They say he’s insane.
Or maybe he just didn’t give a fuck.
Stefano cleared his throat and tried to not stare at those wine-wet lips. It wasn’t that Spadaro was conventionally good-looking. He was too cold for that, too expressionless, too predatory. At the same time, there was something off about him. A turn of the head, a glance, the long legs. Feminine. Camp? If it weren’t ridiculous to think of a seasoned sicario as feminine. He didn’t speak with a lisp or wave his hands around in a limp-wristed kind of way. But something about him exuded sex like a cat in heat. Knowing, tempting eyes that sucked all the light from the room. Centers of gravity.
The other men at the table surely felt the same. Most tried very hard to ignore Spadaro, but Stefano couldn’t help wondering what exactly the sicario’s relationship to Falchi was like. Against custom—almost unforgivably—Falchi had never married. And like many, he’d spent a good ten years in prison—time he’d used well, advancing from powerful to very powerful. Did Spadaro only provide security? Or comfort, too?
“So you killed Carbone?” Stefano asked.
Spadaro looked up, something flickering in his eyes. “Yes.”
“Congratulations, he was a bastard.”
Spadaro’s hands on the table turned into fists, and he cocked his head as if listening to a voice. Maybe the guy was insane. “Why do you want to know?”
“I don’t.” Stefano kept his voice low, but of course people were listening. “But since you seem keen on small talk . . .”
Spadaro weighed that, then flashed a grin, baring a lot of starkly white, straight teeth up to the molars. It wasn’t a very reassuring gesture. Nor did it look very natural. “I’d tell you. I’m in the same guest house as you. Last room on the same floor.”
Thank God Vince was too far away to have heard that. From any sicario, that was an unveiled threat. I know where you sleep. I can come and get you.
And yet . . .
Wanna come?
Stefano shook his head. “You keep doing that.”
“And?” Spadaro folded his hands and leaned across the table. Black eyes framed with long, dark lashes. The eyebrows were almost straight, the same black as the hair, silky and shiny like mink. “Don’t like it?”
Stefano balled his fist around his napkin and tossed it on the plate as he stood. He couldn’t be this close to the man. Couldn’t just listen to the teasing.
Not teasing. Flirting.
Fucking faggot was flirting with him. He still felt those black eyes staring at his back as he retreated. To save face, he headed for the toilets and washed his hands, staring at soap suds traveling the whole length of the caramel-colored marble basin.
He checked his cell phone, but what emails he had he could deal with later. No text messages. He typed a quick Thinking of you to Donata. For whatever reason, she considered regular text messages better proof of his love than big flower arrangements or jewelry. But who understood women?
The door opened, and for a moment he half-expected, half-feared to see Spadaro, but it was just one of the regular guys. He shook his head, examined himself in the mirror, plucked off a speck of imaginary dust and knew he wouldn’t have fooled anybody. God damn it. What was it about Spadaro that flustered him like that? Was it that he’d killed Carbone, the closest thing to a psychopath Stefano had ever met? Or that Stefano could very easily imagine Falchi being affectionate with Spadaro? Could imagine them kiss. Yes, maybe that was it. And Spadaro was flaunting it. Flaunting his influence and how dangerous he was.
When the other guy emerged from the stalls, Stefano tore himself away from the mirror and left the bathroom. His phone vibrated on the way out.
I like hearing that :-), Donata had texted.
Stefano smiled and slid the phone back into his inner jacket pocket, then went directly to the kitchen, where Luigi was just tucking into a folded flatbread with cheese and ham. The consigliere chewed with obvious pleasure.
Stefano smiled when Luigi raised his eyebrows. “I just needed a moment away.”
“It’s the waiting,” Luigi said, brown eyes clever and understanding. “I find waiting harder to bear in a group.”
“Yeah.” Stefano leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “If there’s anything I can help with . . .”
Luigi shrugged. “Il resto è nelle mani di Dio. The priest was here yesterday. Do you want some of that?” He pointed to more bread and cheese and ham on the steel counter. “Came in from Bologna this morning.”
“Sure, why not.”
