemed Marino saw wine as a good interrogation technique. He didn’t believe that the wiseguy was just trying to finish off the bottle. “When he storms off like that, best let him go.”

  Marino nodded and leaned against the table. “How long since you’ve seen each other?”

  “About eight years.” Franco stared into his wine. “But if you want to know anything more about him, ask him yourself.” Because I’m not my brother’s weak flank. I’m not selling him to you.

  “Oh. No. I want to know more about you.”

  You’re not much of a talker, are you?

  Franco pressed his lips together, thought of the officer who’d tried to “get to know him,” tried to seduce him into talking, to share real intimacy on top of the sex. Even he hadn’t managed. There was nothing more to take, nothing more to give after the sex. “There’s nothing to know. I was born second of three, and when Silvio left, I left too and joined the Legion. I was released and found him.”

  “Why did you become a sniper?”

  Franco chuckled, but felt no mirth. “I was suitable for it. I don’t mind being on my own, and I have perfect eyesight. The personality fits, too. I don’t mind shooting a man I’ve watched for hours or days.” Get to know him, watch him take a shit, light a cigarette or watch the night sky, wondering about his own insignificance in an unfeeling cosmos. And then make him insignificant.

  Marino nodded as if he understood. “Anything you need to know about me? As we’re about
to trust each other?”

  We’re not. Franco shrugged and stared at the wine. “Not my place.”

  “Try me.” Marino watched him closely, open and friendly, his “trust me” face one of the best Franco had ever seen.

  “What are your intentions for my brother?”

  “Ah.” Marino exhaled, a long sigh of released tension. “I’m about to take him into my inner circle. I trust him. I’m fascinated by him. More than is probably healthy.” Marino chuckled ruefully. “I’m still coming to terms with it myself. Do you disapprove?”

  Franco watched Marino’s face, but he didn’t spot anything crooked there. Which was ridiculous. As a wiseguy, Marino was as crooked as they came. All this here, the wine, the nice suits, the even nicer house and the hectares and hectares of park around it, paid for with dirty money.

  “Silvio’s searching for something. He always has been,” Franco murmured under his breath. “Something I could never give him.”

  “What is that?” Marino leaned forward.

  “A place to be himself. Somebody who accepts him as he is, darkness and all.” Franco emptied his wineglass. “Somebody who holds him and anchors him. I don’t think anybody but Toppolino has ever given him that.”

  “Who’s Toppolino?”

  “His dog. Stupid golden retriever, as loyal as it was dumb. Got himself run over by a car when Silvio was twelve. No, thirteen.”

  Marino chuckled. “I can try, can’t I?”

  “Do you want to?” Franco smirked. “Really?”

  Marino’s face grew serious again. “I’m more in doubt of my ability than my desire, yes.”

  Desire. He made it sound so simple. Maybe Marino had that kind of strength, maybe he was the right kind of man to replace a brother for things that a brother shouldn’t do. Maybe he’d even be good for Silvio. Work in progress.

  “Sounds like Silvio could hook up with a worse man.”

  Marino spread his fingers in an apologetic gesture. “I reward loyalty with loyalty. Silvio has been nothing but loyal to me.”

  Back to talking business. Seemed Franco wasn’t the only guy in the room not good at sharing feelings or deep thoughts. “If you have that, you have somebody willing to die for you.”

  Marino nodded. “I want him to live for me.”

  Maybe he wouldn’t abuse the privilege. Maybe Marino was a lot better than Franco gave him credit for. Or not. The odd current was still there. Attraction. Desire. Purely physical, the buzz of pheromones and the illusion of seeing something in the other that usually didn’t outlast orgasm.

  Franco glanced at his watch. “I better go check on him. Thanks for the meal and the wine.”

  “You’re most definitely welcome.” Marino’s smile ran over him like warm water. You’re not attracted to me, Marino. You’re seeing Silvio in me. Which was a damn shame, really, but even a one-night stand was a bad idea with a wiseguy. Boss of wiseguys. He’d be better off fucking around with a superior in the Legion. That way, he’d only risk his career and his reputation.

  Marino saw him out to the door, and Franco continued on his own to the bungalow. He half-expected to see Silvio stomping around and fuming with rage when he entered, but his brother was sitting on the couch cleaning his little arsenal. Handling guns . . . talk about psychological projection.

  Silvio had shed his jacket and shirt and was now wearing only that tight white sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his arms and part of his shoulders. He lacked the hard edges of a soldier, but the sight was nevertheless soothing. He was a type of man that made sense, that Franco understood. The same chromosomes, the same childhood, just assembled slightly differently. If they were messed up, they were messed up in the same way. Two possibilities of a life. And it seemed Silvio was doing a lot better than he was.

  We should have been twins.

  Silvio glanced at him, his fingers violently snapping the last piece in place. But left the talking to him, as if to punish him. The silent treatment they both knew so well. Paolo had a way of not speaking to you that was the closest thing to a knife at the throat.

  “I’ll teach you, but I’ll take the kill.” Franco sat down on the couch next to Silvio. “You’re the better driver, and you’ll make a great spotter with your instincts. You’ll have to make sure the target is down. Be my eyes and ears.” And my supernatural intuition.

  “What are you getting out of it?” Silvio asked, surprisingly calm.

  “I used to do it in return for a not-spectacular paycheck, you know. It’s no big deal.”

  Silvio grinned. “We’re both cold like that.”

