Dark Soul, Vol. 3

by Aleksandr Voinov

  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 falling 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 gone, 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, won’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 c
linging 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 all. 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.”

  But that understanding, even the stupid mistake of fumbling under the covers a few times while pretending to be asleep, didn’t have to lead to anything else now. It wasn’t inevitable. He could stop it now. He should.

  He took hold of Silvio’s wrist and turned in his chair, then stood. Silvio didn’t move away, so they stood chest to naked chest, so close that Franco more felt than saw Silvio’s erection tent his training slacks. The black eyes held a challenge, but above all, so much affection that it clenched Franco’s heart.

  He kept that hand trapped in his grip and placed his free hand against Silvio’s cheek, then kissed him on the lips, briefly, because he was way too self-conscious, and because doing more seemed wrong. Silvio opened up, though, flicking his tongue over Franco’s lips. “Nobody can stop us, Franco. I know you want to.”

  I know you want me.

  Yet still he’d walked away from Silvio. He was the fucking king of quitters. He’d always just walked away like he wasn’t interested. Like his father was in the room.

  I’ll kill you before you turn into a faggot.

  “He’s not here,” Silvio whispered. “He won’t interrupt us.”

  “Silvio, listen to yourself.” Franco pushed away, but damn, it was hard. And what kind of man was he that he was seriously considering having sex with his brother? When he barely managed to do things with strangers. He just didn’t like to be touched by people he didn’t know, didn’t like, and those he did like were the worst of all. “Don’t touch me. Leave it.” Leave it or I’m gone.

  Silvio studied his face, then pushed back against the kitchen counter, soft grey training slacks doing absolutely nothing to hide that he was turned on. Morning wood, possibly, but that was an excuse and he knew it. He looked sexy like hell, willing, ready, and Franco couldn’t imagine a single gay man who wouldn’t jump his bones. Men and women both, he assumed, but he could really only speak from one side.

  Mind over fucking matter.

  Fucking matter? You’re a comedian, Franco.

  He tried to summon outrage, self-righteousness, but all he found was a sense of nausea, like he was drifting out at sea without any land in sight. And whichever way he might turn would only yield more water, more wasteland. Hard to make any decision if it might be exactly the wrong one.

  “I love you, but not like this.” There, he’d said it. The l-word, the biggest threat of them all. “Don’t force me there.”

  Silvio shook his head, but Franco could see him shut down, close up and push him away. It hurt, but it was for the best. Even if there was nobody stopping them, it was just wrong. Silvio would never understand that, but Franco wasn’t the older brother for nothing. Sometimes that meant protecting Silvio from himself.

  “Well, you have time off,” Franco said, forcing his voice to stay level. “Want to show me the city?”

  Silvio nodded. “We’ll take the bike.”

  The shopping spree started innocently enough, with a leap of faith—trusting Silvio on his motorcycle, even though he wore no protective clothes. Silvio would never harm him deliberately, and Franco found he could relax, sitting tight behind Silvio, feeling every movement translate into both their bodies. Intimate, yes, but not threatening. Far less so than his own brother kissing him.

  The first stop was a place that sold those leather bike suits with Kevlar plates. Franco was measured, and then Silvio flashed plastic and paid for gloves and a leather suit and boots and a helmet. He didn’t listen when Franco told him that wouldn’t be necessary—I’ll go, I’ll leave again, Silvio—and half an hour later, Franco was wearing a suit very similar to Silvio’s—black with jagged white highlights.

  Side by side, helmets in hand, they looked even more like brothers, Franco thought, staring at them in the mirror. He was thinner than Silvio, two inches taller, looking not unlike a jackal with his long limbs and sharp angles and the lines under his cheekbones, more pronounced due to the acne scars at his temples and on his cheeks. His hair was shorter, his eyes different, more green than black, but compared to him, Silvio was really striking, and the staff in the shop fawned over him not just because he wielded the power of American Express.

  The leather racing suits with their Kevlar plating felt somehow raw and masculine, and Silvio certainly wore his exceedingly well. He also had no qualms about driving to a clothing shop next.

  “Stefano invited you to dinner. You’ll wear something nice,” he said.

  More measuring, because after all the years in the Legion, wearing a uniform or workout clothes, Franco had no idea what size he was—or what it translated to in American sizes. When he reemerged from the dressing room, he had to go looking for Silvio and the shop assistant, who were in a more protected area of the shop. Silvio was pressing up against the other guy—an attractive young black man—kissing him like he was trying to steal his chewing gum.

  Franco was about to pretend he hadn’t seen them when the black guy suddenly startled aware and slapped Silvio’s shoulders a few times.

  Silvio disengaged, licked over the guy’s lips and turned around, but held the shop assistant in place. “Want a taste of that?”

  Franco saw the black guy’s eyes widen, but he didn’t protest. And God, but he was gorgeous, aroused and panting. What was he thinking, if anything?

  “I’ll wait outside,” Franco said and dumped the clothes he wanted on the counter for Silvio to pick up.

  He sat outside near the motorcycle, feeling the autumn sun on his face, watching passersby walk and chatter and the traffic, calming his nerves, trying not to think of Silvio and that other man, what they were doing and how. Or why Silvio was trying so hard to drive him into a corner with all this. Trying to tie him down with clothes, like he’d stay around, and trying to push him away with sex. It didn’t make much sense.

  Silvio came out of the shop and sat down on the bench beside Franco. “What was that?”

  “I should be asking you that.”

  Silvio grinned. “You didn’t like him?”

  “Silvio . . .” Franco shook his head. “There’s . . . not many people I like.”

  “You’re not
in a monogamous relationship, are you?”

  “No. Hell, no.” Franco rubbed his face. “I don’t . . .” I don’t do relationships. They’re messy and scary and would require trust. And I guess my trust bone got broken too often. Admitting that to Silvio felt pathetic, though, so he didn’t. “I envy you that.”

  “How easy I score? Yeah, it’s a talent.” Silvio put his hand on Franco’s leather-clad thigh and squeezed.

  Franco couldn’t help but see the disapproval in the face of a man rushing past. It didn’t matter that the man in question was ugly, fat, and old; all he saw was that sneer. He’d never be able to just live this like Silvio did.

  “Is Marino your lover?”

  Silvio laughed. “We’re working on it. It’s . . . a work in progress. I hope he will be, yeah.”

  “Falchi?”

  “Yes, for eight years.”

  “Then what do you want with me? Am I like that?” He nodded toward the shop.

  “No. We could be something real, Franco.” Silvio’s lips quirked into a sad little smile. “If you wanted.”

  Something real. God help me. Again the responsibility. “If I don’t show you how to do it, what will you do then?”

  “I’ll do it anyway.” Silvio leaned back against the bench. “I’ll still kill them all. I’ll find a way.”

  No doubt about that. Silvio would do it—and might make a mistake, or have to try again. It would be safer for him if he had help and a quick brush-up of his skills. Also, if they were fighting a war, sniping seemed like the cleanest way to take out a high-value target. A lot less messy than a shootout. If he couldn’t stop Silvio, and who could, really? He could at least make sure Silvio would walk away from the kill. Didn’t he owe him at least that much, after letting him walk away?

  “Let’s go home.”

  As if they ever could.

  “How are you finding the city?”

  It’s full of fat people and shops I’ve never seen before, and whenever I think “meat,” I think flies and Djibouti and carcasses butchered on cardboard out in the street. Too many white faces here, too.