Dark Soul, Vol. 2

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “They killed . . .”

  “Cesare.”

  “And Vince.”

  “No, he’s not dead. He was shot in the chest, but he might make it, the surgeons say.”

  “Thank fuck.” Stefano closed his eyes again, nearly passing out from relief, as though not knowing had been the main thing keeping him together.

  “They choppered him to a trauma center. They’ll call if anything changes. Speaking of which.” Silvio pulled his phone from the insides of his leather jacket, tapped the screen a few times and put it to his ear. “Mrs. Marino? I found your husband. He’s all right. I’ll get him home.” He glanced Stefano over. “He looks like he was beaten, but no serious injuries I can see. Yes, ma’am. I’ll take care of him. I’ll be in touch. No, ma’am. Please.” Like she was thanking him. “Yes, I’ll call you immediately.” Silvio tapped the screen again and slid the phone back into his pocket.

  “How bad are you?”

  “Not . . . good.” Stefano pressed his lips together.

  “Okay. Don’t speak. I’ll touch you, okay?”

  “You do,” Stefano answered. You do touch me.

  Silvio’s fingers carefully trailed over his neck before they got anywhere near his torso. Then Silvio opened Stefano’s jacket and ran his hands along collarbones and then ribs, making Stefano wince. Regardless, he registered how gentle Silvio was, and that the touch would have felt good if anything could feel good now. “Any broken bones?”

  “Ribs are bad.”

  “Yeah.” Silvio touched his hand, ran a thumb along the red, sore welt from the plastic restraints around his wrist. “They tied you up and kicked the shit out of you.”

  “’s about the extent of it.”

  “You might have internal injuries.”

  “Maybe.” Stefano groaned.

  “Hospital?”

  “No. I fucking hate hospitals.”

  “Home, then. We’ll get the doctor.”

  “I can’t move.”

  “You can.” Silvio leaned in and slid his arm under Stefano’s shoulders, then pulled him up into a sitting position, sliding his legs over to help him sit up on the edge of the bed. Stefano groaned, ridiculously fragile and stiff and scared and just as grateful for Silvio’s careful, sure touch.

  “Get up.” Silvio slid around him and supported him on the way to his feet. Everything hurt, and Stefano rested his weight on Silvio, catching a whiff of leather and fresh, clean sweat.

  “You might be only bruised.”

  “Doesn’t . . .” Stefano winced. “I just want somebody to shoot me . . . full of painkillers.”

  “Let’s get you home.” Silvio steered him toward the door, one arm around his waist to steady him, thank God not using any significant amount of pressure. “Come on. One step after the other. You got here on your own, too.”

  Stefano listened with fascination to the soothing words encouraging him on. He’d not expected Silvio to guide him along like a wounded friend, but it helped. He didn’t want to be too pathetic in the man’s eyes. Somehow it was important what Silvio thought of him, and he pulled himself together, small step by small step.

  Outside, the motorcycle was still waiting, and Silvio got up on it, put the helmet on, then helped Stefano get on behind him. “Drive . . . slow.” Because I’m not sure I can hold onto you.

  “Don’t worry.” Silvio kicked the metal stand down, jolting Stefano painfully, but before he could protest, they’d already zipped out into the street, lights blurring past.

  Stefano felt every single one of Silvio’s gear shifts, heard the machine change from low buzz to high pitch, felt the muscles in Silvio’s legs and hips tighten and release as he steered the bike, how he used his body for balance. This physical awareness of movement and speed and control was one of the most erotic things about Silvio, and Stefano rested against the man’s back, holding him lightly despite the discomfort.

  Silvio reached behind and touched him on the thigh, high above the knee, and sped up, zipping past lights and signs and a few straggling late-night people and cars like none of them mattered.

  They left the city and headed up into the hills and then the woods, the heavy pine smell the closest thing to safety he’d felt in ages.

  The gates to his estate swung open as they approached, and Silvio sped up on the last few hundred meters to the house. Several people stood outside, Donata among them, now in sensible shoes, designer jeans, and a red cashmere top that made her look regal and serious. She’d taken off her makeup, and even without the powders and all the dark around her eyes, she was stunning.

