Dark Soul, Vol. 3 Read online

  “Any last words?” the shooter asked.

  Sergei looked up into those dark eyes. So many things he could have said, like that he could see them both in that merciless face—the hooker and the young man from the shower. They were the exact same thing and yet completely different. That he was oddly glad the whole talk of changing his body had been a lie. That they could have met under different circumstances, not involving other men or blood. “No, it’s all right. I understand.”

  The shooter crouched low over him, shielding him like a hawk shielded its kill before dismembering it. He placed the muzzle of the gun against the soft flesh between throat and jaw, pointing straight up. It would take the bullet through his brain and possibly blow the roof of his skull off. He’d not even hear the shot.

  The killer ran a gentle hand down his face, oddly comforting, given the situation, and Sergei reached up to press it. He felt the counterpressure. Then nothing.

  Augusto Viero walked in as Stefano was struggling into his shirt. Even he hesitated a moment at the sight of Stefano’s bruises.

  Stefano turned as Augusto stepped forward again and the doctor backed away to write him a prescription. More happy pills, more painkillers that knocked him flat as a kick from an Apulian donkey, as his father would have said. Lifting his hands to button his own goddamned shirt was an exercise in willpower and fine manipulation that he was barely up to, but he’d be damned if any man would help him get dressed. His underboss least of all, who was currently staying here to help with the plans for the war against the Russians.

  “There’s police at the door.”

  “Tell them five minutes.” Or ten. He had been looking forward to the painkillers, but he’d take those when he could relax. Not that he wasn’t already feeling boneless and hazy. Pushing his shirttails into his trousers pulled different muscles and added a slightly different shape to the many jagged, spiky pains in his body. Funny how only a few hours after getting up, it was easy to forget there had been a time when he hadn’t been in pain. He pulled his cashmere sweater over his head, then ran his hand through his hair, ensuring he didn’t look more tousled than could be expected from the idle rich.

  Augusto had stepped seamlessly into Vince’s role, watching Stefano’s back and providing some much-needed moral support. Whatever Augusto’s own ambitions, right now, he was definitely on the same page as Stefano. Of course the man resented him secretly—a healthy, expected desire to take over made him an ultra-efficient lever with which to run the whole organization. Making him underboss two years ago had dulled that hunger for promotion for a little while, but no doubt Augusto had already digested that particular morsel.

  Stefano walked down the stairs to the main reception room and all but breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the top dog of the local police and his second, an ambitious, steely-eyed woman. Thankfully, though, Peter Thomson had expensive mistresses and even more expensive European schools for his legal children.

  I like men with weaknesses, his father had said. I can buy them. Men without weaknesses I have to kill.

  From previous dealings, he knew there might be a case against him, but actually dragging him down would likely take too many resources, what with his battery of lawyers and the fact that the smaller guys in the organization were most likely to take the fall. Even Augusto would take the fall if required—he’d never turn into a rat, as that would destroy what he wanted to own. Now, there was some real old-fashioned leverage.

  But back to the enemy at hand. He rather assumed that while Thomson thought him a scumbag, the received wisdom in local law enforcement was But at least he’s our scumbag.

  He stretched out a hand.

  “Peter, so nice to see you.”

  An hour spent denying all knowledge of anything—why he’d been targeted, why his bodyguards had been shot, and what the thugs had wanted from him. Stefano professed ignorance and outrage, both of which were no stretch from the truth. Peter seemed to accept that, or acted as if he did, and wished him a rapid recovery, without any irony Stefano could detect.

  When the woman, Ann Devereux or something, shook his hand, she leaned in and said, “You might be relieved to know that the men who attacked you were murdered last night.”

  Stefano looked her straight in the eye. “My compassion is severely limited in that case.”

  Thomson touched his second’s arm and smiled at Stefano. “There’s a lot of heat on the street right now, Stefano.”

  And that was that. The cops had showed up merely to check up on him and tell him the thugs were dead. No details, of course, which spelled out “ongoing investigation” in so many words.

