Dark Soul Vol. 3 (6 page)

I’m still on European time.”

Silvio nodded. “You’ll be okay tomorrow?”

“I’m okay now.” Franco smiled and stood. “Just tired.” Choosing when he slept and woke was another one of those outrageous non-military ideas. He headed into the bathroom, brushed his teeth and shed his clothes but for the boxers and undershirt, folded them up and took them with him into the bedroom.

The bed itself was enormous, by his standards. Silvio’s phone charger was plugged into the wall on the left side, so he chose right.

The bed only had one cover, but a whole pile of pillows. He chose a flattish hard one and tossed the others onto the chair in the corner, then pulled the blanket up to his chest, willing himself to accept the newness of this.

The smell from the covers—an unfamiliar fragrance, and there was something he thought was Silvio’s own smell, a note that threw him back to his childhood, sun-drenched places in South Africa, memories of fierce family fighting. He closed his eyes, tried to accept the images with that feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’d dream of this, and, once asleep, it would be so much harder to fight the memories.

When Silvio joined him in bed a few hours later, Franco woke briefly, not even for a moment disturbed by another presence so close.

Childhood and youth overrode Legion instincts and chosen lifestyle.

He relaxed again, effortless, and fell back asleep.

He woke with Silvio’s face on his chest, arm over his belly. Even that touch hadn’t raised a single alarm in his mind. Franco glanced down, noticed Silvio was completely naked, the curve of his spine left bare by the covers. Not even boxers.

Franco lifted his hand from Silvio’s shoulder, glanced at his peaceful face. He should get out of this position, this situation, the sooner the better. But Silvio was asleep—he likely hadn’t chosen to move this close. He’d just done what they’d done a thousand times as kids. And holding him felt good—the only thing he’d missed about home.

Franco reached over, lifted Silvio’s hand off his belly and slid out from under him, feeling oddly protective of his brother’s rest. God only knew what hours Silvio kept these days.

His watch showed seven, so he sat up and rubbed his face. Much better. Still jetlagged, but that might take another day or so.

An arm slung around his waist from behind, and Silvio rubbed his face against Franco’s back. “Where are you going?”

Well, maybe not an accident. “Toilet, shower.” Franco half-twisted to glance down. “Anyplace I can run here?”

“This early? You crazy?” Silvio mumbled.

Franco took Silvio’s arm and freed himself. Also from the pressure against his bladder and other parts of his body. While touch with Silvio came easier than with any other human being on the planet— not that he had tried that many—this was a fair bit too close and he was too conscious
and
sober. “Go back to sleep.”

He stood and grinned at Silvio lying there like somebody had poured him out across the bed, one arm hanging off the bed, all boneless and capable of sleeping in whatever position and place.

More disturbing was how good Silvio looked like that, long legs and small strong ass, back sleek and elegantly curved. Franco shook his head and turned away to the bathroom.

After a shave and a wash, he got dressed in his workout kit, found the keys to the bungalow, and went out into the early fall morning.

He turned toward the manor house, but stayed clear of the main building and instead ran along the path cutting across the park-like grounds. Plenty of land to run on, but he’d never thought Silvio’s boss was a poor man.

The air was heavy with humidity, tiny droplets of low-hanging fog gathering in his hair and neck like condensation. He thought he could get used to a place without all the dust and flies. Once he’d found somewhere he wanted to stay.

He returned an hour later to the bungalow, did his stretches and crunches and push-ups, then went back to the bathroom, walking past Silvio on the bed, who hadn’t even stirred. Franco showered, dressed, and left the bathroom again. No response from Silvio as he passed him on the way into the kitchen.

Somebody else must stock the cupboards, or Silvio had learnt, growing up, that junk food wasn’t strictly what his body needed.

He couldn’t determine any source of breakfast—no cereals or bread anywhere to be found—but he did find eggs and milk and a pan, so scrambled eggs it was. He made coffee with the electric coffee machine.

While serving the food onto two plates, he heard the bedroom door open and close, but no footfalls. Silvio had perfected the art of sneaking around at the age of about three. The fact that he didn’t muffle the sound from the door was an interesting message.
I don’t
care if you know where I am.

