Dark Soul Vol. 4 (5 page)

“Okay. But do get in touch when you need anything. A favor.

Something happening. Any kind of help.” Get
in touch
. Shit.
Put the
foot in deeper, will you.

Franco remained silent for a minute or so, just fixing his eyes on something invisible to the side of Stefano’s head. “It’s Silvio’s birthday on the twentieth.”

“October?”

Franco nodded. “Silvio wants to belong. Make him.” He seemed about to turn away, then paused again. “Thing is, I can’t.”

Stefano could have sworn he’d left his cell phone in the kitchen, but he found it in the living room, next to the TV remote.

When he pushed the curtains aside, he spotted Donata talking to Silvio outside the bungalow. Of course she had an excuse to talk to Silvio, but seeing the two of them standing there, together, he realized again how much he wanted them both. And prayed he wouldn’t hurt either of them.

He half-expected her to bitch-slap Silvio, rake her nails across his face, and shuddered. The image was too clear in his head.

Bad conscience. Like a man watching his wife stumble across his mistress.

Thing was, Silvio didn’t deserve either the pain or the humiliation.

He’d done nothing that wrong. It still took two to cheat, and Silvio was a gay man, unattached, hedonistic. It was Stefano, and Stefano alone, who was breaking the rules, largely, damn it al , because he accepted the rules, unlike Silvio. He envied him that sometimes, but Donata made it all worthwhile. The chance to have a family, a home, and to live in peace.

Stefano looked down at the phone in his hand, pressed the button and swiped it active, then sent a text to Silvio.

You okay there?

A tingle ran down his spine when Silvio pushed his hand into the front pocket of his jeans, pulled the phone free, and quickly checked his message. Silvio looked up to him, doubtlessly seeing the curtain move from where he stood. Was that a nod? Hard to say. But Stefano wanted him to know he was watching, taking an interest. Guarding.

There for him.

Silvio put the phone back into his pocket. He and Donata kept talking for a little while longer, and then Donata returned to the house.

Stefano’s phone buzzed. The message said,
Gotta talk.

Uh-oh. He texted back:
When?

Whenever.

Not helpful. He dialed and Silvio answered immediately. “How bad is it?”

“We gotta talk, but make it look unconnected.”

“I’ll come by later.” Even though spending time with Silvio alone in the bungalow was something he’d avoided since Silvio had come back. Accidents happened too easily.
Sorry, sir, I have no idea how my
cock ended up in his mouth . . .
Stefano scoffed.
Right.
But damn it if he’d managed to banish the memory of how Silvio felt against him.

“I’ll be here,” Silvio said and disconnected.

Stefano slid the phone into his pocket and paced the room. He wasn’t the best at waiting. Or looking inconspicuous while doing it.

When he checked on Donata, she was preparing herself a salad and seemed to suspect nothing when he told her he’d just drop by Silvio’s and check how he and his brother were doing.

Easy enough.

The bungalow was dark from the outside. Silvio was sitting on a stone step of the verandah, dressed in his biking leathers, helmet against his knee, bike standing close enough to touch it.

“You heading out?”

Silvio didn’t turn his head—not surprised in the least, like he’d heard Stefano coming from a mile away. “Yeah. I gotta . . . blow off some steam.”

Impossible to ignore what that meant. “You got a date?”

“A date?” Silvio snorted. “No, I’ll just . . .” He broke off, then looked at him, direct, as if to gauge his reaction, “Find a guy or two.”

Two guys. Together, or after one another? And why did that give him that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach? “Where’s Franco?”

“He’s gone.” Silvio’s voice sounded hollow. “
Gone
gone. I’d have raced him to the airport, but I didn’t notice. He only took his passport, so I didn’t suspect he’d leave for good. He knew I’d have stopped him. Tried to at least.”

“He clearly didn’t want to be stopped.” Stefano reached over and touched Silvio’s shoulder, felt him vibrate with tension, maybe rage, maybe pain. “What happened while you were on the hunt?”

Silvio shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I know you’re close, Silvio. I’m not judging.”

