Dark Soul Vol. 5 (11 page)

“This is a problem, Marino.”

“I’ve given you everything else.”

“Then why are you protecting him? What’s so special about this one? Did he kill the Russians and that mercenary is a fabrication?”

Beccaria stalked closer, but outside punching distance. Smart man.

“Or is he,” he licked his lips and glanced pointedly at Donata, who’d lowered the catalogue and was giving him an even stare back, “the guy you cheated with?”

Stefano couldn’t help it, he laughed, though it came out as a strangled bark. “If you think I’d testify against my lover, you’re not just an asshole, but a dumb one to boot. And if you ever again try to play me against my wife, you’ll regret it.”

Beccaria stopped, stared at him, clearly caught on the wrong foot.

Stefano wanted to attack him, punch him, punch him in the face until none of his features were left. He’d never hated anybody as much in his life, not after his father. Thank God for the flatness of his emotions, and thank God that he had so much practice at hiding them.

“I’m not testifying against my lover,” he repeated. “If that means you want to void our deal, then I’m getting in so many lawyers that that trial of yours moves a thousand years into the future. I’ll fight you, asshole, and I don’t care if I end up in prison. You won’t fuck me.”

Beccaria’s lips twisted in disgust. “Lover? Do you know who Silvio Spadaro is?”

If he’s not who I think he is, I don’t want to know.
Stefano shook his head. “I don’t give a fuck. I know who he is to me.”

“Did he kill those men?”

“No. Fuck you. He got an outsider in.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Fuck you.”

“A Federal agent died in that massacre. There’s no way around it.

The Feds want the killer.”

Stefano shook his head. “I don’t know who did it. It wasn’t Silvio.”

“Oh, really? Where was he when the hit happened?”

“In our bed,” Donata said, coldly. “I’m a witness. And Stefano, of course, given that we both had sex with him.” She closed the catalogue with a decisive snap. “I do remember such a gifted young man.” She smiled, but her eyes were cold as frost-glittering steel.

Again, Beccaria reeled, stared at Donata, but he didn’t get anything out of her. Then back at Stefano.

Stefano shrugged. “I was going to protect our sex life, but what she said. Silvio was in bed with us.”

“Really?” That one, snide word lacked conviction. “Now there’s an image. Have you ever wondered if Silvio Spadaro isn’t a bit . . .” He tapped his temple. “Mentally challenged? I do wonder how somebody who’s so emotionally stunted can be anybody’s lover.”

“What?” Stefano uncrossed his arms. “He’s not a fucking retard.”

“Unless he’s had some amazing long-term therapy, I doubt very much that he can form a connection to anybody. Unless, of course, he’s been a sex toy more than a . . .” He waved his hand as if looking for a word.

“Lover,” Donata said and sighed, like she was indulging a slow child.

“Or that,” Beccaria muttered. “He’s on the autism spectrum.

Retard is not the politically correct word, but . . .”

“I only see one retard here,” Stefano hissed.

Beccaria huffed laughter. “Very well. If that’s what you want.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve risked everything for somebody like that. Now, I do wonder, Marino—you call him your lover, but did he ever, I mean, ever at al , reciprocate? Ever indicate that he had any feelings? Ever formed a connection like normal people do?”

“Let me get this straight.
You
are asking me this? Why do you give a fuck? What’s it to you whether Silvio’s ‘normal’ or not?”

Beccaria waved him off. “Has he? He can’t. He was born without that facility.”

“And how would you know?” Stefano demanded. “You can’t possibly know this shit, so all you’re saying is conjecture.” He didn’t like that he used a word he’d snapped up from Rinaldi, but it seemed to fit here. “Guesswork. You can’t have known him from birth.”

“I can.” Beccaria glowered at him. “I took my wife’s name.”

Stefano stared at him, and slowly, ever so slowly, he recognized something in Beccaria. The cast of his bottle-glass green eyes, the forehead, the nose. Compared to Silvio’s ambiguity and Franco’s sun-weathered asceticism, Beccaria was softer, louder, more demanding.

Not an unattractive man, probably, but in this case, he could really not appreciate it. Was that even possible? “You’re a Spadaro,” he said.

