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“There’s no maybe about it.” Giancarlo was a butcher, but the things Francis had said about Stanmore, about Giancarlo’s role in it all… “You believe Montague’s last words, don’t you?” Vitari asked. “About Sasha being behind Stanmore?”
Francis lifted his gaze. “Montague knew too much for it all to be lies.”
Vitari had been wondering about that for weeks too, wondering if he’d made a mistake. But his father had known about Stanmore, known everything he’d gone through, and he’d done nothing. He’d let Vitari believe he was a worthless mongrel and his mother a whore. Giancarlo deserved to be caught. It didn’t matter what Vitari thought. It was too late now anyway. He’d fucked over the Family, given Sasha everything he needed to bring them down. It was done. He was done. They’d come for him. Today, tomorrow, next month. He was dead.
But since Montague’s body had been cleaned and there was no murder, Francis still had a chance to be free. And Vitari was going to make damn sure he took it.
“Do you trust Sasha?” Francis asked.
“Trust him? Fuck no. The DeSica have no honor. They’ll kill each other to get ahead. It’s not like the Family. We have a hierarchy, a code, we have fucking rules. Family first, then business, then country. We don’t kill each other. Actually, that’s bullshit—sometimes we do, but only to protect the business. Family is everything. There are no rules in the DeSica, just Sasha. So, no, I don’t trust that fucker.”
“Then he could have lied about not being behind my shooting.” Francis flicked his fingers at his forehead. “Made you think it wasn’t him so you got him what he wanted. If you knew he was behind the hit, would you have gotten the trafficking evidence he wanted?”
Vitari narrowed his eyes. “No.”
“Could he have been playing you?”
He hated to think he’d been so fucking gullible as to be pulled in by the Russian and Neo, but it was possible. “Maybe. He said to look closer to home for the source of your contract. Why would he say that if he was behind it? Why not just demand the trafficking information or you get a shot between the eyes, like he started out with? He didn’t need to point a finger elsewhere.”
“Good point.”
They fell into a thoughtful silence again. A whole lot about Sasha’s motives weren’t adding up. He could have admitted to hiring a killer to take out Francis, but he also clearly liked to play games. He’d known Vitari’s mother but claimed he hadn’t. He was a liar, like all the DeSica.
“It doesn’t matter anyway, DeSica, Battaglia, we’re in a whole lot of crosshairs.”
“What if your father knew you didn’t mean to hurt him?” Francis asked, staring out to sea.
“But I did.”
“Okay, but what if it’s not like that? What if he somehow knew you’d made a mistake? Would he send people to kill you then?”
Vitari laughed. “A mistake is accidentally getting caught blowing a priest’s cock. Betraying your own father to the man who murdered the love of his life? That is no mistake.” Vitari tilted the beer bottle and raised an eyebrow. “That’s suicide.”
Francis’s gaze stayed on him a few beats too long, then he looked away. “You think we’re a mistake?”
Vitari grinned. “Sure we are.” Francis’s face fell. “The best mistake of my life, Padre.” As his face brightened, Vitari caught his heart hiccupping over all the hope and possibilities he shouldn’t want and couldn’t have. God, he was a fool for Francis. He’d do anything just to see that little smile and how it made his handsome face brighten.
He was so fucking adorable, Vitari wanted to crawl over there, straddle his thighs, and kiss him into the lounger, saying all the things with his body he couldn’t say with words, but they weren’t alone on the beach. Tonight, though. Tonight he was going to unravel Francis with his tongue and reacquaint him with the parts of Vitari that craved him the most, including his heart. “Want another beer?”
“I should probably stick to water.”
“Another beer it is.” Vitari heard his chuckle as he left for the bar. If Francis could laugh, then things weren’t so bad.
Hopefully, with a little luck and God on their side, the worst was far behind them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Francis
“Sure we are. The best mistake of my life.” Those words had flipped Francis’s heart into a gallop, making him lightheaded. Or perhaps that was the beer.
They stayed on the loungers, talking about nothing, sometimes falling quiet, then the conversation dug deeper. Francis told Vitari how he’d spiraled the last few weeks in Westminster, and how Montague had drugged him, to which Vitari had snarled something vicious sounding in Italian and said again how he wished he’d taken the time to cut Montague’s balls off. But then Vitari had gone on to explain how he’d tried to save the trafficked kids in Spain and wasn’t sure if he’d succeeded.
Catalina Diaz had told Francis that Vitari had succeeded, and when Francis was able to confirm it, all the fake flashiness vanished from Vitari’s grin and relief softened his eyes. The same relief he’d seen on his face when they’d saved the Venezuelan kids on the Italian farm. “Grazie, Padre,” Vitari said, meaning it. “I needed that.”
It felt good, being with Vitari, talking with him—really talking, like they should have months ago—spending time with him, without the gunfire, running, murder, or some other dire circumstances trying to pull them apart. It felt like a future together might feel, and was it so bad to want that? They deserved it, didn’t they?
“Francis, amore mio?”
