Dark Soul Vol. 2 (4 page)

The van stopped, the door slid open.

Bridge underpass. His captor grabbed him by the arms and almost lifted him up to his feet, then pushed him toward a large car that stood a fair distance away. “Into the trunk,” he ordered.

Stefano couldn’t fight it, and he sure as hell couldn’t outrun a bullet. No witnesses, nobody around, so nobody would hear him either—or not fast enough to call the cops.

“Deal with the car,” the goon ordered, and one of the men pulled an object from his jacket, tossed it into the open door and loped easily back toward them with a grin on his face.

The car tore apart in heat and metal shards just a few moments later.

The head goon pushed Stefano into the trunk and shut the lid, closing him in darkness.

Would they just drive him into the lake like this? He fought his restraints, knowing it was futile. There were no sharp edges, no leverage of any kind, nothing he could use to pull the restraints open.

He swallowed against panic.
They wouldn’t have taken me like this if
they’d just planned to shoot me. They want me alive.

Or maybe they plan to torture me first. Make an example.

Stefano caught himself praying, eyes closed, rattling through the ancient words because they kept him from thinking about what these men could do to him, what he couldn’t stop them from doing. Prayer at least occupied him, helped him not to obsess whether Silvio had picked up Donata by now and brought her safely home.

Whatever would happen then. Maybe he wouldn’t have any part in that at al .

The car stopped. Doors clapped shut, and Stefano tensed up.

He blinked against the sudden brightness when the lid opened and complied when they almost lifted him out of the trunk.

They were in an empty warehouse, just concrete floor and walls, windows up high. Vacant but for him, the car, and four goons, all of them most likely Russian, standing around him in a loose circle.

Stefano’s stomach sank low as he looked from one to the other, quick glances that failed to confirm their intentions. None held a weapon, though. Not anymore. Not yet? He still felt the echo from the shots that had killed Vince and Cesare, knew they’d kill him too, if that was their order.

“Good you could join us,” the pale-eyed goon said, finally. Maybe he was the leader, or possibly spoke the best English.

Stefano looked him in the eye, unwilling to show fear, even though he was tied up and alone and they’d killed his people. It was all he had. He almost didn’t dare hope they’d respect him if he showed no fear. Their actions weren’t those of men who respected anybody.

“What do you want?”

“Sending warning from us to you.” The big guy stepped a little closer. “Leave city, never come back, and you can live.”

“Or?”

“We kill everybody.” The sky is blue.

“Okay. I’ll think about it.” Stefano managed to breathe. He met the Russian’s eyes levelly, hoping that the old rule of staring a predator in the face might mean they wouldn’t lash out. Or was it the other way round? Did they attack because it looked like a challenge?

The man’s rough-hewn face twitched, and Stefano noticed scarring as if from heat and dust, leathered skin and thick tissue giving him an even fiercer appearance, making him look unfinished—a Russian version of Frankenstein’s monster.

“See, little man. You better think fast.”

“I’m quite quick on my feet,” Stefano asserted.

The Russian exhaled between his teeth. “We just make sure you don’t forget, what do you call it? ‘The pros and cons.’” He nodded to the others and reached into his pocket. Knuckleduster. Okay, this would hurt a great deal. Terror settled in his bones, deep down, like hearing his father’s belt hiss through the loops.

“You’re gonna beat up a tied-up man? Coward,” Stefano hissed, because it was the only thing that kept him from cringing away.

The Russian looked him up and down, then grunted something.

A name? One of his friends stepped close and patted Stefano roughly down, then cut the plastic restraints with a short, viciously curved knife made from blackened steel. Before Stefano could breathe a sigh of relief, an iron-clad fist hit him low in the gut, and he doubled over.

A rough hand grabbed his hair, as if to mock him for the fact he, unlike the Frankenstein Four, didn’t have a buzz cut. “Ever watch news?” Squinting, Stefano met the man’s stare. “Do you know about Grozny?”

Before he could answer, the bastard kneed him in the face.

Through the shock and pain, Stefano felt his nose break with sickening clarity. Tears streamed from his eyes and he staggered back, only to be knocked flat on his ass by the guy’s flying kick to his chest. He didn’t get up—too hurt, winded, and blinded to protect his pride. Blood was running down the back of his throat, making him choke. He spit it out and tried to protect himself, cringing.