  Silvio braked, gently, right in front of the door. Already, hands were on Stefano, helping him off the bike, and leading him into the house.

  He looked back to see Donata exchange a few words with Silvio, and Silvio gave her one of his rare smiles. Then Donata joined the group around him.

  Doctor Simpson was there too, sitting in the vast reception room, unfazed even when somebody came in with bullet holes, and Stefano was grateful when the doctor sent out everybody for the examination.

  Stefano woke in the late afternoon in his own room, light flooding in through the large windows looking out onto the garden. Somebody knocked at the door, and he realized that’s what had woken him. “Yes. Enter.” Speaking hurt, but no worse than breathing. He tried to push up against one of the pillows, and managed, if painfully.

  Donata came in, Silvio trailing behind, but he stayed in the background while she moved toward the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  Stefano glanced down at the mass of bruises on his chest and wished somebody had buttoned his pajama top. He faintly remembered them undressing him, but not much else after the painkillers and the exam. His bones at least weren’t broken, just battered, large-scale bruising causing the pain. Clearly, he had not been meant to die. “Much better.” He reached out to cover her hand with his, glad that the swelling around his wrists was down, too. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  She nodded bravely and squeezed his hand. “We stand together, Stefano. I was just so afraid for you . . .” She swallowed, but gave him another brave smile. Good, strong woman.

  Stefano glanced at Silvio. “Any news?”

  “Vince is still alive. Unless there’s a serious change in his condition, he looks like he’ll pull through,” Silvio said.

  “Good man.” Stefano raised his hand—and that hurt, tore at the muscles in his shoulder, in his arm, and every fiber that connected to it—which seemed to be every goddamned muscle in his body apart from his dick—and briefly touched Donata’s hair. “We’ll need a war plan.”

  Silvio nodded. “It’s on?”

  “Oh yes,” Stefano hissed. “They’re not getting away with this.”

  Silvio nodded again, black eyes showing no emotion whatsoever. Not even pity, and Stefano was unspeakably glad for that. “Donata, you’ll have to leave the country. I can’t put you even more at risk.” Men who talked about turning other men into “goats” might do some very unpleasant things to women, too. “They’ve threatened you once. I can’t see you in danger.”

  “Battista could hide her.”

  “Or she can travel to Milan—maybe just stay with friends, but not family. Nobody they think you might turn to. Keep moving. What’s really important is to pretend we’re all scared now and scrambling to safety.”

  Donata looked dubious. “You can’t fight back in this state.”

  “I can. It’s not what they’ll expect. If word spreads of what they did, I’ll lose a lot of respect. I need to act now.”

  She pressed his hand again. “Sometimes I wish I were a shooter.”

  “You’re my wife; that is far more important.” Stefano noticed something flicker in Silvio’s eyes and gave him a small headshake. “Silvio here will watch my back, okay? You pack and head for the airport. I need to know you’re safe.”

  She nodded and stood. “Book me a ticket, please?”

  “I’ll get on it.” Silvio pulled his ph
one out again. “Milan?”

  “Yes. Next one out I can get.” She leaned into kiss Stefano, careful to not touch his nose, but even his lips hurt after all those punches. Silvio left the room, and Stefano touched her cheek again. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  “Just get better, love.”

  What to say to that? If only he could hide under a rock and wait for the pain and the problem to vanish. He watched her leave and fought to get to his feet, but everything hurt when he moved, every muscle tight and brittle.

  Eventually he managed to get dressed, even if bending down to put his socks on or stick his feet into the trousers left him gasping. But he needed to show presence, needed to be strong. He shook three painkillers from the bottle and swallowed them with a mouthful of water, then headed downstairs.

  Half the men in his organization were already there: most importantly, his underboss Augusto Viero and half the capos. The rest were expected to call in soon. Stefano shook hands and took pats to the shoulder without wincing, but it cost him. The consensus was to hit back with full force as soon as possible, but most didn’t know who or what they were dealing with it.

