Dark Soul Vol. 1 Read Free

Spadaro followed.
    Vince stepped to his side. “That’s really fucking impressive. Arrives here and gets seen almost immediately.”
    “Well, he was sent by Gianbattista Falchi.”
    Vince nodded solemnly. “I don’t like his attitude.”
    “I fucking hate it.” The way the man’s presence made his skin tingle wasn’t hatred, but that wasn’t something he could admit. Spadaro seemed to have that effect on people. The fact that he clearly carried weight and power was even worse.
    So what was this guy’s game?
     

     
    Spadaro returned from upstairs while dinner was being served. A couple men bolted from their places at the table opposite Stefano—not having finished their starters, even—and Spadaro settled into one of the newly vacated seats, unperturbed. He was carrying his gun again.
    “So how are things on the west coast?” Spadaro asked him.
    Stefano shrugged around a mouthful of baby spinach. “Where are you based?”
    “ Italia .” Spadaro reached for the wine and poured himself a glassful. Red. Ignoring, completely, the people serving them—all lesser peons of the various families. He took a big gulp of the red and kept his dark gaze on Stefano. “Battista has a few nice places there. Thinking about using the old vineyards again.”
    An older Mafioso cleared his throat when Spadaro referred to Falchi in that oddly personal way. Spadaro didn’t react to that at all.
    “I thought he was growing roses,” Stefano said.
    “Yeah, and raising men, too.” Spadaro glanced pointedly at the older Mafioso. Maybe he smiled, but it was hard to say with his lips on the glass. “Taught me shooting and killing.” Oh yeah, that was a grin, but it was a “fuck you” kind of smile, barely better than a sneer. “And biking.”
    Did the man blink at all? Stefano wasn’t sure.
    They say he’s insane.
    Or maybe he just didn’t give a fuck.
    Stefano cleared his throat and tried to not stare at those wine-wet lips. It wasn’t that Spadaro was conventionally good-looking. He was too cold for that, too expressionless, too predatory. At the same time, there was something off about him. A turn of the head, a glance, the long legs. Feminine. Camp? If it weren’t ridiculous to think of a seasoned sicario as feminine. He didn’t speak with a lisp or wave his hands around in a limp-wristed kind of way. But something about him exuded sex like a cat in heat. Knowing, tempting eyes that sucked all the light from the room. Centers of gravity.
    The other men at the table surely felt the same. Most tried very hard to ignore Spadaro, but Stefano couldn’t help wondering what exactly the sicario ’ s relationship to Falchi was like. Against custom—almost unforgivably—Falchi had never married. And like many, he’d spent a good ten years in prison—time he’d used well, advancing from powerful to very powerful. Did Spadaro only provide security? Or comfort, too?
    “So you killed Carbone?” Stefano asked.
    Spadaro looked up, something flickering in his eyes. “Yes.”
    “Congratulations, he was a bastard.”
    Spadaro’s hands on the table turned into fists, and he cocked his head as if listening to a voice. Maybe the guy was insane. “Why do you want to know?”
    “I don’t.” Stefano kept his voice low, but of course people were listening. “But since you seem keen on small talk . . .”
    Spadaro weighed that, then flashed a grin, baring a lot of starkly white, straight teeth up to the molars. It wasn’t a very reassuring gesture. Nor did it look very natural. “I’d tell you. I’m in the same guest house as you. Last room on the same floor.”
    Thank God Vince was too far away to have heard that. From any sicario , that was an unveiled threat. I know where you sleep. I can come and get you.
    And yet . . .
    Wanna come?
    Stefano shook his head. “You keep doing that.”
    “And?” Spadaro folded his hands and leaned across the table. Black eyes framed with long, dark lashes. The eyebrows were almost