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

I’ve long said they challenge us to return to our historical roots.”
    “Good.” Stefano leaned forward. “I’m ready.”
    “And very angry.” Falchi smiled a paternal smile and stabbed a slice of kiwi. “ Ti capisco. I would feel the same in your position. The question, though, is if you understand the full scope.”
    Not the kind of statement he wanted to respond immediately to, tempting though it was. If he’d learned one thing, it was to watch the hands of the players at the table in the mafia politics game. He leaned back, mimicking Falchi’s body language, but he didn’t feel like eating at all. “What do you think I’m missing?”
    “Well, this kind of help wouldn’t be for free.”
    “Of course not. I’m willing to pay.”
    Falchi plucked up a grape with his fork and chewed before saying, “At this stage in my life, I’m not interested in money.”
    Stefano stared at his plate. That tone of voice was hard to read. With any other Mafioso, Stefano would simply have shrugged it off and pledged a favor in return. But not with Il Gentiluomo— and what he suspected about his tastes. He couldn’t show fear or even half the mortification twisting his guts now, but it was a struggle. “What are you interested in, then?”
    Falchi leaned forward and regarded him for several moments. “I might ask something personal of you. Something that might change your life.”
    Stefano pressed his lips together and forced himself to look Falchi in the face. He found no malice or arrogance there. “That’s an awfully vague thing to say.”
    “Yes. I’m afraid I don’t yet know you well enough to be clearer.” Falchi smiled at him and picked up his newspaper and reading glasses off the empty chair. A clear dismissal if ever he’d seen one.
    He finished his coffee, stood, indicated a little bow.
    Falchi glanced at him over the rimless glasses. “I’ll see you for lunch in four hours.”
    “I’ll be there.”
    Outside, Silvio was cutting through the water as if he had a race to win, all defined shoulders and deep breaths whenever he broke through the surface.
    Stefano walked slowly along the length of the pool, and had almost passed it when Silvio launched from the water, pushing up on the rim and to his feet in an impossibly graceful motion, and wiped the water from his face. The killer was grinning at him, chest heaving, face and skin flushed. Stefano paused, but refused to be hypnotized by how it all conspired to show Silvio off. Falchi was within sight and possibly within earshot.
    “I’ll see you around,” Silvio said, and tapped the corner of his eye before he backflipped into the water.
     

     
    Despite the labyrinthine setup of the house, Stefano found the gym eventually. He spent a good hour on the treadmill, running his heart out until nothing mattered but getting enough air. He ran thirteen miles, then slowed, t-shirt clinging to his chest, too wet to wipe his hands on.
    The worry over whether Falchi would demand payment he couldn’t give hadn’t faded. Nor had the expectation that Silvio was bound to make his move soon. But on his runner’s high, the implications mattered less. He was no longer petrified by what might happen. He could take it all in stride.
    “I didn’t know you were a runner,” Silvio said, appearing in the doorway as if conjured.
    Stefano’s heart jumped painfully into his throat and needed several long moments to drop back down. He reached for a towel to wipe his face. It gave him time to collect himself. “Why do you care?”
    Silvio shrugged. “Didn’t say I do. I just said I didn’t know that about you.”
    “I was a fat kid.” Then my father told me to clean up my act or he’d kick my lard ass to the curb. Stefano shook his head, smiling. “Who gives a fuck?”
    Silvio’s lips curved. “I’m here to check if you’re okay, have everything you need or want.”
    Loaded question.
    “I packed light.”
    “I noticed. Like a man on the run.” Silvio