Dark Soul Vol. 5 (3 page)

“It’s not like there’ll be anything left of that clan when he comes out.”

“Exactly.”

She smiled fondly at him. “I love it when your killer instinct is fully engaged.”

Sebastiano chuckled. “I just can’t stand those assholes.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Mr. Beccaria, mind your language.”

He very rarely slipped up like that, and the fact that he had meant all this was going a lot deeper than normal—no surprise there. These were geological layers in his soul that were older than all this. Much as he wanted them to wither away completely, his roots still reached far down, untouchable by any form of therapy. Changing his name, reinventing himself with a wife, a career, a reputation, did not reach far enough into the dark earth.

“Vince is out of the hospital.” Stefano put the phone down. He rubbed his face, tried to wake up. Checking his emails was one of those things he sometimes did when he woke up way too early. Seven.

That was—five hours of sleep. He turned to Silvio, only spotted his naked shoulder and part of his back. He placed a kiss on the edge of his shoulder blade. Silvio didn’t even stir. Of course not. This wasn’t really his hour at al .

He took the phone again and texted a quick acknowledgement, then pushed up against Silvio. Naked. Always. Stefano considered his options. He could wake Silvio, who wouldn’t mind as long as it led to sex. Or at least not too much. He didn’t expect more than an annoyed flash in his eyes, and afterward a prompt col apse back to sleep. He leaned over and kissed Silvio’s sleep-warm shoulder.

No, better get up. He stood and slipped out of bed and closed the door behind him on the way, smiling to himself. Compared to Donata, Silvio was the polar opposite. Not a graceful or early riser.

And that would be less funny if Silvio weren’t a
sicario
. If he killed a stranger for absolutely no personal reason, how would he respond if unduly irritated?

But of course, all that was idle bullshit, especially considering that the big issue in the back of Stefano’s mind was his wife. He kept checking his phone in the hope of a text from her. He sometimes touched her profile on his phone, especially when Silvio was asleep or occupied with something else. He’d snapped a photo of her on one of the date nights, dressed in a gorgeous red dress, her hair tumbling down. It showed up every time she called him, and sat as a tiny thumbnail right next to her name. Donata Marino.

And he was hiding away from her in this hotel, fucking Silvio, finally sating that hunger and that deeper need, the terrible affection for another man. But, truth was, he was hiding, still avoiding her.

I needed time to work this out for myself. I needed to know if it was
real. And God help me, but it is.

He tapped her profile again, typed “messages” and couldn’t help but scroll back through all the flirting, the banter, the
I love you
s, and it felt like it tore a strip from his soul. Which was ridiculous, considering how casual those messages had been. When he’d typed them, he’d barely paid it any real mind. He’d considered deleting them al , because, yeah, they were kind of frivolous and this was his business phone, but now they were all that remained of his marriage.

I can live with a cheater, but not with a coward.

And to throw that away for a hedonistic young killer who, yes, made his heart pound, and who he cared for (it would be easier if it were just sex), but ultimately, he could never have family with Silvio.

Or be family. It would never be a respectable existence. He’d have to hide for the rest of his life.

But throwing Silvio out of his life didn’t work, either. He’d always know what he’d done. And he never again wanted to see Silvio hurting. Gianbattista dismissing him had been enough. Silvio didn’t deserve to be treated like any man’s dirty shameful secret.

I can’t move. I can’t do anything. I can’t go left, I can’t go right. I
can’t win this game.

He tapped the “message” field.

Hi Donata, can we talk?

“Hi, is Vince Ornati available?” Sebastiano asked, then smiled at the girl who’d opened the door. “Sebastiano Beccaria; I’d really like to speak to Vince.” He did the sincere-and-friendly face that always opened him doors.

This time, too. The somewhat bewildered-looking girl led him down the hall to the living room. “Would you like an iced tea?”

In fal ? “No, thank you, I’ll be gone in a little.”

She led him further in. “Vince, you got another guest.”

Ornati sat on the couch, packed in like any other convalescent, back high up, looking pale. A man who’d barely escaped the Grim Reaper. There were a lot of flowers in the room, many of them fresh.

