Dark Soul, Vol. 1

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “I just needed to sleep it off.” Stefano grinned. “How are you?”

  “Ah, the strength of youth . . . entirely wasted on the young.” Gianbattista nursed what looked like Alka-Seltzer in his glass. “Silvio says you’re leaving after breakfast?”

  Stefano nodded. “I’ll have to. If you two want to come over at some point . . . I’m happy to visit again, but I have a packed schedule, so it might be a month or two.”

  “I think we’ve covered all angles for the moment. You have my phone number, and I know how to reach you.” Gianbattista emptied his glass and grimaced when he’d finished. “Terribile. An insult to a good wine.”

  Stefano chuckled, but there was an odd tension in the air. It didn’t center on him, but rather hovered between Silvio and Gianbattista, who hadn’t exchanged so much as a glance.

  “Excuse me.” Silvio stood and left.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Stefano asked.

  “Ah. He’ll get over it. Silvio is indestructible.” Gianbattista’s face betrayed no accusation, anger, or disapproval. If anything, he looked relieved, even smug.

  Stefano glanced after Silvio. He believed Gianbattista, but he couldn’t help being worried.

  “Besides, it was a long time in coming. He knew it,” Gianbattista added.

  Stefano merely listened, eating a croissant and sipping his coffee. Finally, his phone buzzed with a text message. He checked the screen. “That’s my signal. I have to go.”

  Gianbattista nodded and stood with him. “It was truly a pleasure to meet you, Stefano. I hope your little worries are soon resolved and you’ll find time to visit again.”

  “Thank you. It was a pleasure.” Stefano didn’t mind Gianbattista leading him to the door with a hand between his shoulder blades—something he’d have objected to just a couple days ago, in light of Gianbattista’s tastes.

  Just as he was wondering if Silvio would take him down to the gate on the motorcycle again, he recognized the large Mercedes rolling up the driveway.

  “German car?” Gianbattista asked.

  Yes, because I don’t want to get stuck in rural Italy with a piece-of-shit Lancia or Fiat. Stefano smiled. “My driver’s choice.”

  The car stopped and Vince opened the door for Donata. Somewhat awkwardly, Stefano made introductions, casting about for Silvio, who remained invisible. Gianbattista had the excellent sense to compliment Donata on her new earrings.

  Just as the situation was beginning to call either for an invitation or for them to leave, Stefano heard the buzz of Silvio’s motorcycle, which promptly appeared from a side path and braked hard just in front of the car. Silvio was clad head to toe in his leather and Kevlar suit. He gave Donata a nod, but didn’t take the helmet off. Just stayed on the bike, one long leg on the ground.

  “Silvio is going to travel with you to America. He’ll handle your challenge there.”

  The words knocked the wind from Stefano’s lungs. Silvio? With him? Over there? And Donata. Oh God. “Are you sure you don’t need him here?”

  “I’ll be all right. There’s little interest in my old hide presently.” Gianbattista bowed and kissed Donata’s hand. “Mia cara, a pleasure.” He offered Stefano a hand and a touch to the upper arm accompanied by a squeeze. He leaned in. “You’re back on the initiative. Use it wisely.”

  “But Silvio . . .”

  “Just be wise, Stefano. You’re clearly clever.” Gianbattista stepped back. “Buon viaggio.” He didn’t look at Silvio when he turned to go back into the house. Stefano glanced at Silvio, who slapped the visor down over his black eyes like a challenge, then revved the engine.

  Stefano got back into the car. “Vince, whatever you do, don’t race him. I’d really like to arrive at Fiumicino in one piece; I don’t have to be first.”

  He spotted Silvio at check-in, still wearing the biking leathers but carrying neither helmet nor suitcase. He’d just slipped his tickets into his leather top. Stefano leaned in to murmur to Donata, “I’ll see you in the business lounge.” He kissed her briefly, smiled and headed over to Silvio.

  “You didn’t bring anything.”

  Silvio shrugged. “I imagine you can arrange what I need.”

  Weapons. “Of course. What about clothes?”