Silvio groaned and pressed his eyes shut. “I sometimes think Franco’s the only man who won’t just send me away. I was right.
He
left. Probably to save me the pain, the asshole!”

“Shit, Silvio.” Stefano crouched down and pulled Silvio into an embrace. Silvio didn’t open up at al , just leaned against him, breathing heavily.

Silvio wants to belong. Make him.

Stefano ran his hand up and down Silvio’s back, remembering, clearly, the muscles, the wet skin under the shower, and that same need to feel, to touch, to understand and explore. Just this time, it wasn’t sexual. Erotic, sure. Wanting to touch was always erotic, always guided by attraction.

The only man who won’t send me away.

And hadn’t he, so often, considered the same? Send Silvio away to deny who he was, go back into that comfortable half-life of shutting off at least half his emotions? Pretend everything was just peachy, if only he could remove the man who drove him crazy with desire?

Get rid of him after, of course, he’d fought and won a war for him, returned everything to the status quo, only to be dismissed like a dirty secret, consigned to the past as soon as possible.

“I’m sorry, Silvio.”

Silvio pressed his face into Stefano’s shoulder, and Stefano held onto that lean, powerful body that could give him so much. Would, frankly, give him everything. Everything, that was, but actually letting go and crying.

Silvio pushed away and rubbed at his eyes. “Thought I’d fixed him. Just a bit, you know.”

“Fixed what?”

“He can’t touch people. He’s . . . I don’t know. He just can’t.” Silvio blinked a few times. “One thing Paolo did, you know. Never touched either of us. Well, unless . . .”

The rest of the words didn’t even need speaking. Stefano didn’t want to hear it. He knew that part of the story from Falchi. Paolo had utterly failed as a father, and Silvio was still suffering from it.

“He did say you changed him, though. In the kitchen. He told me you change everything you touch. I’m pretty sure that was what he meant.”

“Then why did he just leave?”

“Maybe he needs time to think.”

“Thinking’s overrated.” Silvio pushed away and stared at the motorbike. “Anyway, I gotta head out. Get my head back on right.”

Don’t go.
Stefano put his hand on Silvio’s arm and squeezed. “Or come up to the house.”
If you’re that lonely.

“Not a good idea. You got some stuff to do first.”

“With Donata? What was that about?”

“Yeah, she asked if you have a mistress.”

Stefano almost choked on his next breath. “She asked that?”

“Not that directly, but yeah. If I knew of any other women.”

Shit. The reason why his phone had shown up in the wrong place, too. But one thing irked him. She was way too smart to forget to put it back where she’d found it after she’d checked it for suspicious numbers, calls, or texts. Did she want him to ask her? Oh hell, like he didn’t have enough on his plate. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. Said I’d keep my eyes open. But also you’ve been too busy and probably too injured to do anything like that.”

“And?”

“She said she figured it might have started before the attack from the Russians.”

Which was about right. He reached again for Silvio’s wrist, but Silvio was already moving away. Somehow, it was important that he didn’t leave to fuck strangers. One or two, it didn’t even matter. Right now, Silvio seemed too brittle for that. “Come on, stay.”

Silvio pulled away. “Go home to your wife, Stefano. She’s worried.” He settled on the motorbike, soon to become half-machine, half-beast, and slipped his helmet on. He slapped the dark visor shut immediately; it looked like one gigantic, reflective eye staring back at him. The engine started with a deep powerful rumble. No stopping now. It felt like trying to intercept the space shuttle during countdown. He watched Silvio meld his body to the motorbike, hunching deeper. Then he turned the handle and off he was, careful at first but speeding up once he hit the gravel, wheels spitting stones everywhere.

Stefano pushed his fists into his trousers, torn between trying to chase Silvio by car and cursing him. Was this one of those moments when Franco had warned him to let Silvio go? The alternative would have been to tackle him and throttle him, then fuck him, and throttle him some more.

He’d probably enjoy that, the bastard.

Stefano waited for the sound of the engine to fade, and tried hard not to imagine Silvio trading kisses with strangers in a bar.