Luigi waved him off when he tried to cut himself some ham, and calmly made the sandwich for him, just like one you could buy for two or three euros all over Bologna. No cheaper, better food anywhere in Italy.
“Thank you,” Stefano said. And because the question was gnawing at him, he asked, “Do you know why Gianbattista hasn’t come over?”
“For all intents and purposes, he’s sent his second. Spadaro isn’t just a killer, you know.”
“What is he?” Stefano asked.
Luigi smiled. “Legally speaking, he’s Battista’s heir. People say he regards him as his son. Others. . .”
“Others?” Hopefully he’d hit the exact note between interested and not too eager.
“Gianbattista and Silvio’s father, Paolo, were close friends back in the day. There’s nothing strange about Gianbattista playing uncle and godfather to Silvio.”
Yeah, right. And why are you covering Falchi’s ass? “Were friends?”
“Paolo retired—ostensibly to bring up three children. There was talk, though, that he might not have kept all his secrets. Which, if you know Paolo, is nonsense.”
A breach of omertà, even alleged, should have seen Paolo very dead. More disturbing—why had Falchi adopted the son of a possible pentito? Stefano shook his head. “That’s quite a story.”
Luigi finished off his food. “Don’t worry about Spadaro too much. Gianbattista is no longer active. He won’t get involved.”
Stefano smiled and concentrated on his food. He had a lot more questions, and his east coast mafia history was too patchy to make much sense of anything. All of this had happened before he’d become a made man. Sometimes he was glad he was a long way away from the center of power in New York City. Even though that brought its own problems, like too few potential allies. He sure could use some help to deal with the Russians. “Is it true Spadaro killed Diego Carbone?”
“I have a theory that people let Spadaro get away with his antics because they’re secretly grateful he took out Carbone.” Luigi fetched two glasses from a cupboard, placed them on the counter, and poured them both Châteauneuf-du-Pape. “Others are simply scared of the guy who faced Carbone down.”
“Thanks.” Stefano took the wine and pushed the memory of Diego Carbone out of his mind. Tried to, at least. A sadistic killer, tall and gaunt, bald, all bones and attitude. The kind of scary bastard who failed to mix in polite society, who got called in when something required a bloodbath. Stefano checked his watch. “You think I’ll be called today?”
“Most likely early tomorrow. You look like you could use some rest.”
“Yeah, my flight was delayed by some nonsense.” Stefano took another sip of wine and spotted Vince lingering just beyond the kitchen. “Thanks for the company, Luigi. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Luigi nodded and poured himself more wine.
Stefano could probably have stayed awake a little longer, socialized more, but he was strung out, and he’d need to be fresh tomorrow. A shower and eight hours of sleep sounded just about right.
He headed over to the guest house—no less grand than the main mansion, but the guest rooms there were for the big guns. The serious politicking and backstabbing happened there. Interesting that Spadaro, for all his political clout, wasn’t staying in the main building. It might affront the bigger bosses and the movers and shakers if a lowly sicario were treated like family royalty.
Vincenzo followed Stefano to his room, one step behind. Giving him di
stance and silence.
The room wasn’t much different from a big-city hotel suite. Vince’s bedroom lay beyond the connecting door, in case of emergency.
Vince looked dubious. “I can take the couch, boss.”
Stefano checked the windows and the main door. He didn’t feel threatened, but he wouldn’t mind the company. “Sure.”
He had a quick shower in the marble-clad bathroom, brushed his teeth, and changed. By the time he emerged, Vince had turned the couch into a makeshift bed and stripped down to his underwear. Stefano sent a goodnight text to Donata, then slid under the covers. He left one lamp on, but turned it down. He didn’t like being helpless in a dark and unfamiliar room.
He had weird and disturbing dreams, and even though he remembered no specifics, he was relieved when something woke him.
Until he realized what that something was: sounds of fighting, heavy breathing. He sat up, hand finding the pistol on the nightstand, heart racing so fast he felt nauseous.
Two men were wrestling for control on the couch. Vince on the bottom. Spadaro on top.
He pointed his gun at Spadaro. “Don’t fucking move.”
Very slowly, Spadaro raised his hands from Vince’s throat.
“Step off.” Stefano slid out of bed, keeping the barrel trained on Spadaro as he stepped deliberately away from Vince.
