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A quick scan of the results around Montague’s disappearance revealed rumors of historic sexual abuse claims, but the reporters hadn’t mentioned details. It could have been nothing, just gossip to sell clicks, or it could have been Stanmore rearing its ugly head behind the scenes and the church crushing those rumors to dust.
Vitari scoured the various news articles for the Battaglia, but considering how thoroughly he’d fucked the family, there wasn’t much news. Even the details of his father’s arrest were sparse. He’d been arrested for tax evasion. Of all the viciously wicked things he’d done, tax evasion was the least of them.
Vitari wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Giancarlo should have been behind bars, or even dead, considering everything Vitari had given Sasha.
Something didn’t feel right.
He was missing something. Neo had survived, and he’d have told Giancarlo about Vitari taking Francis, assuming Neo was still pretending to be loyal to the Battaglia.
Neo might even be closer to Giancarlo now, in Vitari’s absence.
And then there was Sasha, who’d gone out of his way to get all the information on the trafficking operation, an operation similar to Stanmore. He’d used some of it to ensure Giancarlo was arrested but hadn’t acted on it, or the Stanmore photos—damning photos of all the shit that went on at Stanmore. Perhaps he’d drop that bombshell later?
But why wait?
Or Sasha hadn’t done anything with the evidence because Stanmore was his operation?
Could it be that he’d just wanted to know how much Vitari remembered?
Francis believed it.
And Francis was smart. Mostly.
Vitari glanced at the snoring priest and smiled. “Fucking love, man,” he muttered.
He had it bad. He’d known it for a long time. Francis probably didn’t love him back the same way, but maybe it was enough?
What if Vitari did go to Belize with him? They could vanish with the money they had, settle down… Shit, what was Vitari supposed to do for the rest of his days? Fuck Francis every day and live to be a hundred years old?
What did normal people do with their lives?
Vitari ambled to the balcony. The sun was climbing over the ocean. Small waves lapped at the house stilts, and a few parrots screeched in nearby leaning palm trees.
Maybe Francis could tame him? Would it be so bad to be a kept man? He’d thought so once, laughed at the sheep of the world… Could a wolf ever be tamed?
The things he’d done—killed mercilessly and without remorse, beaten countless men and women, bullied, extorted, ruined lives… He didn’t deserve a happy ending, but he’d fucking fight for Francis to get his.
He sauntered back inside, found a pen, and scribbled a note:
Hey, Francis.
I’m taking a walk.
I’ll grab your meds from the doctor.
Should he write love you at the end? That seemed like a whole lot of mushiness he wasn’t used to. Would it come off as too much? They’d shied away from text messages and voicemails, since any evidence of their love would be used against them. But what harm could it do here, in the ass-end of Panama?
He signed it V. A., then screwed his nose up. Leaving initials was pretty dry.
“Fuck it.” He added amore mio, x. It felt right, and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t already told him he loved him a thousand times, just not in English. Until last night—last night he’d laid his heart bare.
He wedged the note under the phone on the table, tucked his gun against his lower back, concealing it under his shirt, and headed out. The resort guests hadn’t yet woken. The beach houses were quiet. Local fishing boats moved about the bay, heading out to catch the day’s haul.
Vitari walked the beachfront, losing himself to his thoughts. He hadn’t ever, not once, thought he’d have a chance at something bigger than him, at something good. Shit like relationships hadn’t featured in his plans. And now there was Francis, a priest of all things, who had turned Vitari’s life upside down. Now he was thinking about things like having a future, like sharing his life with another person, sharing his heart. He had no idea what to do with that. Although, if anyone could make it happen, it would be Francis.
Father Francis Scott didn’t know when to quit. He didn’t give up, even when he should. If he believed in something, he stuck with it. “Just because something is broken doesn’t mean I give up on it”, he’d said in Rome. That something was Vitari. He’d been talking about Vitari. He smiled to himself again, remembering Rome, remembering Venezuela—the good times, not the bad.
Vitari circled back through the town, and as he passed the church, he glanced around, checking he was alone, then ducked under the raised foundations where he’d stashed the cash. Still there. He ducked out again and sauntered on toward the resort parking lot, where he’d left the Jeep overnight.
