Dark Soul Vol. 4 (3 page)

Keep things hidden to not hurt anybody? “You can bring Franco.

He’s welcome.”

“Pretty soon. We’re just letting them cool down. Wait until the funeral, then check who’s attending, take out the rest.”

It wasn’t enough to wipe out the head; Silvio meant to dig up every root and every wayward offshoot, every sprouting seed with it. The Russians would have to start from scratch, and if they did their research beforehand, they might not even think it worth their trouble.

Certainly the city would be way too hot for anybody building a crime syndicate. The sniper-style execution and its aftermath would send the police scurrying, but his own
famiglia
should be able to withdraw in the resulting fallout and then prosper again once the brushfire had passed. They’d settled deep within the bones of the city for generations, had become part of it—much like a parasite that fed the host as much as fed
from
it.

“Be careful.”

“Don’t worry. It’s the Russians who’ll go out with a bang, not a whimper.” And disconnected. Again. Before he could protest or ask any stupid questions. This was
sicario
work, the art of war.

“Holy shit,” Augusto barked into the phone. “Have you seen the news?”

“One moment.” Wow, talk about being caught cock in hand.

Stefano slammed his laptop shut, where two guys had just been sucking each other off (thank God for the easy, free porn of the internet), then hit the television remote with a non-slippery finger and wiped the oil off his hand with a towel. Augusto catching him jerking off to gay porn was enough to control any resident images of engorged enormous dicks and swollen lips and the bland faces of the “actors.”

He zipped his pants and stared at the TV screen. “Fill me in, what happened?”

“Somebody hit the main cemetery. It looks like a scene from
The
Punisher
out there.”

Superhero with a hard-on for made men. He’d never have pegged Augusto for a comic reader. However, given Augusto’s lack of education . . . “
The Punisher
, really?”

“Yeah, only it wasn’t about us. Best I can work out right now is that somebody hit the burial of our Russian asshole. They don’t know yet how many bodies.”

“Why?”

“Because the bodies are all in pieces. Best guess, boss? Somebody broke into the storage facility and stuffed a motherfucking big bomb into the casket. Somebody throws a rose down, and the killer presses the button. Ka-boom goes the grieving family.”

Genius. Complete genius.
“A bomb?” Stefano cleared his throat.

“Well, that takes care of the bitching over who gets what.” But before Augusto could say anything, he cut him off, “Lay low. I mean, really low. With this kind of shit, we’ll have the Feds crawling over us in five minutes.”

“Yes, boss. That your
sicario’s
work?”

Not on the phone, asshole.
“Just make sure all your taxes are paid— they
will
use a crowbar on any opening they can get.”

“Understood.” Of course, Augusto had been in the business a whole lot longer, but Stefano had his own role to play, and his decision was more than sound. First an assassination via sniper, then a related incident. Or call it by its name: mass murder. How many bodies in total? Hell, more than none was a problem with a bomb.

This was definitely Feds territory.

“Whoever did it, it’s a clear message.” Maximum deterrence. “I’ll talk to you later.”

He’d always known the war would draw attention. But it had been this or roll over and die. The moment the fucking Russians had rear-ended him out on the street, he’d had no choice. Everything seemed preordained since then, arranged. Dominos fal ing and forming patterns he could only see in hindsight—and what would the big picture reveal once the last stone had fallen? Who’d be left standing, if anyone?

He heard a door close across the corridor and switched the TV

off. This was something Donata really didn’t need to know. At least not yet. Two dirty secrets in one afternoon. Though it meant Silvio could come home now. Looked like he was done with the Russians.

Go out with a bang, not a whimper.

Stefano tried to look completely innocent when Donata opened the door. “What do you think about an early date night tonight?” he asked.

She looked surprised, but then smiled. “Of course, why not?

What caused that?”

What better way to celebrate than to re-do the date night that got ruined, and do it right this time. No accidents, no deaths, no beatings or threats. No Silvio to come rescue him, either. “Just because.”
Because
you’re my wife, and if I’d ordered the killing, would I go out in public
with my wife? Would I?
“Just casual, just you and me.”