“Fucking asshole!” Vince shouted, staggered off the couch and rubbed his throat.
“Tie him up,” Stefano said.
Spadaro’s black eyes came to rest on him. Jesus Christ, it wasn’t right the way that stare gave him goosebumps. In the light of the moon and the little lamp on the nightstand, Spadaro looked even less real than he had among the other Mafiosi. Sharp features, oddly genderless. Not much of a beard shadow, either, which somehow added to the sense of danger.
Vince grabbed Spadaro’s wrists and pulled a zip tie taut around them. No response from the sicario—just that even, soulless stare.
Adrenaline burning through every vein, Stefano stepped closer. Closer still, and he reached for the holster under Spadaro’s right shoulder. Fast draw holster; Spadaro’s Beretta came free with a tug. Customized grips, but nothing special. Stefano handed it to Vince, who placed it out of reach. Spadaro’s gaze followed his gun, but otherwise he didn’t move a muscle.
“Why are you here?”
Spadaro turned his attention back to Stefano. Sucking up all the light again. Had Carbone seen his own death in those eyes?
“Fucking bastard,” Vince muttered. “Should I make him talk?”
Spadaro didn’t even glance at Vince, but the slight quirk of his eyebrow made clear what he thought about that.
“Find some rope,” Stefano said, too aware that Spadaro, even with his hands tied, was dangerous. Now maybe more than ever. “And you, sit down.” He pressed the gun into Spadaro’s neck for emphasis, right at the hollow at the base of his skull.
Vince hurried off.
“Why are you here?” . . . faggot.
Spadaro sat down on the couch. Carefully, sinuously. Silent. Tension in his shoulders, but his hands were relaxed, despite how deep the plastic restraints cut into the flesh there.
What to do with him? Made men solved their own problems. He couldn’t kill Spadaro—not without getting an okay from Spadaro’s boss, and he doubted very much that Falchi would give him that. Besides, he didn’t really want to kill Spadaro. Spadaro couldn’t expect help either. Nobody else would get involved in this.
“Just answer the fucking question.” He dug the muzzle of his gun into the hollow under Spadaro’s jaw, a thumb’s breadth from his ear. The only response was a tilt of the head that displayed a lot of neck and throat.
Stefano swallowed dryly and surveyed the man he controlled: Hands folded in his lap. Pronounced collarbones. Lean, defined chest. Small nipples, clearly visible under the stretchy black fabric of his track shirt. Stefano itched to touch the flesh, explore that maddening body, pinch the nipples until they grew even harder. No.
Thank God, Vince returned with rope before he could make an unforgivable mistake. “Found some in the garden shed,” Vince said. “Should I tie him to the chair?”
“No, I want him stretched out.” That sounded wrong even to Stefano’s own ears, but the idea of Spadaro helpless and exposed made his mouth dry. Was there a small smile on Spadaro’s lips at that? Or maybe the Barracuda had worked out a way to escape. Or a lie to tell him. “String him up.”
Vince examined the room, then pointed at the fan. “That should hold him.” He dragged a chair over, climbed up, and wound the rope around the fan, then hopped down and gave it a good strong tug. The drop rod swayed, but stayed put. Probably bolted to a ceiling joist.
Stefano jabbed his gun toward Spadaro. “Get up.”
Spadaro stood, and Vince bound his hands. How odd that Spadaro didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t attack. This was the same man who had brought Carbone down? Why would he give himself up like this? No wonder people thought he was insane.
Vince tied one last knot around Spadaro’s wrists and then pulled on the free end of the rope, drawing Spadaro’s arms toward the ceiling.
“A bit higher,” Stefano said.
Before long, Spadaro was stretched out, taut body on display. Stefano stepped close and pressed the muzzle of his gun into the soft flesh under Spadaro’s jaw. “Why are you here?”
“You’re not gonna shoot me,” Spadaro said, his lips drawing Stefano’s attention more than they should. He sounded tense, but that was probably from discomfort. His hands would be swelling soon, and no way a sicario wouldn’t be concerned about his hands.
