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Francis wasn’t supposed to see the cash. Vitari had known he’d hate the whole idea of it.
He was losing him. He knew it. Expected it, even. He wasn’t worthy, didn’t know how to make himself worthy. He couldn’t change who he was, and it was clear, Francis wanted him to change. Wanted things he couldn’t give, like a future. A mile up the road, Francis would be waiting for him, and he’d look at him, judge him with those disappointed eyes, and it would wreck Vitari’s heart.
With any luck, Francis would be asleep when Vitari returned.
He’d always known he couldn’t keep Francis. This wasn’t some fuckin’ fairy tale. Francis was realizing he needed more than sex—he hadn’t even been getting that lately. Maybe Vitari should split the money and tell him to go set up a life somewhere without him. So long, and thanks for the memories, Padre.
“Jesus.” Vitari dragged a hand down his face, clearing away his grim mood, and started the Jeep’s engine. It was just the alcohol, the sleepless nights, the wretched jungle, and the fact he was trapped in the ass-end of Central America, with few options and fewer prospects. Shit would get better soon. It had to.
He pulled the Jeep up outside the casa, climbed the stairs, and unlocked the door. The house was quiet, which meant Francis was asleep downstairs. He stashed the money with the rest, poured himself a drink, and braced against the wall of windows. With the lights off, the view stretched far across the jungle canopy and down to the river, where ship lights blinked like slow-moving stars.
Vitari was doing all this for Francis. The thought of cutting him loose crushed his heart, but holding on to him was selfish.
He kicked off his shoes and padded down the stairs, then propped a shoulder against the bedroom doorframe, sipped his drink, and watched Francis sleep. He lay on his side, sheet kicked halfway down his body and tangled in one leg. He always looked so fucking innocent asleep, but serious too, as though even the business of sleeping should be done with conviction.
Vitari’s heart stuttered. He tried to snuff out the fear with a few gulps of potent whisky but failed.
If Vitari had never met him, if the DeSica hadn’t wanted to get their hands on him, Francis would still be in his little England parish church tending his flock. Although, Francis had hated that life, but he’d have made it work, like he’d made Venezuela work, like he’d probably make Panama work if they stayed long enough. He had a knack for getting on with shit, wherever he ended up. Francis could land at the North Pole and he’d find a little village to adopt as his flock. It was remarkable, really, how everyone warmed to him. Everyone liked Father Francis Scott. But nobody liked him the same way Vitari did. Liked him so much, Vitari would rip out his own heart and hand it to him, if he asked. Loved him.
Francis was his.
He should crawl into bed beside him, pull him close, whisper in his ear all the things he wanted to say, all the fears gathering like storm clouds, and he’d kiss him awake. But it wouldn’t go like that because Francis didn’t want him anymore, and Vitari couldn’t stand it if he reached for him only to have Francis pull away again.
Vitari left him sleeping, returned to the living room, and stretched out on the couch. The ceiling fan spun overhead, churning stuffy air.
He just had to get through this one last deal, get enough cash to leave Panama, travel up the coast, and then they’d talk. And maybe, they’d have a future together.
If Vitari didn’t fuck it up before then.
CHAPTER THREE
Francis
He secured a job at the hotel bar and restaurant clearing tables, refilling the beer taps, and helping the hotel guests, since he spoke English and could throw together some Spanish. It wasn’t the most glamourous of jobs, but it got him out of the house, meeting people, and none of the staff asked why a young English man was waiting tables.
During his first few days, the staff helped him settle in, mostly laughing at his attempts to speak the language. But they were kind and welcoming. And it felt good, doing something productive. Keeping busy.
On the fourth day, as he helped tidy the restaurant tables after breakfast, he spotted a man sitting by the window. He’d been there throughout the entire breakfast service. Most people ate breakfast in half an hour and then left for their day’s hiking. This man had been speaking with the staff and showing them something on his phone. Francis had been too busy to find out what he wanted, but with the restaurant almost empty, and the man still sitting there, he ambled over and set about stacking the plates from a nearby table on his arms.
The man looked up from his phone and asked him something in rapid Spanish.
Francis smiled. “No hablo español.” He could speak a little, but it was a colloquial mess of Spanish he’d learned in Venezuela.
“Inglés?”
“Yes.”
“You see this man?” the stranger asked, turning his phone toward Francis.
Francis blinked and froze his smile. “Uh, no. I don’t think so.” The photo showed Vitari crossing a road, glancing over his shoulder. His surroundings appeared to be somewhere in Rome, and he wore his flashy expensive clothes.
“Your name?” the man asked.
Francis swallowed again. “John.” It had been the most uninteresting name he could think of when he and Vitari had come up with pseudonyms to use locally.
“John. You sure? Look again.”
“No. Haven’t seen him. Can I get you some more coffee?”