  “Last time I checked, there’s an Emporio Armani store in terminal three. I’ll raid that.”

  If anybody had been made to wear Armani, it was him. “Need help?”

  Silvio gave him one of those cold, soulless stares, like he was a stranger, then shrugged. “I’m not good company right now.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Silvio turned away. To avoid a scene in front of a few thousand onlookers, Stefano merely followed, even more concerned now. Something was eating away at that magnetism, that charisma, like Silvio was losing his way, his swagger, his earth-encompassing self-confidence.

  Stefano waited outside the Armani store in terminal three; two men shopping for clothes together would send entirely the wrong message. Even though Donata and Vince were nowhere around, even though he was an ocean away from anybody who could rat him out, being seen as too comfortable around another—attractive—man was taboo. He hated how self-aware he was, how the suspicion of what he might be could poison even perfectly innocent things.

  Except it wasn’t innocent. He madly desired the man. But more than that; he wanted to be there—to become a friend, if that was possible.

  Silvio emerged in a dark suit and white shirt, oversized bags dangling from his wrist and two male staffers casting appreciative glances at his backside. He went off to buy sunglasses, which he pushed back into his hair. He could have been a young businessman or a model, but his personality hardly fit with the bland and the beautiful.

  Stefano caught up with him at an espresso bar, where Silvio pushed into a removed alcove and sat down facing the crowd, espresso cup in hand. Stefano settled down opposite, feeling itchy with his back to the door.

  “Silvio.”

  Silvio stared at him. He barely ever blinked. At least not when he was looking at people. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  Now the stare was downright poisonous, like Silvio was on the verge of drawing a knife on him. “Why do you give a fuck? You don’t, really, do you.”

  “Because—” I do care. Stefano breathed deeply. “I don’t understand.”

  “Bene.” Silvio downed his espresso with a jerk of his head, like a man taking medicine or drinking vodka, and almost broke the saucer when he slammed it back down. It went skidding, and Stefano caught it before it shattered on the floor.

  “Gianbattista told me we’re done.”

  “Done? You mean, you split up?” And how would he ever decide if what he felt at that was relief and hope, or sympathy and compassion? None of his emotions seemed to be easy anymore.

  Silvio snarled. “We’re not lovers anymore. Fuck, that’s a cheap line. He’s informed me we won’t be having sex anymore.” He almost sounded like Gianbattista now. “That’s it, we’re done.”

  And that a day after that pool sex? “You’re . . . you seemed happy.”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t my fucking choice, was it?”

  “Fuck. I’m sorry. Any reason—” It can’t be easy for Gianbattista to find men who’ll let him do the things he likes. But Stefano bit down on those words.

  Silvio gave a laugh, incredulous and angry and, above all, terribly hurt. “Yes. Sexual preference.”

  “What? He’s gay, I thought. He isn’t?”

  “That would be too simple.” Silvio closed his eyes and shook his head. “If you tell anybody, I will kill you.”

  “Okay.” Just spit it out.

  Silvio opened his eyes again, and Stefano was mortified to see them glistening. Silvio blinked rapidly a few times, looked away, anywhere, fighting not to spill those tears.

  He collected himself enough to speak, though he still looked utterly miserable. “I’m too old for him.”

  “Wha
t? That’s the most ridiculous— He’s twice your age!”

  “Keep your fucking voice down,” Silvio hissed. “If you were unkind, you could probably call him a pedophile, but the technical term is ephebophile. Men desiring boys past puberty but no more than nineteen or so.” Just from the intonation in that sentence, Stefano could imagine Gianbattista taking Silvio’s killer hands and explaining it to him, calm and careful.

  Silvio, of course, would have taken it in stride—only to be hit with the full implications when he was neither nineteen anymore nor able to keep looking like he was no matter how much body hair he shaved.

  God, looking at Silvio like this . . . Despite all that raw sexuality, he seemed no more than a boy struggling desperately to mature in a man’s world.

  “He said he can’t . . . he can’t deal with me getting older.”