Beccaria glared, and Stefano almost hoped he’d attempt to hit him. Punching the bastard would be tremendously satisfying.

“Nurture versus nature,” Beccaria crowed, as if ramming home a point that was important to him. “Let’s say I’m in a much better position to judge Silvio than you are. Compared to fully-developed, sane people, Silvio Spadaro is only half-human, and that’s a fact. He’s so stunted he doesn’t even realize he’s barely able to feel anything. If that’s the kind of person you want in your bed, well, that’s your choice, but I bet he makes a fine killer.”

Oh hell, if he was Silvio’s oldest brother, this explained so much.

And no doubt he figured he was the white sheep in the family, too.

Stefano still had no idea how to respond to the revelation, but then, he didn’t have to. Donata did it for him.

“I’d take ten Silvios over one of you,” Donata said. She stood and moved to Stefano’s side. “Is there anything else you require here, Beccaria? Because if you don’t have any further trial-related business, I’d appreciate if you’d leave.”

Beccaria smoothed down the front of his suit. “The very thing that makes him a great killer makes him very much unsuitable for anything else.”

“I bet they say that about you and being an attorney, too.” Stefano turned away, back to the window. “Go away.”
Before I do something
stupid to Silvio’s brother.

He hated that he’d handed over his cell phone, because the urge to text Silvio to get out, get away, run as fast as he could was overwhelming. He had to trust in Silvio’s instincts, trust he’d vanish much like that phantom he’d been at the start. Turn back into darkness and nothing, to materialize at the right moment and in the right place.

Dark Heart

tefano was about to close the shop for the night and meet Donata and Henry and Davide at the restaurant. Davide called SHenry his “husband,” even though it wasn’t legally binding, and they treated each other just like that. But after something like twenty-six years, it would have been weird if they hadn’t.

While Stefano enjoyed seeing that it was possible—that men could actually have that kind of partnership, with gentle banter and clearly a great deal of tenderness and mutual care and respect—he did feel queasy that they knew about him. To their credit, both of them were perfect gentlemen and never brought it up.

Donata sometimes asked him how he felt about that part of himself, and he couldn’t quite answer. It was great seeing the two old guys so happy and peaceful together, but it also always reminded him of Silvio, and Silvio was still a deep, persistent ache in his soul.

He hadn’t been able to bring himself to read the papers or watch TV while the trial was on, deluding himself that even watching or noticing anything related to his old life might bring the hunters to his door. To them, he was a boss who’d sold his family to escape punishment. To any made man, a
pentito
was worse than scum, and considering the type he’d had to get into bed with—even just metaphorically speaking—he saw their point. Some days, the self-loathing was so strong that only work kept him sane.

Thankfully, Henry and Davide needed help in their antique shop, so Stefano dealt with customers who didn’t speak a word of French, and, when he wasn’t needed, chased up payments and did what paperwork he could. His French was still much worse than Donata’s.

His wife was learning the business from the other angle. Davide taught her to assess prices and date pieces, and she’d likely learn some bits and pieces from Henry about restoration.

Her great passion was antique jewelry, though, and she pored over papers and catalogues to research valuations and the history of a given piece. Nothing like an art deco Cartier emerald col ier with a checkered past of royal concubines and embezzlement to make her happy.

To Stefano, it was all a mystery, but he was good at actually running a business. Their money would last them a while, even a long while, but Donata seemed happier working a more or less normal job, and Stefano found it kept him from brooding too much. And behind the counter of a classy antiques shop was one place where the hunters wouldn’t look for a turncoat boss.

He made a note of the day’s takings, took the most expensive pieces out of the glass display cases and locked them in the safe, then grabbed his coat. For a spring day, it was cold and gray outside. He was just about to reach for his keys when a dark silhouette appeared in the door. Strictly speaking, he was still open another five minutes.

He paused, then felt a cold trickle down his spine. Motorcycle suit in black with white highlights. The helmeted driver blocked the entrance, then pushed the door open. Stefano drew back behind the counter.

“Don’t move. No alarm.”

Stefano placed his hands flat on the counter.