“Nobody calls me a coward and walks away,” the Russian growled.

Yeah, well, even the meanest schoolyard bully could probably delude himself that what he did was an expression of courage and bravery. He hated how the man’s hands grabbed him and pulled him up again, and how the bastard walked him up against the car. Stefano kicked and pushed and resisted any way he could, but the impact against the car winded him again.

“Hold him for me,” the Russian ordered in English, no doubt for Stefano’s benefit. Two of those assholes grabbed his arms, spread him out against the car. Stefano cursed and fought and barely stilled when the Russian grabbed his face in one meaty hand. “Remember one thing, little man. If you don’t leave, this will be nothing. If we get you next time, we’ll turn you into a goat.”

Stefano couldn’t help but laugh. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Ever gone to the prison? The guy they fuck up the ass all the time.

He’s the goat.” Stefano swallowed hard against that grip. He didn’t doubt it, and part of him cringed inside, disgusted at how powerless he was. He hadn’t been this scared in fifteen, twenty years. There was no leer on the Russian’s face. That man would do that—had probably done it—without a moment’s thought or hesitation.

“But first I teach you pain.” The Russian stepped back, much like a boxer finding the perfect distance, then punched Stefano in the gut again. Stretched out like this, there was nothing he could do to protect himself. Getting hit like that hurt like a motherfucker.

The Russian punched him again—all heavy, solid body blows, every one powerful enough to have doubled him over or made him go down, but the men holding him up blocked even that escape. They didn’t have to pick him up; there was no rest.

He had no idea where the next blow would fall or how bad it would be, and he cursed the bastard when the guy stepped back just to roll his shoulders and grin. “How do you like that?”

Stefano coughed, unsure of how much air he could get. His torso was on fire, hurt, raw, broken down, everything stretched and wide open to the brutal force. He didn’t want to say anything, wasn’t sure he could find words. He just shook his head and gave a pained yelp when the fist hit him again, shorter distance now because the Russian stepped right into him. It only made the agony everywhere in his torso worse.

“Had enough? Ask me for mercy.”

Stefano swallowed the blood from his broken nose and blinked his eyes clear, that alone a supreme effort. Everything hurt. Breathing, standing, being alive.

His pride didn’t matter, there were no witnesses.

But you’ll know you did it.

“Stop. Please.”
Please.

The Russian grabbed his head again and forced him to look up into his face. For a terrible, hot-cold moment, Stefano expected the man to kiss him or bite him on the face.
But they sure don’t kiss goats,
do they?
Hysteria and pain gave way to a strange detachment, as if he wasn’t really in his body, didn’t actually live here. Only the pain connected him to it, that sharp, sawing ache everywhere in his body anchoring him as much as it kept him conscious.

“Please,” Stefano added, lips too close to the Russian’s face.

The Russian let his hair go, took a step back, turned—and turned further, landing a terrible kick to Stefano’s ribcage that felt as though it shattered every bone in his chest. Stefano’s legs gave out, and the Russian muttered “We’re done here” to his comrades.

They let him go. Stefano fell forward, legs too weak to hold him.

He hit the ground and gasped at the broken pain in his chest, every organ in his body bruised and throbbing. He must have passed out for a while, because it was dark and he was alone when he came to again.

Getting to his feet proved to be the hardest thing he’d ever done; tears were streaming down his face when he finally stood. Finding his way in the dark warehouse was yet another nightmare. He could barely walk and ended up stumbling into everything along the wall to find a door, only to realize after agonizing hours there wasn’t one and he had to walk the other way. No cell phone. Where on earth was he?

At last he found a door and the yard, and the street beyond. It had to be late; just a few cars were on the streets and none stopped.

He clearly looked like the victim of a mugging, and people just didn’t want to get involved. Who’d blame them? A good part of the family’s power was based on that very human behavior of avoiding trouble.

Ahead, a flickering neon motel sign. Not a chain. Stefano dragged himself toward it. The place turned out to be perfect, run down and renting rooms by the hour. The fucking Russians had left him his wallet and cash.

