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What was the point in all of this if he couldn’t be with the man he loved? He’d given up everything—his life, his Church—and he’d sacrifice it all again, without question. Well, a few questions. But the outcome would be the same. Had he given up his old life for nothing?
He shuffled down in the hot seat, trying to find a position that didn’t make his leg feel as though it was on fire, and stared out of the window. “Cartagena.” Which was in Colombia, the drug capital of the world. Francis knew that much from old movies. He snorted. “You take me to all the best places.”
“I know, right.” Vitari’s grin returned, as bright as ever. “We’ll make a cartel boss out of you yet, Padre Blanco.” He shifted in the seat and jabbed the Jeep’s start button. The engine grumbled to life, and they were on the move again, bumping down a cracked road.
Francis clutched the pink bottle and watched the palm trees blur past the windows. His leg throbbed, but all things considered, he didn’t feel so bad. He’d have felt better if he’d known Vitari was staying with him. Panama, Belize, Colombia—Vitari made it sound so simple. Hop on a plane, run from their enemies. But he was tired of running from yesterday. He wanted a tomorrow. And now, maybe that wasn’t ever happening. Not with Vitari.
“They used to put on a film about a cowboy and a writer who went to Cartagena. They crashed a bus in the Colombian jungle—or they were on the bus and it crashed—and there were these drug dealers after them…” Francis trailed off as Vitari glanced over, frowning. “At Stanmore, I mean. One of the managers had a thing for Michael Douglas. She’d put the DVD on every Saturday.”
Vitari flexed his grip on the wheel. “I didn’t get the all-inclusive, Saturday morning TV Stanmore experience.”
Francis winced, recalling the horrible windowless room and Vitari’s initials on the wall. Maybe, when all this was over, he’d take Vitari back there, and together they’d burn what was left of Stanmore down to ash. Someone needed to destroy that place, and he didn’t see how they could.
“What happened?” Vitari asked. “In the movie?”
“I don’t remember much. Except they had to get to Cartagena, and there was a yacht in New York at the end, and they got married, or something. Michael Douglas wore crocodile boots. I remember they were awesome, when I was ten.”
“Sounds like a weird-ass film.”
“They skipped the romantic parts. I didn’t care because Michael Douglas was… you know… all rugged and interesting.”
“‘Rugged and interesting’?” Vitari snickered. “So you watched it because he got you hard?”
“I was ten.” Francis tried to hide his grin behind a hand and failed.
“You know Michael Douglas is probably a hundred years old now?” Vitari said.
“He wasn’t a hundred then. And he had crocodile boots. It’s an old film, okay?”
“All right, no need to get defensive. I know you like ’em old.”
Francis raised his eyebrows. This was payback, for making him drink from the Good Girl bottle.
“Too soon, amore?” Vitari smirked.
“You’re outrageous.” Francis laughed, even though he knew he shouldn’t, not about any of the past, but Vitari’s grin made it all right to laugh. He’d missed this with him, missed a lot of things, but mostly just missed being inside Vitari’s orbit instead of cast out on its fringes.
“I missed that laugh,” Vitari said. Smiling, he added, “Missed you, you know?”
Francis smiled sadly and nodded, not trusting his voice. He knew, because he felt it too, but he had no idea how to make the distance between them go away.
“The guard…?” Vitari asked, changing the subject. “Back at the house?”
Francis looked up and winced at the raw concern on Vitari’s face. “Oh, he’s not dead. I shot him in the leg. I think. It happened fast. He was alive though, when I left him.”
“Good, that’s good.” He sighed, relieved.
Why did it feel as though there was still a chasm between them, growing larger by the minute? “You can tell me things, you know,” Francis said. “I won’t fall apart.”
Vitari breathed in and glanced over. “Things like…?”
“All of it. Whatever you’ve been doing, who those people were, what you were selling. You could have talked to me. Still can.”
“You made it clear you want nothing to do with shit like that.”
“That’s true, but only because I stupidly thought all that shit was over. You let me believe it was over.”
“What did you think I’ve been doing at night? You’re not stupid, Francis.”
