Read Online Dark Soul Vol. 3 by Aleksandr Voinov - Free Book Online
Authors: Aleksandr Voinov
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. I’ll find a way.”
No doubt about that. Silvio would do it—and might make a mistake, or have to try again. It would be safer for him if he had help and a quick brush-up of his skills. Also, if they were fighting a war, sniping seemed like the cleanest way to take out a high-value target.
A lot less messy than a shootout. If he couldn’t stop Silvio, and who could, really? He could at least make sure Silvio would walk away from the kill. Didn’t he owe him at least that much, after letting him walk away?
“Let’s go home.”
As if they ever could.
“How are you finding the city?”
It’s full of fat people and shops I’ve never seen before, and whenever I think “meat,” I think flies and Djibouti and carcasses butchered on cardboard out in the street. Too many white faces here, too.
“Fast.” Franco held a glass in his hand, the red wine earthy and deep, different from the wine they served Legionnaires. Probably a hell of a lot more expensive, given the furnishings in the room and Marino’s casual elegance.
Despite having been battered, Marino was fiendishly attractive— wholesome and masculine, like all the darkness snapping at Silvio’s and Franco’s own heels didn’t exist. A “normal” person, despite the money and power and the fact he was very clearly a wiseguy. Easy to understand what Silvio saw in him—not innocence, exactly, but a fresh, untarnished strength.
“Whereabouts in Europe are you from?”
Too many possible answers. “I started in Marseilles, France.
That’s where I was when I was released.” Marino’s eyes narrowed in speculation, and Franco hurried to add: “Not prison.”
“No, you’re too tanned for that.” Marino smiled a disarming, entirely pleasant smile that would normally have triggered some kind of defense mechanism. Bullshit smileyness and happiness wasn’t worth shit, but Marino somehow slipped through his defenses.
“Military,” Franco added gruffly and turned away. Still felt Marino’s pale eyes on him, and stood to walk over to the windows looking out over the garden, glass still in hand, sipping the wine.
“French Foreign Legion,” Silvio assisted. “He’s a shooter.”
Franco pressed his lips together. Only a matter of time that Silvio told his boss—told Marino that Franco could be useful to a wiseguy.
Cosa Nostra. He didn’t want to get involved. “I was stationed in Djibouti with the 13th Demi for a while.”
“That explains the tan,” Marino said, not missing a beat over the mention of the dwarf state at the Horn of Africa. “And what are your plans now?”
Franco pulled his shoulders up, rolled them, and then his neck, concentrating on the complex structure of muscles and tendons and bones. Short of the brain, no part of the human body seemed as needlessly complex as the neck. If he concentrated on his body—the unstoppable rhythm of breath and pulse and blink and the subtle shift of all the muscles he needed for those small activities, maybe the rat trapped inside his skull might calm the fuck down and do nothing. Fall asleep. Die. How good would it be to be just creature.
He dropped his shoulders. “I will eventually have to decide whether I’ll reenlist or get a proper job.”
Come on, do it. Offer me a job as a killer.
“Can’t be easy,” Marino said.
Franco blinked and turned, facing that oddest of all things: A mafia boss not pushing his advantage. A man’s man who didn’t dominate, didn’t brag, simply offered . . . empathy? He glanced to Silvio, who watched them both with a hungry expression. “I’m getting used to it.” Choices. The idea to speak my mind. To speak at al .
“Well, feel free to hang around, Franco. Silvio’s friends and family are my, well, friends.” Marino poured Silvio more wine, then lifted the bottle to offer Franco a top-up. Slowly, Franco closed the distance and extended his wineglass, half-expecting a trap.
But nothing. No attempt to touch him or drive him into a
No doubt about that. Silvio would do it—and might make a mistake, or have to try again. It would be safer for him if he had help and a quick brush-up of his skills. Also, if they were fighting a war, sniping seemed like the cleanest way to take out a high-value target.
A lot less messy than a shootout. If he couldn’t stop Silvio, and who could, really? He could at least make sure Silvio would walk away from the kill. Didn’t he owe him at least that much, after letting him walk away?
“Let’s go home.”
As if they ever could.
“How are you finding the city?”
It’s full of fat people and shops I’ve never seen before, and whenever I think “meat,” I think flies and Djibouti and carcasses butchered on cardboard out in the street. Too many white faces here, too.
“Fast.” Franco held a glass in his hand, the red wine earthy and deep, different from the wine they served Legionnaires. Probably a hell of a lot more expensive, given the furnishings in the room and Marino’s casual elegance.
Despite having been battered, Marino was fiendishly attractive— wholesome and masculine, like all the darkness snapping at Silvio’s and Franco’s own heels didn’t exist. A “normal” person, despite the money and power and the fact he was very clearly a wiseguy. Easy to understand what Silvio saw in him—not innocence, exactly, but a fresh, untarnished strength.
“Whereabouts in Europe are you from?”
Too many possible answers. “I started in Marseilles, France.
That’s where I was when I was released.” Marino’s eyes narrowed in speculation, and Franco hurried to add: “Not prison.”
“No, you’re too tanned for that.” Marino smiled a disarming, entirely pleasant smile that would normally have triggered some kind of defense mechanism. Bullshit smileyness and happiness wasn’t worth shit, but Marino somehow slipped through his defenses.
“Military,” Franco added gruffly and turned away. Still felt Marino’s pale eyes on him, and stood to walk over to the windows looking out over the garden, glass still in hand, sipping the wine.
“French Foreign Legion,” Silvio assisted. “He’s a shooter.”
Franco pressed his lips together. Only a matter of time that Silvio told his boss—told Marino that Franco could be useful to a wiseguy.
Cosa Nostra. He didn’t want to get involved. “I was stationed in Djibouti with the 13th Demi for a while.”
“That explains the tan,” Marino said, not missing a beat over the mention of the dwarf state at the Horn of Africa. “And what are your plans now?”
Franco pulled his shoulders up, rolled them, and then his neck, concentrating on the complex structure of muscles and tendons and bones. Short of the brain, no part of the human body seemed as needlessly complex as the neck. If he concentrated on his body—the unstoppable rhythm of breath and pulse and blink and the subtle shift of all the muscles he needed for those small activities, maybe the rat trapped inside his skull might calm the fuck down and do nothing. Fall asleep. Die. How good would it be to be just creature.
He dropped his shoulders. “I will eventually have to decide whether I’ll reenlist or get a proper job.”
Come on, do it. Offer me a job as a killer.
“Can’t be easy,” Marino said.
Franco blinked and turned, facing that oddest of all things: A mafia boss not pushing his advantage. A man’s man who didn’t dominate, didn’t brag, simply offered . . . empathy? He glanced to Silvio, who watched them both with a hungry expression. “I’m getting used to it.” Choices. The idea to speak my mind. To speak at al .
“Well, feel free to hang around, Franco. Silvio’s friends and family are my, well, friends.” Marino poured Silvio more wine, then lifted the bottle to offer Franco a top-up. Slowly, Franco closed the distance and extended his wineglass, half-expecting a trap.
But nothing. No attempt to touch him or drive him into a
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