Free Dark Soul Vol. 3 by Aleksandr Voinov

and his reputation.
    Marino saw him out to the door, and Franco continued on his own to the bungalow. He half-expected to see Silvio stomping around and fuming with rage when he entered, but his brother was sitting on the couch cleaning his little arsenal. Handling guns . . . talk about psychological projection.
    Silvio had shed his jacket and shirt and was now wearing only that tight white sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his arms and part of his shoulders. He lacked the hard edges of a soldier, but the sight was nevertheless soothing. He was a type of man that made sense, that Franco understood. The same chromosomes, the same childhood, just assembled slightly differently. If they were messed up, they were messed up in the same way. Two possibilities of a life. And it seemed Silvio was doing a lot better than he was.
    We should have been twins.
    Silvio glanced at him, his fingers violently snapping the last piece in place. But left the talking to him, as if to punish him. The silent treatment they both knew so well. Paolo had a way of not speaking to you that was the closest thing to a knife at the throat.
    “I’ll teach you, but I’ll take the kill.” Franco sat down on the couch next to Silvio. “You’re the better driver, and you’ll make a great spotter with your instincts. You’ll have to make sure the target is down. Be my eyes and ears.” And my supernatural intuition.
    “What are you getting out of it?” Silvio asked, surprisingly calm.
    “I used to do it in return for a not-spectacular paycheck, you know. It’s no big deal.”
    Silvio grinned. “We’re both cold like that.”
    “Yes, we are.” Franco reached over, placed his hand between Silvio’s shoulders, felt the firm warmth of his brother’s body. Imagined, for a hot-cold moment, Silvio on top of him, muscles tensing and relaxing with thrusts against him. Into him. He closed his eyes, felt his resistance crumble against this. It would feel so good. “I see what you find in Marino.”
    Silvio turned toward him, but Franco kept his eyes closed, banished the need to see, to be in control of his environment. Eyes open, he was a killer. Eyes closed, he was nothing, just breath trapped in a chest.
    “You like him?”
    Not the word I’d use. “Yeah.”
    “Why?”
    “Ironically, I think the injuries really suit him.” Franco opened his eyes.
    Silvio laughed. “You like a battered boyfriend?”
    Franco examined that thought, turned it around in his head like a weapon he hadn’t figured out yet. What it would feel like when he pulled the trigger. Its capabilities, the reach, the stopping power. This thought had a lot of stopping power.
    Maybe that was what was wrong with him. He was exactly the same as their father. He stood abruptly, but Silvio’s fingers closed around his wrist with surprising, unyielding strength.
    Don’t touch me.
    Franco tensed his arm, silently wrestling Silvio for control. “I don’t know.”
    “You should try and work it out, Franco.” Silvio let his wrist go, but hooked his hand into his belt instead. Franco breathed and pressed his lips together when Silvio’s palm brushed his dick. Bastard.
    “Don’t.” Franco still couldn’t do anything to keep Silvio from opening his trousers and sliding them down to his thighs. He was keyed up too high, nothing else on his mind, really, and when he felt Silvio’s breath against his dick, he almost jumped. “Silvio.”
    “Fuck Paolo,” Silvio whispered against his groin, freed his dick and dug his fingers hard into Franco’s muscles, clamping him in place.
    Then heat and wetness took him, his brother now clearly in control of both and neither of them. Franco hated his body responding so eagerly, like any of this was right or as it should be. As if they belonged like this, Silvio kneeling in front of him, his dick in Silvio’s mouth, those lips moving slowly but firmly, sliding up and down his cock.
    Franco couldn’t move, couldn’t touch Silvio anywhere but