  Stefano saw them to the door, returned to the doctor to be instructed on his happy pills, then set himself up nicely in the TV room, pillow against the armrest of the couch, a light blanket draped up to his waist, socked feet wrapped up.

  The TV was worthless, of course, but some news bloggers were better sources.

  Four Russians had been killed last night. Apparently, they’d been stabbed, their throats cut, and one man had been shot in the head. The crime scene suggested there might have been a witness, namely a prostitute, who was missing and strongly encouraged to come forward as she’d been the last person to see the men alive. Stefano wasn’t too worried about that. Most whores were more than happy to stay away from the sweeping gaze of the law.

  “Augusto, have word put out I’d like to find the girl.”

  Augusto nodded and withdrew to make phone calls to the capos with ties to prostitution, who’d put word out with their crews. Stefano flipped through the one million channels that showed nothing and then relaxed into the pillow. There was really no good way to spend the time when messed up like this. At least he wasn’t in the hospital; that counted for something.

  “Boss.” Augusto tore Stefano from his half-sleep, and he struggled to sit up.

  “Yeah, what?”

  “The prostitute. Best I can find out is that it was a transvestite.”

  Stefano laughed, but stopped when it hurt too much. “How do you know?”

  “They apparently found duct tape.”

  “If duct tape turns anybody into a transvestite . . .”

  “Apparently it’s . . . it was used . . . prepared in a way that’s a dead giveaway. Not that I’d know,” Augusto blustered. He didn’t make his money from prostitution, as far as Stefano knew. His fields were construction, some smuggling, and internet poker, the latter of which had the advantage of involving very little leg-breaking.

  “Any other witnesses?”

  “One girl has seen her. Him. Said she . . . he . . . must have been new, she’d never seen . . . it before, but acted as if.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently when that tranny left, he came over to her, said “Smile for me, honey,” and left with the johns. Acting as if they were keeping each other safe, but she’d never seen the tranny before.”

  A freelancer transvestite and quite possibly the number one witness in a quadruple murder. This was getting intriguing. “Any description?”

  “She said the tranny was ‘shit hot.’”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. She did mention creepy black eyes.”

  Stefano swallowed, suddenly cold. “Get that girl out of town. I don’t want her to talk to the police. Make sure she has a good incentive to keep quiet.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Stefano struggled to his feet again, at once drained and wondering how on earth he’d make it out of the house and to Silvio’s bungalow at the edge of the property. Not while this bruised and exhausted; after the last two nights, he was fed up with being fragile. He fished his phone from his pocket. One message.

  Donata informing him she was safe and sound in Italy. He sent her kisses. Nothing more. The best he could think of. Then typed a message to Silvio. Come to the house.

  Two minutes later: K.

  He managed to sit up and look a bit more together when Augusto told h
im that the sicario was at the door. Stefano waved, admitted him in.

  Silvio entered, paused just inside the door, tilting his head in a decidedly birdlike manner, until Stefano nodded to Augusto and dismissed him. Silvio then moved closer, very nearly gliding over the carpet. “How are you?”

  “Worried now.” Stefano pointed at the chair near the couch, but Silvio ignored part of the order and sat down on the armrest instead, close enough that Stefano could smell him. Leather, even though he was wearing chinos and a tight Lycra top, like he was about to strip out of the trousers and pull on some tight shorts to go running, like he did every morning and often in the evenings, too. Not that he’d been keeping track.

  “Don’t worry about the Russians,” Silvio said softly.

  That, if anything, only confirmed his suspicion. “How did you do it?”

  “I killed three with a knife, shot the last one in the head. Sergei.”

  Sergei. Stefano shuddered. He didn’t need to know Frankenstein’s name. “Their leader?”

  “Yes. Big guy.”

  “Weren’t they suspicious?”

  “There are ways to overcome suspicion,” Silvio said with all the blasé attitude of a long-term student of Sun Tzu, then dropped his hand, brushing Stefano’s neck seemingly by accident. “They won’t suspect me.”

