Free Dark Soul Vol. 1 by Aleksandr Voinov

relationship.
    When the food was gone, Falchi took a wine bottle in one hand and two fresh glasses from a tray in the other and nodded to Stefano. “We have to talk.”
    Silvio glanced between them, but remained sitting. “Page me if you need me.”
    Falchi nodded to him and led Stefano down the corridor, up a staircase, and into a room that was half library and half office. Dark wooden shelves full of books and antiques covered two of the walls floor to ceiling.
    A group of Chesterfields were gathered around a table near the windows, which was where Falchi now placed the wine, a local Chianti. More intriguing was an oil painting on the one wall not covered in books. Stefano stared at it, then nodded toward it when Falchi noticed. “May I?”
    With no protest to stop him, he walked toward the painting, the same tightness building in his chest and heart and balls as when he faced Silvio. In a way, he was. Same body shape, same face, and above all the same black eyes, though the painting mimicked those nude art shots that left most to the imagination, playing only on the lines and curves and hollows of the human body. Silvio was sitting with one leg stretched out, one drawn up, a strong arm wrapped around it. His left; Silvio was a lefthander. His fingers seemed too long and like weapons to slice and stab with. Silvio looked about sixteen and even more compelling and magnetic than now as an adult.
    Darkness half-obscured his face, the second eye not actually painted on the canvas, but still it stood from the black paint like antimatter against a lightless night. The sharp features made him look impish—but without any sense of mischief or fun. A kobold, something inhuman and vaguely threatening.
    Yet the most disturbing feature was that little smile playing around Silvio’s lips, a smile that didn’t reach anything else in his face. It was knowing, that smile, full of dark awareness no boy that age should have.
    “My Picture of Dorian Gray.” Falchi pressed a glass of wine into Stefano’s hand. “The painter said Silvio made him consider giving up painting. He struggled capturing Silvio’s soul. That is maybe because he doesn’t have one.”
    Stefano shook his head. “It’s . . . impressive. Beautiful.” There, he’d said it.
    “If you think he’s gorgeous now, you should have seen him eight years ago. Of course, he’ll age well. His father did, and his mother is still stunning.”
    Only one response to that without betraying his emotions. “Luigi Ferretti said you were his father’s friend.”
    “That’s the sanitized version. Paolo Spadaro was a gifted killer, cold, ruthless, utterly merciless. We got involved in a war. Very long story very short, because it doesn’t actually matter anymore, but when the time came, I went to prison for him. After all, I didn’t have a family, while he had three young sons, a beautiful wife. Also, I was terribly smitten with Paolo. Prison might have destroyed him, certainly destroyed his family, so, yes. And somebody like me can still thrive in such circumstances.”
    “I heard you became more powerful in prison than outside.”
    “Few things can’t be done over the phone or in face-to-face meetings as long as people on the outside stay loyal. I had my privileges, certamente .” Falchi took a sip of wine, rolling it around in his mouth, and Stefano copied him. The wine was nothing short of amazing. He almost regretted swallowing it.
    “What happened to Paolo then? He retired?”
    “He did. Maybe some form of guilt caught up with him, or a sudden awareness of mortality. From what I’ve gathered, he didn’t do terribly well as a father. Granted, trying to control and raise a boy like Silvio can’t have been easy, but there was apparently violence, also against the mother. I understand that at sixteen, Silvio faced off his father, and while Silvio never spoke about it, I assume there were weapons involved.”
    “You mean . . .” Stefano stared at the painting