Free Dark Soul Vol. 1 by Aleksandr Voinov Page A

again. The boy there didn’t look like he would tolerate himself or his mother being pushed around. Yes, that boy would point a gun at his own father. Two generations of killers facing off. “What happened?”
    “Paolo beat him black and blue and kicked him out. Silvio, defiant as he is, vowed to make it on his own. He came to me. Apparently Paolo occasionally dropped my name after our relationship soured, and Silvio figured his father’s “enemy” might be his friend. Also, of course, I was his padrino , so practically family.”
    Which made the whole lover angle more distasteful, but Stefano pushed that thought away. “So you introduced him and trained him.”
    “That I certainly did.” Falchi smiled softly. “Silvio has all the talent of his father. That odd quality about him, that’s Paolo, but it’s stronger in the son. I sometimes call it the Spadaro family curse.”
    “How romantic.” He wasn’t superstitious, but it did make a lot of sense, despite the fact that it sounded more and more like a ghost story. But Silvio did have a quality about him that, no doubt, would make old ladies in rural villages cross themselves when he passed. “Well, it looks like he found an arrangement he can live with. Happy ending and all that.”
    “All paradises have gates,” Falchi said. “You’d wonder why God made Paradise with an exit if he didn’t anticipate having to use it eventually. Come, have a seat.”
    Stefano settled on the couch and leaned back while Falchi refilled both their glasses and sat down opposite. “Now, I believe, you’ll have to tell me the details of your situation with your Russian guests.”
    Stefano took a mouthful of wine, and held the glass in his hands while he answered Falchi’s questions. How they’d arrived, gained a toehold, then a foothold, then carved their niche. He hadn’t intervened hard and fast enough, but he’d not been ready for war, not back then. And now it would take more than a skirmish to get rid of them.
    But Falchi— Gianbattista —didn’t seem to judge him. It was easy to confide in him, and even easier to believe that Falchi was now on his side.
     

     
    Stefano woke to an insistent buzz and managed to wake enough to find his cell phone. “’lo?”
    “Good morning, sweetheart.” Donata. “We’re about an hour away. Are you still asleep?”
    “Not quite .” He sat up, rubbed his raw and swollen face. God damn it, how much wine had he had? He vaguely remembered a cozy evening with Gianbattista, some beautiful wines, and a platter of midnight snacks. “I had a bit of a long night talking to the guys here.”
    “Oh, that means you’re looking all disheveled and grumpy now? And stubbly?”
    She loved when he didn’t shave for a couple days. The stubble was enough to make her squirm when she was freshly shaved and sensitive. “An hour, you said?”
    “Yes, sleepyhead.”
    “I better get up. Call me when you’re outside the gates. Love you.”
    “Love you too.”
    He dressed after sticking his head under some cold water. The memory of that painting came back. What else had they spoken about? He’d trusted Gianbattista, remembered wondering if he should be telling him all this, about his life and his goals. He was reasonably sure they hadn’t touched upon his sexuality—even drunk, he’d have rebuffed Gianbattista. It was none of his business, and even a bottle of wine (or three) wouldn’t change that.
    He tossed his clothes and toiletries into his suitcase and zipped it. On cue, somebody knocked on his door. Did Gianbattista have a camera in this suite?
    “Coming.” Stefano opened the door, not in the least surprised to be face to face with Silvio. He was starting to get used to that gut punch every time he got near the man.
    “Breakfast.” Silvio’s voice was even, but something about him was different this morning.
    “Yeah, coming,” Stefano repeated. “How are you?”
    Silvio glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve been better.