“Hotel afterward?”

“Yes. Put on some sexy underwear.” Not that her underwear was ever anything but, but she did go for the whole garter belt ensemble for him, knowing how much he liked that. Yes, definitely a good idea, and it would distract him from the bland faces of tattooed men with defined muscles, who all looked exactly the same, sucking each other’s dicks on the internet.

But when Donata slept, Stefano lay awake, staring off into space for what felt like hours. He crept out of bed, a reverse thief in the night, found his cell phone on the nightstand and palmed it, then went into the living room, where he settled on the leather couch. The screen came alive with a press of the button. A swipe across the lower part of planet Earth took him to the main menu. No red circles, no missed calls. No emails. No Silvio.

He rubbed his face, dug his fingers into his hair, pulled, just to feel something that had to do with his body. Then released, scalp tingling. The elaborate sexual fantasy hadn’t solved the problem.

Taking his wife out to dinner, wining and dining her and then going for their favorite set-up, making love, then cuddling and stroking and massaging—none of that changed a thing.

Was it that part of him craved dick, which his wife couldn’t give him? Or was it really just about Silvio, his presence, his sensuality, the forbidden, utterly crazed desire he’d felt for the man from the day Silvio had stepped from a motorcycle?

Franco was similar, though, his magnetism intense but not quite as commanding. Still, the spark had been there. Maybe he should really stop denying himself. Fuck this madness out of his system, indulge in it as often and as hard as he could bear, and then wash his hands of it. Move on. Didn’t they say screwing around with one’s own gender was a
phase
? So he was doing it in his thirties. With his kind of upbringing, it was no wonder he hadn’t done it before.

Lies and evasions. Had Joey D’Amato been in the same situation?

Thought that going to swinger clubs would purge it and allow him to function as a man of honor? But his girlfriend had betrayed him to the others, who’d made him vanish.
Tap the cocksucker.

What wouldn’t he give to be rid of this. What wouldn’t he give to just be with Donata and not see a single man as an unlived possibility.

Too dangerous.

The only way to calm down was to finish the Bordeaux still standing on the table, drinking from the bottle like some hobo. Once he felt the strong wine slow his thoughts, he returned to bed.

Now it wasn’t thoughts of men that kept him awake, but rather thoughts of the woman beside him—not as his wife, but as his potential worst enemy.

Dark Rival II

rom one moment to the next, Silvio was back. Stefano heard the buzz from the motorcycle first, and then it came into view, Fits two riders hunched over in matching Kevlar-plated leather suits. Stefano stopped in his tracks, waited for Silvio to switch off the machine and dismount, too aware of the sweat beading at his temple and on his forehead.

Silvio pulled his helmet off and smiled at him. “Out running?

Should we fix breakfast while you finish?” As if he’d never been away, or not longer than it would have taken to grab a bottle of milk and some bagels.

Franco took the helmet off, too, but he wasn’t smiling. Was there ever anything more on his face than that deep, ascetic silence?

Complete calm versus Silvio’s barely-contained energy. A plutonium core surrounded by TNT sticks.

“Well, welcome back. I’ll just,” Stefano gestured down the path, “finish this round and grab a shower. I’ll meet you in the main kitchen downstairs.”

Thank God nobody else was in, no
capo
, no Augusto. Donata had left just an hour ago to meet her new yoga instructor. That might be another hour, possibly two. And wasn’t that a wretched existence, timing people to look for a window of illicit opportunity?

Granted, his form was still shot to shit, so he didn’t actually accomplish much when he pushed himself so hard on the last round that his heart hammered against his temples. But being able to run again, however slowly, was already a victory, whatever it cost him.

His mood had lightened considerably by the time he’d walked in through the side entrance and headed for his shower.

He took his time, calmed down under the thick spray, but started as he became aware of the door opening. With water in his eyes, it was impossible to say whether it was Silvio or Franco, but beyond the glass barrier, somebody was peeling himself out of his racing suit.

Stefano wiped his face and opened the glass door.

Silvio, shedding the leather quickly and efficiently. God, to tell him to leave and find his own damned shower? Impossible.

