Dark Soul Vol. 4 (2 page)

“Yes, he struck me as that type. Do you know what he wants in return? I don’t want to use his skills without giving anything back.”

Pause, possibly thoughtful. “He doesn’t like the family much, but he needs a job when we’re done here.”

“I can place him with one of my companies.” Which would mean Franco would stay around. Another potentially big problem.

Stefano had a nice collection of those by now. “Or, if he’s too proud, I can get him an interview.” Rig the game somewhat less openly, for appearances’ sake. “Can’t waste a good guy.”

“He’ll never join, you know.”

“I believe I have the best Spadaro already.”

Silvio laughed. “Good save. I’ll let him know.”

Silence again, stretching out. Stefano wanted to reach across the digital divide and touch Silvio. Just smell and taste him. Odd that the most primal of senses were hungering the most for the killer. Touch, smell, and taste.

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

“You’re in some mood,” Silvio said, but his tone was soft. God damn all this, the killer sounded positively innocent, even touched.

“Has anybody ever told you it’s easy to get used to you?”

Silvio chuckled. “No. Means I’m boring?”

“No! No. It means that you leave . . . an absence when you’re not there. Unlike other people, who leave nothing.” He sounded like an idiot, didn’t he. Yep, he did. Donata found that romantic, would have kissed him now, but there was only silence from Silvio.

Stefano cleared his throat. “So, what’s the strategy?” War was easier to talk about.

“Franco and I will stay away while we hunt the Russians. Don’t want them to be able to track us anywhere. Real outlaw-style.” Silvio yawned. “They won’t connect us to you. We’ll concentrate on the boss.”

“My guys are ready to fight, too.”

“Yeah. Hopefully what’s left will turn and run.” It didn’t sound like a hope—more like a prediction. Half-bored, as if the alternative was to kill them al , and killing itself was boring and mundane and mildly annoying. It was so Silvio that Stefano couldn’t help but smile.

“How long will you be gone?”

“A couple weeks.”

Will you call me at least every now and then?

Stefano closed his eyes, fought down a wave of fear and worry.

Not for himself but for the two Spadaros. Two. God help him. “Give me an update when anything happens.” Easier to phrase it as an order when the alternative was begging.

“How’s Vince?”

“He’s still very weak. Bullet messed up some things in his chest, grazed the spine.”

“Must have been a pretty good shot. Or lucky.”

Tap the cocksucker.

Stefano shuddered. “Right now, I’m making sure his family’s going to be okay and the bills are covered. I guess that’s the one thing that makes the family better than corporate America.” No wiggling out of responsibility for one’s men. Part of the loyalty that bound them all together, knowing that if one went to prison or the grave, their family would be all right.

“Many reasons, really,” Silvio said. “I can’t imagine getting a ‘real job.’”

Not that he ever had to, as long as Gianbattista kept him as his heir. Maybe some people couldn’t function anywhere but in the jet set or the underworld.

The world out there’s a mug’s game.
His father had said that often.

And being a mug was being a loser, an idiot, somebody ready for the taking. “In a real job, you wouldn‘t have to worry about getting shot.”

Silvio scoffed. “I’m not worried about getting shot.”

“What
are
you worried about?”

“Nothing. Nobody can take me.” Silvio didn’t wait for a protest.

“I’ll be in touch. Take care, Stefano.”

The call ended; Silvio cut him off before it got too personal.

There had to be fears, worries, there had to be things moving in that darkness; those inscrutable eyes were hiding more than the thoughts of a sphinx. But just why did Stefano want to delve deeper into Silvio’s darkness when his own was beginning to overwhelm him?

“What are you doing here?” Stefano stood abruptly from his desk, leaving his laptop open. Nothing incriminating on the screen; not that he didn‘t trust his wife.

Donata set her bag down near the door and closed her fingers defiantly around the straps of the handbag slung around her shoulders.

“I’ve come back.”

“I can see that.” Stefano bit down on the irritation that spawned from worry and surprise. The only reason why he really didn’t want her around was that she was in danger when she was close to him.