  Over a long conference session in the pool room, they gathered what they knew about members, strengths, locations. Anything Russian or even Eastern European was suspect.

  Only the painkillers got him through the meeting. Stefano was glad when he could leave the finer points to Augusto. He should have taken a greater interest, and he would, later, but right now he was in no state to discuss tactics, so he retired to his bedroom.

  He woke up again, this time in the middle of the night, chest pounding, and reached over to the nightstand for the painkillers. Somebody took the bottle before he could touch it, and he glanced up. Silvio was sitting in the leather chair in the corner of the room next to the nightstand.

  “Shit. What are you doing here?”

  Silvio handed him three of the white pills and poured him a glass of water. “I should have been there.”

  Stefano winced. “You’d be dead like Cesare.”

  “I don’t think so.” Silvio handed him the glass, and Stefano washed the pills down with a mouthful of water, then sank back into his pillows.

  “Oh shit, that’s better.”

  “Doctor said they might mess up your stomach.”

  “If they make the pain go away, I don’t care.”

  Silvio’s lips twitched. “I used coke when I got messed up. Works instantly.”

  “I’m already type-A. Guys like me should stay away from uppers.” Stefano chuckled and regretted it almost immediately. “Shit.”

  Silvio stood and came to the bed. He was wearing the black Armani that looked like it had been poured down his frame, and the tight black top underneath it gave him the appearance of a priest . . . but without the dog collar, of course. “Anything you haven’t told the others about the ambush?”

  “No. I left out some details, but they aren’t important. They mentioned Grozny.”

  “Russians . . . Grozny—would be a military connection.”

  “Yeah. They certainly looked and acted like ex-military.” Stefano pushed his pillow in place. “Fucking thugs.” No doubt mentioning the “most destroyed city on earth” hinted at the scale of destruction the Russians were ready to inflict.

  Silvio sat down on the bed and studied him. “Want coke?”

  “No.”

  “It’ll sort you out faster.”

  “Silvio, no. I need a clear head.” He’d certainly not start with marching powder in this fucked-up situation. “The painkillers work. They just take a little longer.”

  Silvio’s gaze travelled down Stefano’s body, intense enough to feel almost like a touch, probing, exploring him. How he’d come to the rescue in that motel, the strength and steadiness in that body—that was exactly what Stefano craved now. That strength, that barely contained dark energy in Silvio.

  “Thanks for getting me out.”

  “I shouldn’t have let you get into this shit.”

  “It was your day off. You texted me right before.”

  Silvio shrugged, as if in apology. “Yeah.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Just some bar.”

  “To get drunk or laid or both?”

  Silvio shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  “Sorry for ruining that.”

  Silvio’s eyes flashed. “Wouldn’t have remembered his name the next day anyway.”

  Oh, Silvio. “Did you go to his place?”

  “We were on the way when I got your call.”

  Stefano imagined it—Silvio getting hot and heavy with some anonymous guy from a bar, somebody as surely caught in his magnetism as everyone was. He half imagined Silvio just putting his dick back into his pants and rushing out. “How annoying.”

  Silvio stared at him. “Stop that. You called me, I came back to you.”

  The “to you” jolted Stefano pleasantly. “It’s okay. Nobody could have seen that com—”

  Silvio’s lips ended that sentence. Stefano winced against the sudden pressure spiking pain down his back and into his nose. But then Silvio opened Stefano’s mouth, tongue exploring his teeth, sliding along his own tongue, and all of a sudden, he could do nothing but kiss back, reach up, dig his fingers into Silvio’s short hair and keep kissing him. Silvio hadn’t been in the car. He hadn’t been at risk. Instead, he’d come right away, had made sure he was okay, put him first, then brought him back home. Was that loyalty? Care? Desire?

  Silvio broke the kiss. “You want to be in control.”

  “Yes.” No. Maybe. Stefano caught his breath, which was so fucking difficult with his bruised face and chest. Everything still hurt. “Lock the door.”

  “Done.”

  “You did?”

  “Always.” Silvio glanced down his body. “I want to undress you.”

