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he had to turn his back to Silvio, but he pressed the handle down decisively and pushed inside the room. It was a classy suite, decorated in warm colors and richly patterned fabrics that brought to mind Morocco or the Middle East. An air conditioning unit was ruffling the curtains at the far side.
    “Thanks.”
    “If you dial three, you’ll get the cook. She’ll prepare you something.” Silvio remained outside the door, like a mythical creature that could only step across the threshold when foolishly invited.
    Stefano set his suitcase down and studied Silvio, who was leaning in the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest. He looked uncannily normal in those clothes, though Stefano preferred him in leathers or a severe black suit. Not that Silvio ever looked completely normal. He might pass for human, but he really wasn’t. No, more like a siren or a succubus, as deadly as he was tempting.
    “About earlier . . .”
    Silvio met his gaze.
    Stefano swallowed. He’d tortured this man. Pushed a gun into his ass, God damn it, fucked him with it until he’d come, all under the pretense of an interrogation.
    Silvio pursed his lips. “What about it?”
    “No hard feelings, right?” Apart from the obvious ones, those forbidden images and fantasies that fueled his relief far too often.
    Silvio’s face was blank but for those intense black eyes. “You might not want to bring that up with Battista when you meet him.”
    Stefano nodded, relieved. He’d suspected Silvio was Gianbattista Falchi’s lover, and the consigliere might not take too kindly to somebody gun-raping his lover and protetto and head of security. “I’m not here to talk to him about that.”
    “Business, then.”
    “Yes.” Stefano inhaled deeply, hoping to dislodge the tension that had settled in his chest. It might just have been the other man’s presence, but such close proximity was even worse. Breathtaking, electrifying. And often enough downright scary. “I guess you’ll hear it anyway.”
    Silvio’s lips curved into a small smile. “I’m not a powermonger. I just make things happen. Usually to other people.”
    “That’s plenty of power.”
    “The power to heal, the power to kill . . .” Silvio shrugged. “Get settled in. Battista will see you tomorrow.”
    “He’s not welcoming me?”
    “He sent me to do that. I did say welcome.”
    Yes, he had. Still, it bristled that the man himself didn’t deem him worthy of at least a moment’s face time. Silvio might be the lover, the heir, and the stand-in, but Stefano hadn’t expected Falchi to be so rude. “Tell him thanks.”
    Silvio quirked an eyebrow. “That sounded like an order.”
    “You’ve been ordering me around, too,” Stefano snapped.
    Silvio gave him another strange smile, then pivoted on his heel. “Battista takes breakfast at ten in the winter garden near the outside pool.”
    “Is that an invitation?”
    Silvio didn’t answer, just vanished down the corridor. Of course he didn’t close the door.
    Stefano closed it himself. Thankfully, it could be locked from the inside. Falchi probably had the master key, though. And even if he didn’t, one flimsy lock wouldn’t protect him from somebody determined to break in. Silvio had already proven that doors were suggestions rather than obstacles.
    With nothing else to do, Stefano explored the suite. The kitchenette fridge was stocked with fruit, an unopened bottle of low-fat milk, uninspired-looking sliced bread, butter. In the corner sat a Gaggia Titanium coffee machine, right beside a moka pot to make coffee the traditional way, and a Krups coffee grinder in matching brushed steel. Coffee was the last thing his nerves needed; just looking at Silvio had jolted him. He still felt that firm ass pushing back against his groin, the echo alone enough to make him semi-hard.
    He forced the sense memory away and set about unpacking his bag. Just enough for two days: a couple shirts, underwear, socks, pants, workout clothes