In Italy, she’d be safe from the Russians. That was the only reason.

There was no other. Besides, Silvio was still on the hunt, as far as he knew. Two weeks since the attack. His ribs still hurt, but he could breathe at least without fighting tears of pain all the time.

He and Donata faced off across the study, and for a few moments, Stefano expected her to call him an asshole, turn around and leave, so he closed the distance and lifted a hand to touch the side of her face.

She didn’t lean into the touch, merely looked at him, then sighed and embraced him oh-so-gently, rested her chin on his shoulder. “I just missed you so much.”

He closed his arms around her, breathed in her expensive perfume that smelled golden like honey or sunlight. He kissed her ear and stroked her neck. “Did you get one of the guys to pick you up?”

“No. I kept a low profile. Just a taxi.”

Dangerous. Still, the enemy likely wasn’t monitoring him that closely. He really wasn’t sure what their strategy and capabilities were, how far they’d go to damage or neutralize him. And with Silvio out there stalking them, Augusto ready to challenge him, Cesare dead, and Vince recovering, he had precious few al ies left.

“Where’s Silvio? The bungalow was all dark.”

“He’s taking the fight to the enemy.”

“Oh.” She stepped back a little. “Are you worried?”

“Of course I’m worried
.”

“No, I mean for him.”

“I’d say Silvio is the kind of man who can take care of himself.”

Took on four Russian ex-soldiers with nothing but high heels and a lust for pain. Survived a gut shot and sepsis, came back and still claimed nothing could hurt him.
Nothing but rejection by a lover,
that is.

“When everything is over, will you give him a place?”

“Like?”

“You haven’t had a
consigliere
for a long time.”

“He’s not exactly prime
consigliere
material.” Too young, too unknown, not good enough with people. And an outsider. “I’m not even sure he’d make a good
capo
. Running a team of people doesn’t seem like something he’d naturally do. And he’d get bored with the daily business, too.”

So what would happen after the thing with the Russians was over? How could he keep the man close?

It’s not going to happen. He’ll fight the war, win it, and move on.

Back to Italy, or wherever Falchi was going to send him. Which meant no excuses why they spent time together, talked on the phone.

Silvio was hired help, and he’d have to leave or arouse suspicion. The thought made Stefano’s stomach feel hollow.

“Maybe he can take Vince’s place?”

“Bodyguard?” Stefano clamped down on the excitement.

Replacing a man who was still alive seemed a touch ghoulish, and he remembered the muzzle flash from the pistol that had blown Cesare’s brains out just a few feet away. “Maybe. I’d expect him to get bored with that, too.”

She smiled and kissed his lips, a gentle, quick confirmation more than desire or passion. She was his first, best ally. Always had been.

“I’ll unpack and have a shower. I’ll wait for you, but not too long.”

“Have you eaten anything?”

“Yes, on the plane.” She kissed him again. “See you later.” She glanced meaningfully at his laptop, then gathered her bag and left the room.

Stefano sat back down behind the desk, stared at the screensaver for a while, but of course the rainbow-colored triangles trailing across the dark background made no sense and gave him no answers. He closed the laptop, suddenly aware of the silence in the house, aware of the darkness outside, surrounding him, biding its time. Did Silvio ever feel under siege like this? Like everything had eyes and ears and intentions?

He rubbed his face and stood, crossed the living room that, without people, seemed entirely too large with its fireplace he could have parked a car in if he’d wanted. The floor-to-ceiling windows with their sweeping curtains, each able to hide two men.

He climbed the curving staircase up to the master bedroom, undressed and brushed his teeth in the bathroom that was still humid from Donata’s shower, then entered the dark bedroom. The curtains were drawn, so he navigated by the faint shimmer of light from the alarm clock. He slid into bed, adjusted his pillow, stretched out on his back, doing nothing but breathing, aware that breathing itself was a transient state. He turned onto his side, slid closer to Donata until he could feel her body heat.

“Are you awake?” He was never quite sure. Just asking her felt like an intrusion. Like he should know. Or even know better.

She reached for him, found his hand, and pulled him closer.