Silvio gave him one of those odd little smiles that didn’t distract from the intensity in his eyes, then glanced to the door. “It’s locked.”

What the hell are you doing, Silvio?

“I know. You . . . always do that, right?”

“Yes.” Silvio straightened and just stood there for a moment, breathing, the line of text across his heart one of many shadows in the dimmed light. He was half aroused, seemingly unaware, or not caring, or simply shameless. “Tell me to leave.”

The barracuda’s closing in for the kill.

“I wouldn’t mean it.” Stefano opened the shower door further.

This was the first time they were both naked in one room. He found he didn’t mind, or, wrong, actually enjoyed how Silvio looked at him.

Hungry. “Come here.”

Silvio entered the shower, brushing Stefano. He smelled of leather and sweat, fumes, iron, mechanical smells. He tasted human, though, when their mouths met, and Stefano felt something like a pain when he put his arm around Silvio. He traced his lips along Silvio’s cheek to his ear. “Don’t do anything.”

“Okay.” Silvio gave him an ironic glance, ran his fingers up Stefano’s arms, a delicious, near-tickling touch, then dropped his hands and crossed them behind his back by the wrists.

Stefano touched his shoulders, broader than they seemed, the strong neck and throat, lightly closing his hands around it, feeling the pulse thunder under his fingertips and the Adam’s apple bob when Silvio swallowed. If anything, Silvio’s stare became more intense, and Stefano used a bit of pressure, just making Silvio feel the touch.

Silvio’s lips parted. “Yeah, I’m into that, too,” he whispered.

“Strangling?”

“Control. All kinds of control.” And there was a plea in his eyes.

Control me.

Stefano used more pressure, enough to be uncomfortable, he imagined, then slipped one hand up over Silvio’s mouth and nose, closing off sounds and airflow. Silvio’s eyes were burning with intensity, but, more importantly, his cock was fully hard now.

Stefano couldn’t help but smile, then tightened his grip and met Silvio’s gaze. What was going on in the head of the man who allowed him to control when he breathed, when he spoke, and got turned on by it?

And what did that make Stefano, to feel a coiling pleasure and satisfaction at that? Silvio could easily free himself but didn’t, and part of Stefano wanted to smother him, take every breath, see how far he would go, how far he
could
go, before that trust flipped into panic and then fight.

Silvio grew tenser, subduing his own reflexes, but forced himself to keep meeting Stefano’s gaze, as if that were a lot more important than breathing. But he’d need to breathe soon; even his powerful discipline was running out, and he was starting to look distressed, eyes wide, chest jerking.

“Why do you want
me
to control you?” Stefano asked close to Silvio’s ear, releasing his mouth and nose but keeping his grip around Silvio’s throat.

Silvio gulped down air, re-saturating his blood with oxygen.

“Because you can do it,” he murmured. “You’ve done it before. You want to. You’re a natural, and so am I.”

Stefano ran his fingers down to Silvio’s chest, then stopped at his nipples, small and hard, despite the hot water and the steam in the shower stal . He took them both, twisted them hard, and Silvio half-cringed away, half-arched.

“Shit.”

“You’re sensitive here.”

“Yeah. Battista used to . . . bite me. When he’s . . . was fucking me from the front.”

Stefano gave them another twist, not sure if he liked hearing that name now, here. What could he do that the old man hadn’t done to Silvio? Ever? Considering their relationship had been extreme enough to include drowning Silvio while fucking him, anything he could do would feel like perfectly normal vanilla sex, wouldn’t it?

“I just think I’m out of my depth with you.”

Silvio smiled, cautiously, as if he was expecting to be punished for it. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But I do. Considering your experience, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Then play it by ear.” Silvio glanced down to Stefano’s hands.

“You’re doing really good here. Touch me anywhere you want.

However you want.”

How to touch him, though? Rough or tender? Kiss or twist?

Slap or stroke him? He’d never be able to unravel that paradox, so he leaned in to kiss Silvio’s lips. He’d never get enough of that, feeling Silvio yield and open for him, the invitation as blatantly sexual as if he’d begged him to fuck him.