“You’re determined to make me get up before noon?” Silvio asked.

“Looks like it worked.”

Silvio yawned, and Franco half-turned. His brother was wearing low-riding training slacks and nothing on top, his bare feet unblemished and soft. Civilian feet. No forced marching for him.

March or die
, the unofficial motto of the Legion.

“I’ve been thinking,” Silvio said, idly scratching his stomach.

Ripped. He’d always been mostly sinew and bone, but by now he’d cultivated an amazing layer of muscle without losing his natural leanness. Franco glanced down at the plates in his hand.

Silvio brushed past to the fridge, found a bottle of ketchup and grabbed forks from a drawer. “Put them down on the breakfast bar,”

he said, doing the same with the forks and ketchup before rummaging in the fridge for orange juice, which he poured into two tall glasses.

“You always hated juice with bits,” Franco observed.

Silvio grinned. “Yeah, because it used to make me retch. But I got my throat muscles more under control now.”

Franco glanced at the glass of orange juice. He’d never see the floating pulp quite the same way again. “So, you were thinking?”

“Yeah. I think best in bed, when I’m fal ing asleep.” Silvio settled on the high chair at the bar and took his fork. “You’re a sniper.”

“Was.” Franco began to eat. “And?”

“Teach me.” Silvio stared at him. “I can shoot with a rifle, but I’m sure you could show me some more tricks.”

“Why? Who do you want to take out?”

“There’s . . . I have enemies that need to die. One has some serious security, I doubt I could just walk up to him and shoot him in the head. But a sniper . . . in an urban territory. Unless you’re Obama and have the secret service shut down half the town, a sniper is difficult to protect against. My target doesn’t have quite that amount of power.

He’s rich, and his security is ex-military, you know, Spetsnaz and SAS

and shit like that.”

“Spetsnaz? You’re dealing with Russians?”

Silvio nodded, chewing his eggs, then swallowed. “Stefano can get us whatever rifles you need to train. I was thinking to blow him up, but I like the idea of shooting him from far away.”

Franco shook his head.
Like the idea.
Like planning an excursion to the zoo. “I’d say Bushmaster. It’s an easy rifle to shoot with, and legal in the States. It worked for John Muhammad.”

“Who?”

“The DC Sniper.” Franco sipped his coffee. “You’d need a driver for the car, but if he hadn’t started bragging about it, he could have gone on a fair bit longer.”

“No bragging here. I’ll take him out and move on.” Silvio’s face lit up. “So, you’re going to help me?”

Before Franco had to answer, he heard a sound from the door.

Silvio’s gaze settled just for a moment on a block of vicious-looking cooking knives, but then he took another forkful of eggs and half-turned to look at the door.

A man stepped into the living room. He walked stiffly, and his face bore fading discoloration like from a car crash or a beating. Still, with his fashionably tousled wavy black hair and tanned features that made his light eyes stand out, he was attractive in that entirely pleasant way that looked accidental but wasn’t.

“Good morning, Silvio.” Shit, a nice voice, too.

Silvio grinned. “Morning. The eggs are done, but we have orange juice left.”

“I’ve had breakfast,” the stranger said. He was in his early to mid-thirties, and he stood there like he owned the place. Which was really the clue. Stefano Marino, Italian businessman and procurer of high-powered hunting rifles.

Silvio took a mouthful of his orange juice, entirely unconcerned, but Franco felt the tension in the room. That Silvio did nothing to defuse it was a message. He didn’t think for a moment that Silvio didn’t feel it.

“Who’s your guest?” Marino asked, looking Franco up and down, and Franco was very aware that Silvio was half-naked, that they’d slept in the same bed and were now having breakfast together.

“Franco Spadaro.”

“My brother.”

They said it at the same time.

The old connection had established itself again. Silvio’s eyes flashed with triumph? Joy? Yes, his younger brother was thinking exactly the same thing.

Stefano forced a smile and came toward him. “Stefano Marino.

I’m Silvio’s employer.” His hand felt warm and strong in Franco’s, and again that odd current that Franco didn’t like. Unlike with Falchi, though; Marino didn’t want him here.