  Stefano couldn’t think of a reasonable response to that. Right here was the most desirable person he’d ever met—male or female—and Gianbattista had just tossed him away?

  The painting. That was the Silvio Gianbattista desired. To him, the Silvio who’d grown from that vicious-looking boy was somehow spoiled. Ruined. At least for sex.

  “Yeah, sick,” Silvio said. “Way to make me feel worthless.” He shook his head, fighting tears again. “It’s a sexual orientation; nothing you can do about it. I was the first in a long time he felt comfortable with. He’s not some asshole who fucks children.”

  “Silvio.” Stefano reached over and took both Silvio’s hands on the table before he realized what he was doing. He half-expected Silvio to pull back, punch him for using the same gesture Gianbattista had. “I am sorry.”

  “So he’s sent me away to get over it. When I return, or even if I return, that’s it. There won’t be any . . . you know. Shit. He knows me too well. I’ll get over it.” Silvio pulled his hands away to wipe at his reddened eyes. “So, that’s done. That’s it. If you’re worried about him when you fuck me, you don’t have to be.”

  When, not if. Just a matter of time.

  Really? But even worse than that thought was the sneer in Silvio’s voice that said, Of course we’ll fuck. It’s the only thing I’m good for. Deep down, Silvio seemed lost, and who wouldn’t, at that age, after how many years again with Gianbattista? Eight?

  Was that the lesson Silvio was taking away from that relationship—that he’d been used for sex? Stefano’s guts clenched with guilt. Here he was, obsessed with Silvio’s body, his aura, his sensuality, ready to use him just like any other asshole might to get off.

  Stefano cleared his throat. “If you need time . . . I have no idea how I’ll get my head around—” The possibility. You. Touching, kissing, and fucking a man.

  Especially one who’d just emerged from a painful breakup. It might be so easy to kiss it better. And bite it better, and fuck it better. Make Silvio forget, maybe, with patience and time, that other man.

  He had no idea where that would take him. The danger was still too great to comprehend. He’d be cheating on his wife, whom he loved, and sleeping with a man, a desire he’d hidden all his life. Gianbattista, retired and still powerful, could get away with it, but it could destroy Stefano and everything and everyone who mattered to him.

  And I still won’t be able to resist the temptation for long.

  “Silvio, I’ll try. You can have whatever you need.”

  Silvio stared at him for a long moment, but it was like watching a lake freeze, glass turning opaque with frost. “I’ll need some C4, a lot of intel, and a bag full of guns. The rest is details.”

  Stefano blinked at the sudden change, affronted and relieved at the same time that Silvio had found his footing again, even if it meant shutting him out. Whatever helped Silvio keep going, get back on the initiative—another thing Gianbattista had doubtlessly taught him.

  The killer reached inside his jacket for his wallet, placed a five euro bill on the table, and left. “See you at O’Hare.”

  Thanks to Sara and Cornelia for their help with Italians and Italian.

  Break and Enter, with Rachel Haimowitz (Samhain Publishing)

  Counterpunch (Storm Moon Press)

  Scorpion (Dreamspinner Press)

  Dark Edge of Honor, with Rhianon Etzweiler (Carina Press)

  The Lion of Kent, with Kate Cotoner (Carina Press)

  For a full list go to http://www.aleksandrvoinov.com/bookshelf.html

  Aleksandr Voinov is an emigrant German author living near London, where he makes his living as an editor at an investment bank. He published five novels and many short stories in his native language, then switched to English and hasn’t looked back. His genres range from horror, science fiction, cyberpunk, and fantasy to contemporary, thriller, and historical erotic gay novels.

  In his spare time, he goes weightlifting, explores historical sites, and meets other writers. He single-handedly sustains three London bookstores with his ever-changing research projects and interests. His current interests include World War II, espionage, medieval tournaments, and prisoners of war. He loves traveling, action movies, and spy novels.

  Visit Aleksandr’s website at http://www.aleksandrvoinov.com, his blog at http://www.aleksandrvoinov.blogspot.com, and follow him on Twitter, where he tweets as @vashtan.