  He’d done what any sicario would have done. Found a way to eliminate the target and then acted with the utmost effectiveness. Still, worry and belated fear coiled in Stefano’s chest. “Did you get hurt?”

  Silvio paused, his fingers resting for a long moment on Stefano’s neck, as if he had to reassure himself that Stefano still had a pulse and was still breathing. “I never get hurt.”

  “That’s bullshit.” Stefano turned, the violent movement rattling every bone and tendon in his body, fuelling his sudden anger. “Carbone hurt you. Falchi did.” He struggled to his feet and saw a flicker of alarm in those black eyes. “Carbone shot you. I’ve seen that scar.” Low on your belly, just above the groin, to the side, where humans have the appendix. And I’ve seen you cry, Silvio.

  Silvio’s thin lips moved into something like a smile. “And you did.”

  “Me?” Stefano felt almost ridiculous, bristling at Silvio when he could barely stand upright, tottering on his socked feet, the low coffee table digging into the back of his knee. “I’ve done nothing like that.”

  “It hurts to see you hurt.” Silvio’s black gaze raked up and down his body, and Stefano remembered, shamefaced, the failed blowjob. How much more he wanted this killer than his revenge. Going toe to toe with those Russians . . . that was not what he’d expected. Wanted. Condoned.

  “What happened? What happened to you, Silvio?”

  Silvio leaned back, draped one arm along the back of the couch, looking like he’d been carefully arranged by a photographer who sought to display his midriff and those long legs. And, Stefano thought, the bulge of his groin. He wanted to dig his fingers into that throat, take hold of that cock, hard, feel Silvio flinch, admit that he, like any man, could hurt. Diversion tactics. He recognized them.

  “I dressed up nice, baited them, got taken to their safe house. Where . . .” Silvio let the pause linger, then the tip of his tongue flashed, briefly, in the corner of his mouth. “Things happened.”

  “And you let them?”

  Silvio shrugged, his eyes half-closed, dark, somewhere between sultry and menacing. “There are things about me that you don’t know.” And it’s none of your business, either, that gaze said.

  Things you don’t know. Silvio had come from being fucked by a gun. He’d come from being almost drowned. But the same man had guarded his sleep, kept flirting with him. Stefano shook his head, tried to wrap his mind around someone who could be so gentle and at the same time so twisted. What else was there he didn’t know? And, a small voice asked, can I ever hope to claim him? Ever, really, have him?

  “Then tell me.” Stefano limped over and placed his hand on Silvio’s belly. All flat, taut muscle. The relaxed position was just a guise. Silvio was coiled and ready to attack. He splayed his fingers, rubbed that patch, felt the heat underneath the fabric. He wanted to pull the shirt free and touch the bare skin. “I want to understand.”

  Silvio took his hand and pressed it harder against his belly. “You understand more than most.”

  “But . . . dressing up like a woman?”

  Silvio smiled. “It’s useful.”

  And disconcerting. Silvio did look boyish, at times feminine, but Stefano knew too much about him by now to buy into that.

  “Do you want to see it?” Silvio asked and sat up. “Give me two hours, and I’ll show you.” No shame, no hint of discomfort. What man did that? What was this to Silvio? A real desire, wearing women’s clothes? A ruse? Battle tactics? And then that other, darker, deeper thought. That Silvio played a prostitute. That he could be bought, paid for sex. Stefano shifted on his feet, then withdrew to almost fall into the nearest chair.

  “Do you want to see me?” Silvio asked.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “But you do want to know how I fooled them.”

  No, I want to understand. He wanted to know everything about this man, explore that darkness that kept calling to him. Even if he’d never understand it, he wanted to learn all he could. “Silvio, I—have come to think of you a certain way.”

  “You want me as a guy.”

  I don’t know. “All right, show me.”

  Silvio left for his place, returned shortly after with a duffel and disappeared into Stefano’s bathroom. When he emerged again in his skirt and fishnets and nearly ass-high boots, Stefano did a double take. The killer was still underneath, visible in every lean, taut line of that body, the overly perceptive dark eyes. Yet that other side of Silvio, that sensuality, was now unfettered.