  “Yes, we are.” Franco reached over, placed his hand between Silvio’s shoulders, felt the firm warmth of his brother’s body. Imagined, for a hot-cold moment, Silvio on top of him, muscles tensing and relaxing with thrusts against him. Into him. He closed his eyes, felt his resistance crumble against this. It would feel so good. “I see what you find in Marino.”

  Silvio turned toward him, but Franco kept his eyes closed, banished the need to see, to be in control of his environment. Eyes open, he was a killer. Eyes closed, he was nothing, just breath trapped in a chest.

  “You like him?”

  Not the word I’d use. “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Ironically, I think the injuries really suit him.” Franco opened his eyes.

  Silvio laughed. “You like a battered boyfriend?”

  Franco examined that thought, turned it around in his head like a weapon he hadn’t figured out yet. What it would feel like when he pulled the trigger. Its capabilities, the reach, the stopping power. This thought had a lot of stopping power.

  Maybe that was what was wrong with him. He was exactly the same as their father. He stood abruptly, but Silvio’s fingers closed around his wrist with surprising, unyielding strength.

  Don’t touch me.

  Franco tensed his arm, silently wrestling Silvio for control. “I don’t know.”

  “You should try and work it out, Franco.” Silvio let his wrist go, but hooked his hand into his belt instead. Franco breathed and pressed his lips together when Silvio’s palm brushed his dick. Bastard.

  “Don’t.” Franco still couldn’t do anything to keep Silvio from opening his trousers and sliding them down to his thighs. He was keyed up too high, nothing else on his mind, really, and when he felt Silvio’s breath against his dick, he almost jumped. “Silvio.”

  “Fuck Paolo,” Silvio whispered against his groin, freed his dick and dug his fingers hard into Franco’s muscles, clamping him in place.

  Then heat and wetness took him, his brother now clearly in control of both and neither of them. Franco hated his body responding so eagerly, like any of this was right or as it should be. As if they belonged like this, Silvio kneeling in front of him, his dick in Silvio’s mouth, those lips moving slowly but firmly, sliding up and down his cock.

  Franco couldn’t move, couldn’t touch Silvio anywhere but where Silvio touched him. But he’d been right. It felt so good. And damn if Silvio didn’t know what he was doing, and if he didn’t pour his soul into it, too. To Silvio, there was no separation between body and soul, between emotion and sensation.

  “Silvio.” Franco wrestled for control, didn’t want to give in, couldn’t, couldn’t just yield like that. He touched Silvio’s head, gently pushed him back. The smacking sound when Silvio let go of his dick tightened his balls.

  Silvio glanced up at him. “What?”

  “You don’t know where I’ve been.”

  “Africa.”

  “And some other places. It’s . . . reckless. Don’t . . .” He struggled for words through the concern and fears and worries. The shame, too, just to make things more complicated. “You can’t just . . .”

  “Then I won’t swallow.”

  Good God. Franco tried to clear his throat and failed. But before he could say anything, Silvio stood and kissed him, and then it seemed suddenly all right, give and take, lips and teeth and tongue, Silvio clinging tig
ht to him, his hand continuing where his mouth had stopped. Franco crushed Silvio to him, felt every bone in Silvio’s body align to his.

  If God had made them, he’d improved on the second try, perfected the model and removed that pesky conscience, too. Still, it felt right—the only other man who’d ever understand him. The only man he could trust unconditionally. Franco felt tears sting in his eyes and closed them to not give himself away. He hadn’t cried in years; he was out of practice.

  Silvio pulled back just enough to begin undressing him, and Franco wrestled that old instinct to pull away, slap off hands that tried to take the defenses he’d erected between himself and the world. But he let Silvio do this, pull the jacket off and the shirt, too. No undershirt—despite the shop assistant who’d tried to sell him some. Silvio tossed the clothes away and kissed him on the sternum. “Trust me.”

  “I do.”

  Silvio chuckled against his skin. “I want you bad, Franco.”

  I know. Franco lifted his hand and cupped the back of Silvio’s head. It felt like defeat that he couldn’t say no. “I just don’t want to regret this.”

  “Do you regret what we did back then?”

  No. We were kids, right? We had no clue what we were doing.

  But that was a lie. He’d always known, had always assumed that if Paolo caught them again, he’d kill them both, and he’d more than deserve it.

  “I want you too.” Push the thoughts away. Just feel. Just be—exactly like Silvio.

  Silvio pulled Franco’s trousers down completely, and Franco kicked off his shoes. Silvio knelt down to take his socks off, and whistled softly when he touched Franco’s bare feet. “That’s some serious callous there.”

  “It’s not ‘march or die’ for nothing.”

  Silvio laughed. “No kidding.” He came back up. “You’re a solid candidate for a pedicure.”

  Franco smiled. “I like the callouses. They’re useful.” Everywhere.

  He pulled Silvio into another kiss, exploring the echo of wine and food and the hot, eager sensuousness that welcomed him and pulled him deeper. Gone. Lost. Too easy to lose himself in these sensations, the hunger he’d kept in check for so long. He could just unleash it. Return to who he was from who he’d become. None of his comrades would believe he was doing this. Touching and being touched, speaking, laughing. He was the silent hunter, the man who didn’t speak, didn’t party, didn’t get drunk, didn’t fool around, fought like a rabid dog when cornered. And now here he was, kissing and holding his half-naked brother.