Dark Soul Vol. 3 (8 page)

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 al .” 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 tight 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 his 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.

“Stop thinking.” Silvio maneuvered him to the couch and made him sit, then slid out of his own trousers and boxers, showing off his hard dick.

Franco was so riveted by the sight that he blinked awake only when Silvio tapped his legs. He lay back and stretched out on the couch, legs open enough that Silvio could find a place on top of him. The ful -body touch very nearly blew his mind—all that skin, all that contact, the sheer, impossible intimacy of being naked with somebody else.

Silvio kissed his lips, his face, his throat, and Franco found himself relaxing into it, stroking Silvio’s back and shifting his legs just so Silvio could be comfortable and close. Silvio rubbed against him, thrusting not-so-subtly against his belly, brushing his cock every now and then, and Franco dug his fingers into Silvio’s shoulders and thrust back, but it only made him hungrier, needier, the friction more painful than good. Too much dry skin, too much strength and not nearly enough coordination.

“Want me inside?”

No. Fuck no.
Franco shook his head but arched when Silvio bit his throat, the tingle racing through his body, making him breathless.