He slid in right next to her, the silent camaraderie of the bed an eerie reminder of that night when Silvio had lain right next to him, providing security and protection.

One morning, he switched on the news channel, as he tended to do before he showered, even though he couldn’t hear the TV in the bathroom.

He was about to turn away when the news switched to a local item. Grainy shots from a helicopter circling the eastern part of his city; maybe it was because of the stylish and hectic shots he was used to from the movies, but the coverage really left everything to the imagination.

It was about the sniper-style killing of an unnamed fifty-four-year-old victim outside his house, with two more men wounded.

Three casualties. Stefano stepped closer, watching the footage with renewed interest. The shots had to have come from a copse of trees near the victim’s house.

Had Franco and Silvio both pulled the trigger? Hard to believe.

He didn’t expect even one of their victims to have survived in that case.

No; one shooter, who’d focused on the main target, and merely wounded the bodyguards to slow them down. Or possibly Silvio had covered Franco’s back while Franco concentrated on the main shot, stretched out in van not unlike John Mohammad back in the nineties. Hadn’t he been executed by now? And what had happened to his teenage accomplice?

“Stefano, what—” Donata fell silent when he lifted a hand, but the TV didn’t give him much more. Breaking news always lacked details. The newsman’s art of the tease.

Dialing the sound down, he turned to her and saw realization dawn in her brown eyes. “Is that about us?”

He shrugged. “I’ll give Silvio a cal .” Before she could ask more questions he didn’t want to answer, he left the room. Of course she caught a fair amount of what was going on—it would have been hard not to—but he maintained a layer of protection for her at least. She could always claim she’d had no clue in case this whole war backfired spectacularly enough to pull them all under.

He tapped the speed dial for Silvio’s phone, but he didn’t answer, and Stefano didn’t leave a message. He did type a quick text: “Just touching base, call me when you have time – SM,” hoping that didn’t sound off or weird or needy, even if it felt like all of those.

Once showered, he settled for an extended breakfast, keeping one eye on the TV and cell phone, its screen pointing up right in front of him. No response, no cal . He checked—again—that it wasn’t on silent, then skimmed through his email, even though Silvio never sent emails.

Silvio always responded immediately. But he was also possibly on the run after a triple shooting, and he was a night owl. He’d probably shot the Russian in the early hours of the morning for it to be reported now, then relocated somewhere and fallen into bed. He might not wake up before noon or later.

Out of nowhere, Stefano remembered last night’s dream, an off-the-scale sex dream with both Franco and Silvio, doing things together that were anatomically impossible. He vaguely remembered that one of them (both?) had fucked him and that it had felt amazing, even though he had no clue what it felt like in real life. His subconscious had supplied sensations as intense as they were nebulous, while his consciousness shied away from the very concept.

In everything so far, Silvio had been subservient, if provocative, and radiated a sense that he much preferred it that way. Funny how a man could be at the same time so sure of himself and so sexually passive. If “passive” described Silvio at al .

The phone rang. He almost jumped to his feet, regretting the forcefulness immediately, but that thought washed away when he saw the caller ID. Silvio.

“Yes?”

“Hey.” Silvio sounded relaxed, even smug, which jarred against Stefano’s mood. “Switch on the TV?”

“It’s on.” Stefano could hear the smugness intensify. “Where are you?”

“Motel. Stalked the guy all night, was light outside when he headed home from a brothel.” Silvio chuckled. “Guess we were lucky he didn’t order takeaway.”

“So, him and two guards?”

“Yes, looked like guards. We lost the attached security detail.

Guys were good, Franco says. But distracted. They tried to get him to the hospital, even though half his head was missing.” An uplift of amusement on the last bit. Stefano shuddered and yet smiled at it.

“Are you coming home now?” Home. He wanted it to be, yet knew that was an idle, impossible wish; he couldn’t exactly stow Silvio under the bed and pull him out when Donata went shopping or to her yoga classes. The bungalow wasn’t Silvio’s home, either. But what was? Falchi’s villa? How would Silvio live there with an ex-lover? He wouldn’t. Was there any way they could make this work?