Cosa Nostra
making sure their support was visible.

He looked up at Sebastiano and frowned. “El a . . .”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Vince. My name is Sebastiano Beccaria, and I think we should talk about something.”

“Who are you?”

“I have a professional interest in what happened to you.”

Sebastiano pointed to his own chest to indicate Vince’s.

El a looked between them. “Is that all right, Vince?” As a
Cosa
Nostra
girlfriend or wife, she knew discretion was the better part of her relationship. Sebastiano made a mental note to interview her if Vince or any of his stronger leads didn’t work out.

“It’s all right,” he rasped and cleared his throat, which sounded painful. “Sit down. El a, close the door.”

Sebastiano sat on the chair next to Vince’s couch. Vince regarded him warily; his suit, his hands, his face and eyes, and Sebastiano didn’t smile at him.
Cosa Nostra
goons toward the top of the food chain were usually people-smart. Being anything but sincere with them set off their bullshit meter. As a bodyguard, Vince was even better at reading people; he had to be. Darwin’s law.

Striking, though, that Stefano Marino’s bodyguard was an attractive man with none of the sliminess or apparent coarseness of enforcers. That yuppie persona attracted similar, less-colorful characters.

“You might or might not be aware that you were shot by organized criminals,” Sebastiano said.

Vince nodded. “Speaking’s . . . not easy. Still hurts. Go on.”

“I’m not going to waste much of your time, Vince. Sorry for intruding. The men who attacked you and your employer were Russian organized crime. We should talk about Stefano Marino.”

Vince’s face shut down almost immediately. Another common response. “I told the police everything I know.”

“I highly doubt that.” Sebastiano leaned back. “I talked to Rude Boy the other day.”

“What are you, a Fed?”

“Worse. I’m the US Attorney, and I’m currently building my case.”

Vince swallowed, and that looked painful too. “What case?”

“That depends a lot on what I find, but I am finding a good amount of small details and pieces for the big picture. I know Peter Thomson has regularly accepted bribes. Don’t worry about him; I already have enough dirt on him. I know that in this city at least, the Marino clan and its members and associates have always been able to play the get-out-of-jail-free card. That’s over now.”

Vince scoffed. “Marino clan, eh?”

“I could have called Stefano Marino your
boss
, but I figured that might have been heavy-handed.”

“You ain’t got nothing on me or anybody else. I’m a bodyguard.

That’s it. Unless you’re a fucking racist.”

“The ‘you just hate Italians’ defense doesn’t work with me. I’m Italian myself.” Sebastiano smiled. “Listen, Vince. I know it’s awkward for you, especially surrounded by all those flowers and love from the rest of the family, but you have to understand that a few months from now, the Marino clan will no longer exist. And when that happens, you’ll either go to prison or walk free, but you have to make that choice very soon.”

Yes, the usual response: none. He didn’t yet have enough leverage on Vince. He’d kept his nose clean for four years, which was a long time in those circles. Still, as Marino’s bodyguard, he had insider information he might be willing to trade. “Since you were clearly out of the picture, who killed the Russians? The sniper killing? The bomb? Who was that?”

Vince shook his head. “That’s beyond . . . normal.”

“I know. Hence I’m asking. This is excessive violence. If I were an honorable made man, I’d be disturbed by that level of violence.

Especially if my livelihood was more about protecting than anything else. I’d say you’re a bit of a gentle soul, Vince, which, hey, I get that completely. You like to protect people. I’m the same way. I’m just protecting society as a whole. But would I order mass-shootings and bombings of hoods? I wouldn’t.”

“Not even if you could get away with it?”

“On my side of the law, I can’t get away with it.” Sebastiano reached inside his pocket. “Here’s my card. Give me a call when you have anything that might be of interest to me.”

Vince didn’t look at the card, not even when he put it on the table. “You know the way out.”

“I do. But think about the fact that it’ll be a lot easier for you to find legit work if you haven’t served time. Or that if you are serving time, there’s nothing you can return to. They’ll be all gone, from your boss to everybody who’s sent you flowers. Nothing left, Vince, nobody to fall back on. Think of El a. She going to wait if you go away for five, ten years?”