  “No.” Not with all those bruises. No touch was just enough touch in his book. “I’m not . . . I’m in no state.”

  Silvio pushed the blankets aside and glanced down to his groin. “I think you are.” His lips opened a little; the tip of his tongue appeared briefly between them, like a cat. “Make me?”

  Stefano shuddered at the promise, all that raw sexual energy focused on him; Silvio was only offering to make him feel better, do his bidding, do something he’d imagined so often under the shower: Silvio’s lips around his dick. “How far did you get with that guy?”

  Silvio flashed him a grin so sharp it bordered on cruel. “I was about to fuck him.”

  “Not the other way round?”

  “His dick was too small. But you’re a grower, aren’t you?”

  Stefano huffed laughter. “Try it.” He grabbed Silvio by the neck, and although even that hurt and Silvio could have easily freed himself, Silvio complied and bent down, close enough that he felt the heat from Silvio’s breath through his pajamas. “How long have you wanted this?”

  “Ever since that night I saw you.” Silvio bent down and pressed his nose to Stefano’s groin, right next to his dick, inhaling deeply and sending a wave of desire through Stefano. God damn Silvio, but anything the man did turned him on fiercely.

  “When you tied me up, I wanted you to fuck me and then force me to suck you off.”

  “I wanted to do that, too.”

  Silvio’s lips parted in a grin. “I know.” He licked along the outline of Stefano’s dick, his breath and moisture and the rub from the cotton making Stefano gasp. The guilt ebbed away despite the fact that a blowjob was still sex. He was still cheating.

  He tightened his grip in Silvio’s hair and pushed his pajama pants down with his other hand, baring his cock. Silvio’s dark eyes gleamed, and there was a flash of white, sharp teeth before Stefano pushed him further down.

  With a snakelike movement of the head, Silvio took Stefano’s cock between his lips and sucked it inside his mouth. Stefano arched and gasped, ready to curse Silvio for the pain that caused, but the impulse was
held in check by the unbelievable feeling of being in his mouth. He rocked his hips up, hand in Silvio’s hair now so tight it had to hurt, but Silvio didn’t even wince, so focused was he on Stefano’s cock.

  Yet every involuntary jerk of his hips went like a knife through Stefano’s torso, and every harsh breath hurt up to his teeth. Silvio did his best, Stefano assumed, licking and sucking, even attempting to deep-throat him, but this was like torture. The more aroused he got, the more he moved and the more it hurt, which made it impossible to come.

  To Silvio’s credit, he only tried harder and didn’t seem bored for a second, so it was Stefano who admitted defeat and pushed Silvio away when his cock softened again despite Silvio’s best efforts.

  “It’s . . . good, Silvio. Leave it.” Hurts too bad. Stupid fucking Russians.

  Silvio glanced up to him, but rather than moving away embarrassed or frustrated, he placed a kiss on Stefano’s thigh and rubbed his face so gently against it that the movement didn’t jolt him. Stefano touched Silvio’s neck, stroked the short-shorn hair there.

  Hell, admitting he didn’t quite function would have been so undignified with anybody else, but Silvio didn’t seem to mind. It still grated, but Stefano managed to ignore it better with the continued touches and attention. Silvio didn’t treat him as defective or less of a man.

  Silvio glanced up to him. “You’re really not a masochist.”

  Stefano laughed and winced. “No. No, I’m not.”

  “That’s okay.” Silvio pulled his pants up again to make him decent, then pulled the blanket up to his waist. “I’d likely have come from the pain.”

  God, Silvio, who messed you up so bad that you even know that about yourself?

  “I like power, sometimes I like to give pain, but only to see the relief. The woman . . . the other person has to be into it.” Stefano relaxed into the pillow, wondering if the painkillers were drugging him that he could talk about it. “Like you were. That night with the gun, that was the most extreme I’ve been.”

  Silvio sat up on the bed, and Stefano feared he might leave like a shadow, the same way he’d come into a room, like impending darkness. But Silvio only stretched, slipped out of his Armani jacket and kicked off his shoes. “I’ll stay.”