“Please do.”
Silvio stretched out beside him, lying on his left side, the gun holster smooth against his right shoulder. Ready to draw and fire in an instant. He wouldn’t have lost even a second when the Russians had rear-ended them. He’d have either kicked the pedal down, fucking speed demon that he was with his turbo-charged reflexes, or turned and shot the Russians down the moment they’d emerged from the van.
Stefano played the scene in his mind again, but he couldn’t imagine Silvio being shot in the face or crumpled and bleeding on the asphalt. He shuddered with that memory and felt Silvio’s lips on his own, a gentle touch to his face, then through his hair. “Should I switch off the light?”
“What time is it?”
“Sun comes up in about four hours.”
Four hours in the darkness. He wasn’t alone, didn’t have to be scared, was alive, if hurt. This was his bed, his bedroom, he’d be all right. “Okay.”
Silvio reached out to switch off the lamp on the nightstand and then lay down beside Stefano, face right next to Stefano’s arm. It was oddly intimate, more so even than the failed blowjob. “What about you?” Stefano asked.
“Me?”
“Yeah, I ruined your night.”
Silvio gave an amused snort. “Your night was more ruined than mine.”
“I mean . . . the sex.”
“I’m okay. I was going to help you sleep.”
Not lust, not desire—just an attempt to take the edge off his pain and fear and help him find rest. Stefano pressed his eyes shut for a long moment. Damn if that wasn’t the most affectionate thing he’d heard in ages from somebody who was not his wife. He fought the choking feeling in his chest, forced himself to breathe evenly and not betray what was going on inside him. He was the boss; he simply couldn’t be weak.
He waited until he was reasonably sure Silvio was asleep, and then cried—cried for Cesare and Vince and that gut-wrenching fear he had no idea how to endure, the fear for the future and the price he’d have to pay for his and his father’s goddamned pride, and all the generations of his family down to the first bastard who’d taken up arms to impose their own version of law back in the homeland in Europe.
He cried until his eyes hurt and he was simply too exhausted to continue, toneless, still too aware of his surroundings and the company. He’d have gladly killed to be able to cry against somebody’s chest or shoulder, to just be held and told it was okay to be scared.
Thanks to Sara and my Italian readers for all their help and patience (and an Italian lesson or two). Grazie mille!
And another thank you to Rachel, guardian of my editorial virtue—your whip ensures I stay on the righteous stylistic path, for which I’m extremely grateful.
Break and Enter, with Rachel Haimowitz (Samhain Publishing)
Counterpunch (Storm Moon Press)
Scorpion (Dreamspinner Press)
Dark Edge of Honor, with Rhianon Etzweiler (Carina Press)
The Lion of Kent, with Kate Cotoner (Carina Press)
For a full list, go to http://www.aleksandrvoinov.com/bookshelf.html
Aleksandr Voinov is an emigrant German author living near London, where he makes his living editing dodgy business English so it makes sense (and doesn’t melt anybody’s brain). He published five novels and many short stories in his native language, then switched to English and hasn’t looked back. His genres range from horror, science fiction, cyberpunk, and fantasy to contemporary, thriller, and historical erotic gay novels.
In his spare time, he goes weightlifting, explores historical sites, and meets other writers. He singlehandedly sustains three London bookstores with his ever-changing research projects and interests. His current interests include World War II, espionage, medieval tournaments, and prisoners of war. He loves traveling, action movies, and spy novels.
Visit Aleksandr’s website at http://www.aleksandrvoinov.com, his blog at http://www.aleksandrvoinov.com.blogspot.com, and follow him on Twitter, where he tweets as @vashtan.
Aleksandr Voinov, Dark Soul, Vol. 2
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