Even in his state, leaning one elbow heavy on the counter, breathing hard as if he’d been shot in the gut, the guy behind the counter didn’t ask any questions, not even whether he needed anything—the assumption remained unspoken that he didn’t.

Stefano paid. “Can I use . . . your phone?”

The guy palmed the money and shoved a phone from the end of the counter at him. Stefano dialed Silvio’s number, even though his hands hurt bad punching the buttons, and he was shaking so hard the receiver almost slipped a few times.

“You’ve reached the voice—”

Stefano’s knees buckled and his vision grayed out, and he fought against passing out because he doubted very much that anybody would call an ambulance. They’d likely throw his carcass into the yard and claim they’d never seen him.

Probably rob me first, too.

The tone, finally, the motherfucking tone. “Silvio. I’m . . .” he glanced around, spotted the address taped to the desk. “120 North Street. Come and get me.”
Please.
He put the phone down, which took far too much concentration and precision, and pushed away from the counter.

He didn’t walk so much as hobble to his room. First floor. Clearly his lucky day.

He managed to shut the door, hoping that Silvio could still get through it, then made it to the bed. Sitting down hurt. Fal ing back hurt worse, jolting more pain through him that threatened to engulf everything. He lacked the strength to lift his legs, didn’t manage to force them up, the strain on his ribs unbearable. He closed his eyes, tried to somehow get through the pain and just pass out.

When his consciousness finally, thank God, began to fade, it might just as well have been death as exhaustion.

The door opened. Scuffing noises on the cheap carpet. He opened his eyes. A dark shape against the darkness of the room, lit only by errant neon light from the street outside. “Stefano?”

Silvio. Thank God.

“Here.” Stefano croaked. God, his chest hurt. The kind of relentless, terrible pain that wore down all defenses, all willpower, turned even a wiseguy into a crying kid.

“Can I switch on the light?”

“. . . Yeah.” Breathing hurt. Stefano tried to push himself up, but he was too weak.

Silvio switched the light on and stood there in his black bike leathers. His dark eyes widened for a moment, but not in horror or shock; just a nocturnal predator getting used to different light conditions.

“What happened?”

Stefano shook his head, not surprised when that hurt like fuck, too. “Help me.”

Silvio moved closer, set his helmet down and knelt beside the bed, looking right into Stefano’s face. “I’m here. What do you want?”

“Just be here.”

Silvio reached for Stefano’s legs and lifted them onto the bed.

That took some pressure from his spine, and Stefano hissed as the pain seemed to lessen a bit. “Move up.”

“Can’t.”

“You got here. You can move.”

Stefano accepted the logic. It all seemed less bad when he wasn’t alone. With gritted teeth, he managed to push himself up far enough that his legs had room on the bed. Silvio climbed onto the mattress, too, and the irony did not escape Stefano that this was the first time they were in bed together, in a cheap charge-by-the-hour motel, and no one was in the mood for sex.

“Donata?”

“She’s frantic with worry. She said a bunch of Russians plucked you from the car.”

“They killed . . .”

“Cesare.”

“And Vince.”

“No, he’s not dead. He was shot in the chest, but he might make it, the surgeons say.”

“Thank fuck.” Stefano closed his eyes again, nearly passing out from relief, as though not knowing had been the main thing keeping him together.

“They choppered him to a trauma center. They’ll call if anything changes. Speaking of which.” Silvio pulled his phone from the insides of his leather jacket, tapped the screen a few times and put it to his ear. “Mrs. Marino? I found your husband. He’s all right. I’ll get him home.” He glanced Stefano over. “He looks like he was beaten, but no serious injuries I can see. Yes, ma’am. I’ll take care of him. I’ll be in touch. No, ma’am. Please.” Like she was thanking him. “Yes, I’ll call you immediately.” Silvio tapped the screen again and slid the phone back into his pocket.

“How bad are you?”

“Not . . . good.” Stefano pressed his lips together.

“Okay. Don’t speak. I’ll touch you, okay?”

“You do,” Stefano answered.
You
do
touch me.

Silvio’s fingers carefully trailed over his neck before they got anywhere near his torso. Then Silvio opened Stefano’s jacket and ran his hands along col arbones and then ribs, making Stefano wince.