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and swiped it active, then sent a text to Silvio.
    You okay there?
    A tingle ran down his spine when Silvio pushed his hand into the front pocket of his jeans, pulled the phone free, and quickly checked his message. Silvio looked up to him, doubtlessly seeing the curtain move from where he stood. Was that a nod? Hard to say. But Stefano wanted him to know he was watching, taking an interest. Guarding.
    There for him.
    Silvio put the phone back into his pocket. He and Donata kept talking for a little while longer, and then Donata returned to the house.
    Stefano’s phone buzzed. The message said, Gotta talk.
    Uh-oh. He texted back: When?
    Whenever.
    Not helpful. He dialed and Silvio answered immediately. “How bad is it?”
    “We gotta talk, but make it look unconnected.”
    “I’ll come by later.” Even though spending time with Silvio alone in the bungalow was something he’d avoided since Silvio had come back. Accidents happened too easily. Sorry, sir, I have no idea how my cock ended up in his mouth . . . Stefano scoffed. Right. But damn it if he’d managed to banish the memory of how Silvio felt against him.
    “I’ll be here,” Silvio said and disconnected.
    Stefano slid the phone into his pocket and paced the room. He wasn’t the best at waiting. Or looking inconspicuous while doing it.
    When he checked on Donata, she was preparing herself a salad and seemed to suspect nothing when he told her he’d just drop by Silvio’s and check how he and his brother were doing.
    Easy enough.
    The bungalow was dark from the outside. Silvio was sitting on a stone step of the verandah, dressed in his biking leathers, helmet against his knee, bike standing close enough to touch it.
    “You heading out?”
    Silvio didn’t turn his head—not surprised in the least, like he’d heard Stefano coming from a mile away. “Yeah. I gotta . . . blow off some steam.”
    Impossible to ignore what that meant. “You got a date?”
    “A date?” Silvio snorted. “No, I’ll just . . .” He broke off, then looked at him, direct, as if to gauge his reaction, “Find a guy or two.”
    Two guys. Together, or after one another? And why did that give him that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach? “Where’s Franco?”
    “He’s gone.” Silvio’s voice sounded hollow. “ Gone gone. I’d have raced him to the airport, but I didn’t notice. He only took his passport, so I didn’t suspect he’d leave for good. He knew I’d have stopped him. Tried to at least.”
    “He clearly didn’t want to be stopped.” Stefano reached over and touched Silvio’s shoulder, felt him vibrate with tension, maybe rage, maybe pain. “What happened while you were on the hunt?”
    Silvio shook his head. “Don’t.”
    “I know you’re close, Silvio. I’m not judging.”
    Silvio groaned and pressed his eyes shut. “I sometimes think Franco’s the only man who won’t just send me away. I was right. He left. Probably to save me the pain, the asshole!”
    “Shit, Silvio.” Stefano crouched down and pulled Silvio into an embrace. Silvio didn’t open up at al , just leaned against him, breathing heavily.
    Silvio wants to belong. Make him.
    Stefano ran his hand up and down Silvio’s back, remembering, clearly, the muscles, the wet skin under the shower, and that same need to feel, to touch, to understand and explore. Just this time, it wasn’t sexual. Erotic, sure. Wanting to touch was always erotic, always guided by attraction.
    The only man who won’t send me away.
    And hadn’t he, so often, considered the same? Send Silvio away to deny who he was, go back into that comfortable half-life of shutting off at least half his emotions? Pretend everything was just peachy, if only he could remove the man who drove him crazy with desire?
    Get rid of him after, of course, he’d fought and won a war for him, returned everything to the status quo, only to be dismissed like a dirty secret, consigned to the past as soon as possible.
    “I’m