That voice. He drew a shuddering breath when the driver regarded him coolly from behind the darkened visor. He didn’t expect Silvio’s face to show any more emotion, but still, not being able to read anything about him made his skin crawl.

“How did you find me?” he asked while his legs turned boneless.

Silvio released the strap and pulled the helmet off. He placed it to the side, over the ears of a wooden horse from a Victorian merry-go-round frozen in mid-leap.

“Donata said she had an uncle in Paris who runs an antiques shop.

It was just a matter of checking every shop in the city.” Silvio’s face was as blank as Stefano had feared, which was even more terrifying than the thought that the Barracuda had, with endless patience, visited every single one of these shops in a city crammed full of them.

“Thank God. I thought your famous intuition brought you straight here.”

Silvio tilted his head. “No. I’d exhausted all other options.”

He pulled his jacket zipper open and reached inside. Even though Stefano knew what was coming, seeing the Beretta in Silvio’s hand shocked him to the marrow.

“I’m glad Beccaria didn’t get you. That was . . . on my mind a lot.”

“You didn’t respond to my texts, so I knew something was up.”

“Good. I’m . . . glad.” What a bizarre conversation to have with his killer. Stefano pulled himself up to his full height. “Okay.” All he could think of. What would happen next. He was scared and calm at the same time. This was Silvio, not a nameless thug. He couldn’t decide whether that made it better or worse. Maybe better. “What’s going to happen to Donata?”

“Nothing.” Silvio peered behind him. “She’s not here.”

“No, she’s not.” And thank God for that. “I’d never have thought it would come to this.”

Silvio nodded, then pointed the gun at the floor. “Down.”

Stefano went down on his knees, his only thought that they’d likely find his body outstretched behind the counter. The
Cosa Nostra
had colorful ways to execute—but he didn’t expect Silvio to defile him. Somehow he couldn’t imagine Silvio cutting off his dick and stuffing it in his mouth after his death. Or whatever Viero would have done to him. He looked up at Silvio. “So, who ordered the hit?”

Silvio shook his head. “I have some questions.”

“All right.”

Silvio lifted the pistol, a slow motion, as if he was trying to decide on the best angle from which to shoot him. “Why did you repent?”

Repent? Oh,
pentito
—penitent. “I wasn’t ready to kill everybody to stay boss. I wasn’t ready to die because of my nature. And when that attorney offered me a deal, I took it. He had really good arguments why I should do it, too. He had photos of us having sex. He was about to leak that to the press, see what the
famiglia
would do once they knew I like ass.”

“And now you’re Stefano Fenici.”

Stefano shrugged. “Donata suggested the name. I thought it fitted.” Phoenician, or phoenices. He was too aware of the passing time, of a greed inside his chest to stay alive, whatever it took. For all the dark thoughts during the phases when he’d wished he’d let them kill him, it was never bad enough to actually want to die. If he’d really wanted to die, he’d have found a way.

Would Silvio place the muzzle against his forehead, or press it up against his jaw? What if Silvio made him take the barrel between his teeth in an obscene steel blowjob? It would be fitting, considering how it all had started, and that Stefano had consistently failed at getting him off with his lips. “Yeah. Fenici—I guess it’s pretty ironic now.”

Silvio’s eyes betrayed absolutely nothing.

The very thing that makes him a great killer makes him very much
unsuitable for anything else.

According to Beccaria, Silvio was unable to build connections.

This cold killer’s mask was the real Silvio. That focused stare, the attempt to read human emotions. He’d read up on autism and Asperger syndrome and it all made sense now.

Crazy thought that of all people, Beccaria had given him the keys to understanding Silvio, even if he’d said it in spite and hatred.

That the enemy knew what was wrong with Silvio’s emotions. As his brother, he would, wouldn’t he? Still. “Stunted” captured it. Silvio would kill him, no questions asked, despite what they’d done, despite what Stefano had tried to do, to build. Come to think of it, Silvio had only lost it once—after Gianbattista had sent him away.

“I’m sorry, Silvio. I never wanted it to go this way.” He cleared his throat, hoped that some of that penetrated through, that Silvio actually understood what he was saying, that Silvio wouldn’t shoot him down in anger. “I never meant to leave you behind.”