Dark Soul Vol. 5 Read Online Free

back of Stefano’s mind was his wife. He kept checking his phone in the hope of a text from her. He sometimes touched her profile on his phone, especially when Silvio was asleep or occupied with something else. He’d snapped a photo of her on one of the date nights, dressed in a gorgeous red dress, her hair tumbling down. It showed up every time she called him, and sat as a tiny thumbnail right next to her name. Donata Marino.
    And he was hiding away from her in this hotel, fucking Silvio, finally sating that hunger and that deeper need, the terrible affection for another man. But, truth was, he was hiding, still avoiding her.
    I needed time to work this out for myself. I needed to know if it was real. And God help me, but it is.
    He tapped her profile again, typed “messages” and couldn’t help but scroll back through all the flirting, the banter, the I love you s, and it felt like it tore a strip from his soul. Which was ridiculous, considering how casual those messages had been. When he’d typed them, he’d barely paid it any real mind. He’d considered deleting them al , because, yeah, they were kind of frivolous and this was his business phone, but now they were all that remained of his marriage.
    I can live with a cheater, but not with a coward.
    And to throw that away for a hedonistic young killer who, yes, made his heart pound, and who he cared for (it would be easier if it were just sex), but ultimately, he could never have family with Silvio.
    Or be family. It would never be a respectable existence. He’d have to hide for the rest of his life.
    But throwing Silvio out of his life didn’t work, either. He’d always know what he’d done. And he never again wanted to see Silvio hurting. Gianbattista dismissing him had been enough. Silvio didn’t deserve to be treated like any man’s dirty shameful secret.
    I can’t move. I can’t do anything. I can’t go left, I can’t go right. I can’t win this game.
    He tapped the “message” field.
    Hi Donata, can we talk?
     
    “Hi, is Vince Ornati available?” Sebastiano asked, then smiled at the girl who’d opened the door. “Sebastiano Beccaria; I’d really like to speak to Vince.” He did the sincere-and-friendly face that always opened him doors.
    This time, too. The somewhat bewildered-looking girl led him down the hall to the living room. “Would you like an iced tea?”
    In fal ? “No, thank you, I’ll be gone in a little.”
    She led him further in. “Vince, you got another guest.”
    Ornati sat on the couch, packed in like any other convalescent, back high up, looking pale. A man who’d barely escaped the Grim Reaper. There were a lot of flowers in the room, many of them fresh.
    Cosa Nostra making sure their support was visible.
    He looked up at Sebastiano and frowned. “El a . . .”
    “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Vince. My name is Sebastiano Beccaria, and I think we should talk about something.”
    “Who are you?”
    “I have a professional interest in what happened to you.”
    Sebastiano pointed to his own chest to indicate Vince’s.
    El a looked between them. “Is that all right, Vince?” As a Cosa Nostra girlfriend or wife, she knew discretion was the better part of her relationship. Sebastiano made a mental note to interview her if Vince or any of his stronger leads didn’t work out.
    “It’s all right,” he rasped and cleared his throat, which sounded painful. “Sit down. El a, close the door.”
    Sebastiano sat on the chair next to Vince’s couch. Vince regarded him warily; his suit, his hands, his face and eyes, and Sebastiano didn’t smile at him. Cosa Nostra goons toward the top of the food chain were usually people-smart. Being anything but sincere with them set off their bullshit meter. As a bodyguard, Vince was even better at reading people; he had to be. Darwin’s law.
    Striking, though, that Stefano Marino’s bodyguard was an attractive man with none of the sliminess or apparent coarseness of enforcers.