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He had thought they could make something of their lives here. Clearly, Vitari hadn’t been thinking of their future at all.
“You trying to change me, Padre?” Vitari said, scooping up his stacks of hundred dollar bills. “Don’t. This is who I am.”
Francis had known, hadn’t he? Of course he had. He’d seen Vitari’s life; he knew what he did and could guess the things he’d done in the past. But he’d been sure Vitari didn’t want that life. Nobody wanted to be a criminal, did they? He’d said, long ago, in an Italian restaurant in a Spanish port, being a criminal wasn’t a choice.
This was their chance to start over, but perhaps Vitari didn’t want to.
Francis had been wrong, and naïve, to hope for a happy ending. They could leave their lives behind, but they were still products of the Mafia, and the Church. Changing was never going to be easy, or even possible.
“Go get a job at the local store if you want,” Vitari continued, his tone dismissive. “We don’t need the cash, but if it’ll help you sleep at night, Father Scott, then do it. Just don’t use your real name.”
“If we’re staying then I will,” Francis said, adding his own defiant note. “But there’s no point in trying to make a life if we’re on the run again tomorrow.”
“We’ll be here a while yet.” Vitari opened one of the kitchen cupboards, took out the back panel, and stuffed the cash behind it, among a whole lot more stacks. How long had he been dealing? Since they’d arrived? There had to be fifty thousand dollars stashed back there—maybe more—and Francis hadn’t a clue this whole time.
With the cash safely stowed, Vitari passed him, then paused at the top of the stairs leading down to the bedrooms on the ground floor. “I’m going to take a shower.” He glanced up. “You wanna join me, Padre?”
Francis did want to. He always wanted to be with Vitari, which was why his absence had been so painful.
“I’ll bring a gun…” Vitari added.
“I don’t think so.” Francis stared out of the windows, resisting temptation, and when he looked over, Vitari had gone. He did want to join him, wanted to join him more than anything else. He missed their intimacies, missed having Vitari’s arms around him, having his hands all over his body, his mouth scorching his skin, and other parts, having him buried deep, bringing him alive. He wanted that again, like they’d had when they’d first arrived, ached for it, but his own naïve foolishness had ruined his mood, and the moment.
Francis looked out at the jungle and the gaping mouth of the Chagres River where it joined the infamous canal far beyond, and for the first time since leaving Westminster, an old, familiar feeling began to creep back in—being trapped.
It was just cabin fever. He’d been alone for too long. He needed to get out, to find a place, a purpose, or he’d lose his damn mind.
Tomorrow, he’d walk into town and find a job.
CHAPTER TWO
Vitari
Vitari popped the lid on the crate of guns and stepped back, allowing the buyers to examine the product. Stolen product. It would be months before the Battaglia realized their local cache of guns was missing. By then, Vitari planned to be long gone.
He planted a hand on his hip and squinted at the guards the buyer—a stoic, tall man named Aiken—had brought along. Big men. Five of them. Each armed with semiautomatic rifles. If they had it in mind to point those guns at Vitari, there wasn’t much he could do to stop them. He’d narrowly missed a firefight during the last sale. Francis would lose his mind if he knew how close he’d come to trouble. Which was why Vitari kept all this to himself. They needed the money. Once they had enough to set them up far away, he’d ditch this life and start a new one in Belize, where the authorities would look the other way for enough American dollars.
He just needed to survive a few more deals and they’d be free.
“Good,” Aiken said in Spanish. “But I want more.” He removed his wide-brimmed hat and patted it free of dust, then swept his slick dark hair back and tucked the hat back on.
“How much more?” Vitari replied.
“Five crates.”
Jesus, what was he arming, a militia? Five crates worth of cash would be enough to get out of this jungle backwater. “I need a week. But I’ll get it.”
Aiken nodded. “You want a drink? My men will sort out payment for this crate as we discuss what happens next.”
Never say no to an invite of food or drink during business. Giancarlo had taught him that. More lucrative deals were sealed over dinner than over a desk.
Vitari sauntered along the poorly lit street beside Aiken, although calling it a street was a stretch. This part of Gamboa had long been forgotten and left to crumble. Concrete breeze-block houses remained unfinished, and the roads leading to them had buckled under the weight of minimal repairs and scorching sun.
He sat with Aiken at an outdoor bar and talked guns into the late hours. Aiken was absolutely trying to feel him out—his past, his associations, who he worked for. Vitari remained tight-lipped. His product talked for him. At two a.m., he climbed behind the Jeep’s wheel, placed the stacks of cash behind the passenger seat, and began the drive back to the casa, taking the long way around and doubling back to lose any tails.
A mile from the house, he pulled over, flicked the Jeep’s lights off, and waited for any movement in the mirrors. He wasn’t expecting trouble, but he also didn’t want to take any of this shit back to Francis. He’d been through enough.
Closing his eyes, he dropped his head back and sighed.
