Dark Soul Vol. 3 by Aleksandr Voinov Read Free Book Online

judgment?
    “What have you been doing in the Legion?” Like he’d read his mind. That famous intuition again.
    “I shot people in the head.”
    Silvio’s face lit up and he laughed softly, tonelessly. “You’re a shooter, too?”
    The tension bled away. His brother. Possibly the only person in the world who understood him, who really got him. Silvio of all people would never recoil from him—would never be disturbed at what his eyes had seen and what his hands had done—and the relief in that was so enormous it almost took the breath from Franco’s lungs.
    “Sniper. Yes. One hundred sixty-nine confirmed kills.” And a few dozen that were just guesses.
    “Nice work.” Silvio grinned bright and happy at him. “I’ve only had about thirty.”
    That should’ve disturbed him, that Silvio had killed people. It was the bad blood. Paolo’s ancient poison they both carried. Silvio possibly more than he did, because he looked more like Paolo with those black eyes. And not just the blood. The family relation, the connections, the old web of loyalties and tradition that tied them into obligations worse than the contract for the Legion. At least joining up was voluntary.
    “Last time I checked, it wasn’t a competition.”
    “Hey, even Sebastiano’s turning into a killer . . . sending men to death row.” Silvio stood, almost jumped to his feet. “He’s made no bones about that.”
    “It’s his way to rebel against our father.” Lawyer spawned from killer, with two killers for brothers. Sebastiano had to think he was the black sheep, but a case could be made that any of them was the black sheep—or, conversely, that Paolo should have died in some gutter before he’d had the chance to transmit the evil he was carrying.
    Silvio cast him a sudden glare. “Somebody should have taken him out.”
    “Paolo? Yeah.” Franco shook his head. “His stomach’s going to finish him off. Ironic, really, if you think about it. Even his own fucking body hates him.”
    He yawned, the emotional outburst almost too much. He checked his watch, surprised it was so early, but then took it off and added the six hours’ time difference. Way past midnight, then. He wasn’t used to staying up for so long, not with appel so early. “I’ll have to crash.
    I’m still on European time.”
    Silvio nodded. “You’ll be okay tomorrow?”
    “I’m okay now.” Franco smiled and stood. “Just tired.” Choosing when he slept and woke was another one of those outrageous non-military ideas. He headed into the bathroom, brushed his teeth and shed his clothes but for the boxers and undershirt, folded them up and took them with him into the bedroom.
    The bed itself was enormous, by his standards. Silvio’s phone charger was plugged into the wall on the left side, so he chose right.
    The bed only had one cover, but a whole pile of pillows. He chose a flattish hard one and tossed the others onto the chair in the corner, then pulled the blanket up to his chest, willing himself to accept the newness of this.
    The smell from the covers—an unfamiliar fragrance, and there was something he thought was Silvio’s own smell, a note that threw him back to his childhood, sun-drenched places in South Africa, memories of fierce family fighting. He closed his eyes, tried to accept the images with that feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’d dream of this, and, once asleep, it would be so much harder to fight the memories.
    When Silvio joined him in bed a few hours later, Franco woke briefly, not even for a moment disturbed by another presence so close.
    Childhood and youth overrode Legion instincts and chosen lifestyle.
    He relaxed again, effortless, and fell back asleep.
    He woke with Silvio’s face on his chest, arm over his belly. Even that touch hadn’t raised a single alarm in his mind. Franco glanced down, noticed Silvio was completely naked, the curve of his spine left bare by the covers. Not even boxers.
    Franco lifted his hand from