Dark Soul Vol. 1 by Aleksandr Voinov Read Free Book Online

in case he found the time to run. He could have brought more, prepared to stay longer, but two days was dangerous enough with Silvio nearby.
    He was here for political reasons. Silvio might even have believed him when he’d claimed that. Might have been disappointed. Bullshit , he chided himself, balling his fists. Why would the killer have any emotional investment in his presence? Apart from anger born of humiliation.
    There would be some kind of payback—some nasty, painful revenge that would make him regret the liberties he’d taken with Silvio. He expected nothing less.
    And in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind, the prospect aroused him enough to warn him that the next encounter would be for higher stakes. He had only two days to make an ally of Falchi. Two days of opportunities for Silvio to settle accounts.
     

     
    Stefano wandered around in the villa in search of the winter garden. He passed a decorative eternity pool on the first floor of the modern wing, found the stairs down from there, and exited through an open door into the garden. There he located the second pool, Olympic-sized and more suitable for strenuous exercise than relaxation.
    The water slushed and gargled softly into the overspill sieves as he made his way to the garden. It connected to the house but wasn’t easy to see from there. Much more visible from the outside.
    Entering, he took off his sunglasses and met the gaze of the older man settled at the table. With his classical Roman profile, Gianbattista Falchi was handsome enough to be cast as a romantic lead. He could have stepped straight out of a classical forties Hollywood movie. His temples were gray, his face well-worn. Character, Donata would call it, but Stefano doubted his mature beauty would last much longer. He’d sag, and wrinkle, and the outdoors tan would no longer hide the age spots. Falchi had to be at least twice as old as Silvio, which put him in his early to mid-fifties.
    Stefano inclined his head and waited to be acknowledged. Decorum.
    “Ah, Stefano Marino. Please, do come in. Breakfast?” Falchi lifted a napkin to his lips and glanced at the lady serving him toast. “ Cosa prendi? Tea? Caffé ?”
    “Coffee, please.” Stefano approached, noticing the table was laid for three.
    “I’m honored you’d receive me.” Stefano inclined his head again, sat down at the wave of Falchi’s hand.
    The maid served him coffee and placed a basket with butter-drenched croissants on the table, then poured orange juice into a thin, tall glass in front of him and topped up Falchi’s.
    “ È tutto per il momento ,” Falchi said to her. He finished the fruit salad on his plate, kiwi and melon and strawberries, then leaned forward. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you yesterday. I had the most atrocious migraine.”
    Migraine, really? “I hope you’re better.”
    “Yes. You could say they were one of the reasons I retired. It’s very hard to outthink the competition when you can’t think.” Falchi smiled—a loaded, introspective expression. “I knew your father, but not very well. A good man.” And then, as if to mock him, he repeated, “ Un brav’uomo . Lovely wife.”
    “Yes, I stepped into his role when he died of cancer four years ago. My mother is well, though—she travels all over the world.”
    “Four years already. I’m sorry to hear.” Falchi measured him—and probably his lineage and who his ancestors had hired and married—with a glance. Despite his odd living arrangements, Falchi was said to be a traditionalist, hence his relocation to Italy in retirement. Yet, rather than Sicily, Campania, Calabria, or Apulia, he’d chosen a region more crowded with British retirees than any branch of the family. “You’re married?”
    “Yes. My wife Donata is on her way to Milan to meet friends.”
    “But no children yet?”
    “No, we want to settle in more first. She wants three, I want two. We’re still negotiating the details, but in all confidence, I