Tried not to imagine Silvio fucking or being fucked by a stranger. It turned his stomach, and amidst the nausea was something like anger, resentment, worry, and other emotions he couldn’t even name. Too many, changing too quickly. Did he even have a right to keep Silvio away from his usual hunting grounds? He, who’d opted for the easy “I’ll let you know”?

No, he didn’t. No moral right, not if he stretched the definitions, not if he applied the boss bonus. He fingered the phone in his pocket, considered sending Silvio a text, but whatever he’d send right now would be too raw and open and definitely too suspicious, so he didn’t.

By the time he returned to the house, he felt miserable. If there had been a way to avoid this, he would have. Which was ironic; half his job as the boss was to mediate conflicts. But it was one thing to tell two pissed-off
capos
how to reach a compromise (and sometimes order them to), and another to face Donata.

She was sitting in the kitchen, salad finished, sipping white wine.

Stefano went to the fridge, rifled through it, but couldn’t find any appetite anywhere in his body. He was just doing it to do something.

Anything, really.

“Stefano, I think we have to talk,” she said, with none of the accusation he’d feared.

“Sure.” He sat down opposite, shook his head when she indicated the bottle. He never drank when he had to think fast on his feet. It would have been a really bad habit in his position. He’d even hated the fuzziness from the painkillers. “What’s up?”

She shook her head. “I should ask you that.”

Fair enough. She was playing it close to the vest. “Explain.”

She sighed. “You haven’t been the same recently.” She turned the wine glass in her fingers, looking at the liquid, then set it down and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I thought it had to do with what’s going on in your job. The restlessness, the bad sleep, you sneaking out of bed in the dead of night and returning hours later.

I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to pressure you. I didn’t want to add to that. I know you’re working hard and take things personally, and with Vince hurt and Cesare . . .” She sighed again, deeper this time. “I still don’t want to add to your load. But I think it started before it got that bad.”

“The Russians have been plaguing us for months.”

“There’s always
something
going on in your life,” she shot back.

“But you always dealt with it. Never lost sleep, and God Almighty knows there’ve been some rough times.”

“Are you telling me I’m getting soft?” Trust a woman to turn the dagger in the wound.

“Stefano, you
are
soft, certainly compared to your father. But that’s not a bad thing. I’ve always preferred you for that, you know.

You are gentler than a great many men in your position or the family.

You care about people. You’re good with people. You can mingle in polite society and not stand out like some thug. But recently, you’ve been all over the place. Scattered, worn, really . . . really preoccupied.

That’s so not you.”

Where’s my sharp, carefree, macho husband?
Wasn’t that what it translated to? Stefano rubbed his face. “Maybe I just need an extended holiday. We could go somewhere. Even Paris. Whatever.

Change of scenery.”

“Running away won’t help.” She gave a sad smile. “Stefano, what’s wrong? And don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve really changed, and I don’t like it.”

I’m scared to tell you because I might lose you, him, and my life.
“I can’t talk about it.”
I really can’t. If you want to think I have a mistress,
then think it. I wish it were that simple.

“God, but you look absolutely miserable.” She bit her lower lip.

“Who is she?”

“Donata . . .”

“You’re good at covering your tracks, I’ll give you that.” She stood, her features hard now, which detracted nothing from her beauty. “I just wish you’d own up to it. Isn’t that the thing with mafia men— they’re all bark, no bite when it comes to owning up to it?”

Ouch.
“I don’t have a mistress, Donata. I swear.”

She measured him, and the sinking feeling in his stomach came from the knowledge that he didn’t pass the test. “I don’t believe you.”

Well, technically . . .
“What do you want from me?”

“Own up to it. I can live with a cheater, but not with a coward.”

Where did women learn to hit all the sore spots in just one conversation? Then again, Silvio was pretty good at that too.
Men kill
you, but women eviscerate you first,
he remembered his mother saying.

Wasn’t that the truth. Silvio was certainly in touch with his feminine side. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said, and felt his own voice break.

Her face softened just long enough for her to blink tears back.

He wished she’d go berserk, slap him, because he deserved it and it might even make him feel better, crystal ize the roiling misery in his gut into an external pain. But she stayed still, far more in control of her emotions than he was of his.