  Donata would have scoffed at those extremely tight clothes and the provocative makeup, but Stefano figured she wasn’t really the target audience. But there was something about a fresh face, long limbs and cheap “fuck me” clothes that appealed to every molecule of testosterone in his body. Now that the pills had turned most of his pains into dull aches, he might even be able to do something with it.

  “That’s impressive,” he murmured.

  Silvio came toward him, stalking movements on those high heels. The man had either supreme natural balance or a lot of practice. It was easy to see the hooker, especially when those painted fake fingernails cupped his dick through his trousers. It was an act, of course, maybe the most obvious way to gauge his reaction.

  The way Silvio’s lips curled, he wasn’t displeased with the result. “Twenty for a blowjob?”

  Stefano drew a deep breath. “I’ve got no cash on me.”

  “I’ll put it on your tab.” Silvio looked at him, then drew so close that Stefano smelled the makeup, and his vision blurred a little. The black eyes, though, they stayed exactly the same. Living darkness.

  Silvio’s kiss jolted him down to his toes, and the question of whether he was kissing a man or woman suddenly blurred. It didn’t seem to matter. It wasn’t that the illusion was perfect; Silvio was still Silvio. But whether he was a she, or a demon, or an angel, or a dirty dream, none of it mattered in the face of that gut-wrenching desire.

  Stefano put his hand against Silvio’s chest. “I always pay my debts,” he said, lips both numb and on fire, like he’d rubbed cocaine into his gums.

  Silvio exhaled a toneless laugh. “Maybe I just want you.” He took Stefano’s hand and placed it against his ass, beneath the short skirt. “Feel you here.”

  Stefano’s fingers curled into the tight muscle, slid into the crack, and pressed two fingers against Silvio’s opening. The man arched against him, suddenly breathless. There was no erection to feel against his leg. Duct tape. He’d taped his dick back between his legs.

  Stefano pulled him closer, slid that ridiculously short skirt up and got to the g-string underneath. He pushed that aside and found Silvio’s
hole again. He circled it and felt lube there already.

  “You slut,” he murmured into Silvio’s ear.

  Silvio moaned, and God damn him, but that was the sexiest sound in the world. Wrestling control from the killer was a power trip, and right now, Stefano wanted nothing more than to feel in control. He pushed two fingers into Silvio’s ass. Silvio placed both arms around his neck, no doubt to steady himself, and moaned into his mouth. The tight muscle gave and Stefano thrust deeper, burying his fingers as deep as they would go.

  “Yeah. Shit.” Silvio pushed against him, legs open, back arched. “Curl . . . curl . . . Stefano …”

  The breathless, semi-coherent words went right to Stefano’s gut. He only had a theoretical knowledge of how to pleasure a man, but he was onto something here. He curled his fingers down, found something that felt a bit different in the tight, slick heat, and from Silvio’s groans assumed that was that. Like discovering the right way to touch a woman’s clit.

  He pushed against that area, slid his fingers across it, every movement rewarded with a moan or a shudder, and he smiled, an odd tenderness tugging at him, holding this killer in his arm and pleasuring him, feeling every response in the other man’s body, close and tight like a lover. That was what they were now, right?

  He pulled his fingers nearly free and pushed in again, mimicking fucking, but always remembering to touch that area. Silvio pressed his groin against Stefano’s leg, rubbing against him, fiercely focused now on getting off.

  Stefano kissed the arching neck, the bared throat, inhaled his smell that made him feel drunk. Every movement jolted through his abused body, but nothing in the world would have made him let Silvio go or tell him to stop. He wasn’t sure if Silvio would have understood—or obeyed.

  Silvio’s muscles clenched around him, making this more of a struggle, but when his whole body tensed, every line hard, Stefano realized Silvio was about to come. He thrust in harder, violently, and held Silvio close when he released his tension with a few erratic jerks of his hips.