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CHAPTER ONE
Francis
Francis opened the door into the casa and stopped, alarmed at the sight in the living room. Vitari glanced up from the stacks of cash on the coffee table, raised his eyebrows, and resumed counting.
The fact Vitari was home might have been surprise enough. But the counting out of money… Pile after pile of it. There had to be tens of thousands there. Where had it come from?
Francis veered toward the open-plan kitchen area and flicked on the coffee machine. The air conditioning hummed, holding off Panama’s sticky heat. He eyed Vitari again. He didn’t want to start throwing accusations around but normal people didn’t count cash on their coffee tables, and while he knew their circumstances weren’t normal, he’d perhaps been foolish to believe all illegal activities had ceased since they’d fled Europe.
They’d been living in Gamboa, Panama, for over a month, and in the last few weeks, a familiar pattern had emerged. Just like Venezuela. Vitari was gone for most days and nights, and when he returned, he was either too lost in his own head to talk or he crashed, too exhausted to give Francis more than a polite peck on the cheek.
“You’re doin’ the thing.” Vitari finally spoke, having finished his counting, and when Francis glanced over, Vitari swept all the stacks together.
“‘Thing’?”
“The quiet brooding thing because you don’t want to say what’s on your mind. Just say it.”
Fine then, he would. “Where did you get the money?”
“Did some deals.” Vitari reclined, resting his arms over the back of the couch cushions, and he smirked—his satisfied smirk. His unbuttoned collar revealed a V of golden skin, and the rolled-up sleeves exposed fine forearms. His watch gleamed, shining like his shoes, although those had some crusted mud on them. “And there’s that judgmental expression.” He sighed. “I knew it wouldn’t be far away. Before you get all high and mighty, this cash is going to save our asses, Padre.”
“Is it illegal?” Francis almost winced at his own idiocy. Of course it was illegal.
Vitari’s grin grew.
Francis wasn’t sure what he expected. They were in hiding, tucked away in a jungle town an hour from Panama City, so their options for attempting to start a new life were limited. He knew it was going to be tough. But it hadn’t occurred to him that Vitari would be dealing. It had to be drugs, didn’t it? What else could it be? Where did he get the drugs to deal them?
Francis’s heart sank a little. They needed the money, but not at the expense of vulnerable people.
Vitari pushed from the couch and sauntered over. “We can’t all be saints like you.”
Francis snorted and busied himself using the plunger on the French press, squeezing out fresh coffee. “You could, you just don’t want to try.”
Vitari’s arms looped around his waist, drawing Francis backward against his firm, warm body. “Hm,” he purred in his ear. “This is what I do,” he said, and the words skimmed Francis’s neck, just below his ear, delivering a shot of lust to his veins. “I’m good at it.”
Francis caught a glimpse of the money in the corner of his eye. Was it risky, whatever Vitari did to get that money? Would someone recognize him? Would it bring the police to their door, or the Battaglia? The DeSica?
He didn’t want to move house again. He liked it here, despite being alone most days. The town only housed a few hundred people, and most of them worked at the luxury hotel a few miles up the hill. There was a church, a store, and little else. But he’d begun to feel settled, like he had in El Cristo. But that had ended badly. Would this one too?
“You could do something less illegal?” he suggested.
Vitari stiffened. It had been the wrong thing to say.
Francis turned in his arms and tried to smile away the tension, but Vitari was already easing off. He took his coffee and leaned against the opposite counter. “What am I going to do?” he asked, taking a sip of coffee and raising his dark eyes. “Work a shop counter?”
He wasn’t smiling now, and it seemed as though Francis was walking toward a trap. He swallowed. “I don’t know, you could do anything. The hotel has jobs.”
Vitari gave him the dead stare, while the rest of him remained very still. “I’m going to assume you’re joking.”
“No, this…” Francis waved at the house around them. “This could be a new start for us. A new place, new names, we could make a life…” He swallowed the rest of the words, not sure if this was the right moment to explain how he’d been thinking about the future… with Vitari. Together. But they couldn’t have a future if Vitari continued to do illegal things.
“Jesus.” Vitari laughed but it was one of those short, sharp laughs that had nothing to do with humor. “I can’t wait tables, Francis. That’s not me.”
“Why not? It’s not going to earn money like… well, like selling whatever you’re selling, but it’s good, honest work.”
Vitari’s smile was long gone now. “You want me to play house? Get a mind-numbing nine-to-five job? I’ll fuckin’ shoot myself now.” He carried his coffee across the room toward the piles of cash.
Francis sipped his drink, needing the hot, bitter taste to buy a few seconds so the hurt didn’t show on his face. He hadn’t really thought far ahead. The last few weeks had been good, but he’d assumed they’d left all the criminality behind. Or so he’d thought, until he’d come home to find Vitari counting drug money.