“The door,” Vince said, voice coarse and exhausted.

Sebastiano nodded, polite—friendly, even—and walked out.

Not a huge success, but he hadn’t expected a made man to fold so easily, anyway, not even weakened by thoughts of his own mortality.

If he was clever, he’d cal . If he wasn’t, he would most likely increase pressure on Marino, making him easier to crack. Either way, this was just the opening move.

Of course, money was the lifeblood of any organization. No flowers and medical bills paid without a way to launder it first.

Time to lean on Marino’s accountant.

For the first time in weeks, Sebastiano didn’t mind the hard work, the exhaustion and the tension. It all bled away now that he’d begun the hunt, and while no game had broken cover yet, he looked forward to it happening like a boy in a sane family looked forward to his birthday or Christmas.

Maybe he had spent thousands of dol ars on the wrong thing: therapy that involved outsiders, that involved play-acting, hundreds of hours of talking, drawing, writing, hypnosis. Maybe finally getting even with the
Cosa Nostra
was really the only therapy he needed. And it was completely free.

Dark Frost

ilvio watched as Stefano groaned and leaned back from his laptop. He hadn’t even touched his food. That was a constant Sthese days. Considering that he expended a lot of energy in bed, his features looked a bit sharper. Or was it the tension? Silvio waited for Stefano to share whatever email he’d received.

“Got a message from Augusto. Viero, he’s my underboss. You ever met him?”

“Once.” Stefano had introduced Viero very briefly a while ago, but they hadn’t spoken much beyond that.

“Yeah, well, he says he found something that requires my urgent attention.”

“Something an underboss can’t deal with?”

“Apparently a dead body.”

“So?”

Stefano smirked and nodded toward his laptop. “Made man. We made him a year ago.”

That did change things; not just a dead associate, but an actual made man. Most bosses would get involved at this stage. Battista would already be making phone calls and pul ing strings. “You going?”

“No. I have . . . I’m meeting Donata in an hour.”

Oh really.
“You going back to her?”

“I . . . I just want to talk to her. She
is
my wife.” Stefano stood and crossed the room, took him by the shoulders. Silvio let him. “And you’re . . . you’re my lover.”

Big word.

“Aren’t you, Silvio? It’s not just fucking for you, either. Is it?”

Stefano kissed him, seeking a response from his body he didn’t get otherwise. The kiss was harsh and needy and domineering. Easy to forget everything else and just fall back into bed.

“What kind of question is that?”

“Silvio, before . . . I do things I might regret, I need to know where we stand. I mean, I don’t know. What do you feel for me?

Anything?”

What was that supposed to mean? Why was that important all of a sudden? He couldn’t read the expression on Stefano’s face; it was intense, passionate, but about what? About him? Donata? “What are you looking for?”

“Commitment. How did you end up in a relationship with Falchi?”

Step by step, but inevitable.
Battista had slowly prepared him for the role—to be his lover, his protégé and protector. It had taken years and hard work, but it had been perfect while it lasted. Love as inevitable as death. Somehow, he couldn’t admit that, though. It still hurt when he thought about it too much. “Battista’s gay. And we weren’t exclusive.”

“But it was a relationship. Enough of one for him to make you his heir and for you to be heartbroken when he ended it. I want to . .

. have that with you. I want to be your lover rather than the guy who fucks you.” Stefano’s light eyes were almost feverish with intensity.

He seemed to have some odd ideas about “commitment.” Next thing he’d do was pop a ring out.

“How’s that different?”

“I care about you, Silvio.” Stefano lifted his brows, as if to prompt him for a response.

But what kind of response? He was already living in Stefano’s house, protected him, had killed for him, had sex with him. What else did he want? “You can fuck me and care about me. It’s not contradictory.”

Stefano sighed. “Then why are you doing what you’re doing?

Looking after me? Fighting my wars? Standing by my side? I’m not even paying you. You’re not part of my organization. It’s like Gianbattista handed you over to me when he was done with you.”