“I’m not?” Stefano ran the muzzle down Spadaro’s perversely long throat. When the man swallowed, Stefano’s own body responded with a swell of adrenaline. “I could have shot you as an intruder.” Faggot.
“True.” Spadaro glanced up at his wrists, moved his fingers.
“Hurts?”
Spadaro looked at him point-blank. “Yes.”
Why did that send a tingle through his body? What was it about Spadaro that made Stefano want to hit him, kick him, even shoot him? Why did he want to hear the man groan in pain? Why did that turn him on?
Power. It had to be the power.
Spadaro was smiling at him now. Closest thing to a smile, anyway. Something incredibly dark was coiling inside the man, something begging to be released. Nearly tangible, like a vibration picked up through the feet.
“Vince, knife.” Stefano held out his hand but kept Spadaro’s gaze. I’ll find a way to crack you. I’ll break you. You’ll tell me what I want to know. And you’ll drop your fucking mask.
Vince reached into his pocket and flicked open a butterfly knife. Stefano tucked his own gun into Spadaro’s belt—
Spadaro gasped.
By the looks of it, the gun barrel was brushing something sensitive, and if Spadaro wasn’t already hard, well, he wasn’t far off.
Stefano tore his gaze away. Couldn’t allow Vince to see this. Vince might think he cared, that he’d wanted to turn the sicario on. He didn’t want to end up like D’Amato.
But who was talking sex anyway? This was about cracking Spadaro. Nothing else.
He unbuckled Spadaro’s shoulder holster and dropped it on a nearby table, then took the knife from Vince’s hand and grabbed a handful of Spadaro’s slinky black shirt.
Spadaro jolted when the knife blade whispered through cloth, and arched his head away when the knife reached his collar. Stefano cut through one shoulder and arm, then the other, and ripped the shirt clean off.
The body underneath was lean enough to show off grooves in the stomach muscles and obliques, which tightened a little with every breath. Small, perfectly shaped pecs. All hairless. Above his heart a black line of tattoos, glaring on the pale flesh.
Anima nera.
Black soul.
There was more. Just above the belt and to the side, where others might have a scar from an appendectomy, was the puckered round mark o
f a bullet. Stefano slid the knife between belt and trousers and skin and pushed the fabric down a bit to have a closer look. “Who gave you this?”
Spadaro blinked, glanced quickly down and back up. “Diego did.”
“He shot you.”
Spadaro swiped his tongue along his lower lip, breath coming a little faster than necessary. “Yes, he did.”
Put the boy in the hospital for a few months.
Of course, sepsis from a gut shot could do that. Stefano longed to touch the scar, imagined, for a long hot-cold moment, Spadaro clutching his belly, lips pulled back in a choked scream.
Somehow, though, Spadaro had still killed Carbone in that state. God only knew what kind of strength that took.
He stepped closer to take hold of the gun still wedged into Spadaro’s waistband, brushing the hot skin of the man’s belly with his knuckles and the back of his hand. He pulled the pistol free with more force than he’d intended. Spadaro jumped, and froze again when Stefano pushed the gun low into his belly. He traced the muzzle up bare skin, watching Spadaro’s black eyes. The man’s head had tilted back, but his body . . . he almost seemed to be leaning into the touch of the steel.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you,” Stefano murmured. Low, intimate, just between them.
“Fun . . . would be over too fast?”
Stefano placed the muzzle deliberately over one of Spadaro’s small hard nipples and twisted. He couldn’t touch, couldn’t bite, but watching something of his touch Spadaro was almost as good. “Why did you come?”
Spadaro pressed his lips together, but it seemed sensuous rather than reluctant, the way his eyes almost closed. “I won’t . . . tell you.”
Resistance, never mind his own roiling adrenaline and sick fascination, and there was nothing he could do about it. Vince was still in the room.
Stefano stepped to the side to shield them both from Vince’s gaze. He ran the pistol down Spadaro’s front and, after a moment’s hesitation, past the belt, nudging the bulge there. Silvio inhaled sharply through clenched teeth, arching in the restraints when Stefano traced the outline of his cock. Oh yes, he was definitely enjoying this, the sick bastard.
Dark Soul, Vol. 1 Page 2