“I told him he can stay with me.” Silvio finished his eggs. “He’s looking for a place to stay.”

“So you’re visiting?”

“Maybe he’s staying,” Silvio said immediately. “There’s no reason why he has to leave.”

Franco lifted his hands. “I’ll see what happens. I might go back.”

Back to the Legion, back to Europe, or Africa. Or just back, with no particular place or person waiting at the other end. What did he really need? Nothing.

Marino smiled, and this time it looked more natural. “If you want to stay in the area, I’m sure I could find you a job somewhere.”

I bet you could.
“I’m on vacation right now. There’s no need to go out working yet.” And if he’d ever be able to hold down a civilian job was completely up in the air. Working in an office or anything like that was an alien concept.

Silvio shook his head. “I invited him here. I have the space. He doesn’t have to work if he doesn’t want to.”

Marino hesitated. “Do what you like. I’ll have to trust you to make the right decisions anyway, don’t I?”

“So far it’s working just fine for you,” Silvio said under his breath.

Marino nodded. “That’s true. Well . . . Franco. Great meeting you.

If you and Silvio want to come up to the house for dinner later today .

. .” He shrugged in an expansive “my house is your house” gesture.

“Thank you,” Franco said quickly.

Marino looked at Silvio. “I’ll call you if I need you before that.

Take the day off. Show your brother around.”

“Will do.”

Marino made his exit, and when the door closed, Silvio seemed to count under his breath before he turned back to Franco. “What do you think about him?”

“He hates my guts.”

“He just doesn’t like surprises.” Silvio finished his coffee. “He didn’t expect another guy here.”

What are you telling me?
“I could pose a security risk.”
Play it
down.

Silvio smiled, and Franco knew the evasion tactic hadn’t worked.

All the details only made for some disturbing possibilities. Falchi’s amiability, the way he’d treated Franco like family, even though their father had cut all ties to Falchi after, allegedly, a pretty dramatic altercation. Falchi was Silvio’s godfather, but only his. Falchi had had no right to be overly familiar with Franco. And now Marino’s prickly response. The common factor here: masculine, attractive men with power and a fuckton of money.

“He’s jealous,” Silvio mused.

I don’t want to hear this.
“Silvio, I . . .”

“The Russians fucked him up, and I’m going to avenge him. I need your help, Franco. Please.”

Cover for me. Please. Touch me, please.
Franco’s heart began to race in his chest, and he couldn’t meet Silvio’s dark gaze. He was seventeen again, scared and clinging to the only person who made him feel strong and needed and comfortable in his own skin. His brother, with his animal instincts and predator confidence.

“It’s a mistake, Silvio.”

“I don’t care. Do you?” Silvio smiled at him, a reckless, devil-may-care smile.

“No.” It felt like a defeat, but he’d have had to lie to claim the opposite, and lying was one of those things that never fooled Silvio.

Silvio stood and came around, touching his shoulders. Franco felt the tension he was holding under Silvio’s strong hands. And couldn’t let it go. Suddenly, Silvio’s lips touched the side of his neck.

An electric shock that went down to his toes.

Franco turned his head away. “Silvio, don’t.”

“There’s nobody to stop us.” Silvio kissed him again, this time on the back of the neck. The short hair there made him feel vulnerable.

“You’re under so much pressure.”

“And you’re not helping.”

“Watch me.” Silvio chuckled against his skin. “I’ll make you feel better.”

“You always do.” Silvio was like home, just without the man who’d threatened to kill them all and who made their mother cry. The only safe person out there, the only one who got him, the only one Franco knew meant no harm at al . Not ever.

Silvio ran his hand down Franco’s chest—not a light touch, more a rub that zinged his nipple alive—and leaned into him. Franco watched the hand glide down to his stomach and reach his belt. He stopped it there. “We were kids.”

“True. But I always knew what I was.”

You did. I didn’t.

“Nobody else is like you.”

Silvio chuckled. “But you’re the closest thing.” Silvio’s hand pushed further down, brushing his dick through the fabric, and Franco jerked, unable to stop it. “I always thought we should have been twins. You got me, Franco.”