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The speedboat bumped against the rear of a three-deck luxury yacht. The driver tied it off while Sneakers grabbed Vitari and hauled him onto the lower deck. Whoever said crime didn’t pay hadn’t seen the mega yachts moored in Cartagena, because this one was a beauty and made the Battaglia’s yacht look like a poor man’s dingy.
Crime paid bigger and louder in Colombia.
“Sit your ass there.” Sneakers shoved Vitari onto the wraparound bank of couches and sauntered off, probably to get whoever owned the floating palace.
Vitari had his suspicions for who was behind his kidnapping, especially now he’d seen the yacht. He’d hoped to have been in and out of San Blas without pinging the Serpent’s radar. He shouldn’t have cared that Vitari was just passing through. Apparently, Vitari had underestimated the waves his arrival had made. It seemed as though the whole fucking criminal underworld knew he was alive, and every chancer, cartel boss, low-life criminal piece of shit wanted a slice of L’ Angelo della Morte.
At least they all wanted him alive.
He hadn’t been sure after the bag-over-the-head move.
“Angelo della Morte.” The man who jogged down the internal spiral staircase was in his late fifties, with golden skin, long black hair tied up, shrewd, sharp eyes, and a thin, narrow face. He moved fast for an older guy and swept through the living area to drop onto the couch opposite Vitari. Vitari knew of him, although they’d never met.
Cisco Roman, also known as Serpiente Diablo.
He studied Vitari without blinking. “Not sure what I was expecting, but you aren’t it. You look like a daddy’s boy, like you got big boots to fill, like you’ve coasted along on Papa’s coattails all your life and now he’s tired of you, you’re all at sea. That you, Angel?”
Vitari snorted and adjusted his bound hands behind his back to keep them from digging into his spine. “You don’t know shit about me.”
“I know your father wants you back alive, but only so he can kill you in front of the family, teach them a lesson. Rough childhood, huh?” Cisco snorted. “Cry me a fuckin’ river.”
Vitari kept his smile, even as the words cut deep. He’d known Giancarlo would hate him for the betrayal, but hearing it spoken by this Colombian nobody made it real, and made the shit he was in real too.
Cisco leaned forward and studied Vitari with his dull brown eyes. “Did you think you could scurry through my town like the rat you are and I wouldn’t notice?”
“I don’t care what you think.”
“You fucked up, kid. Really fucked up. Of all the places you could go, why San Blas?”
Vitari didn’t have to say a damn word to this guy. “Why am I not already on a flight back to Italy?”
“Yeah, you see, I don’t think much of the Battaglia, or the DeSica, and I don’t care how Daddy wants you back so bad he’ll pay a few million for the pleasure. I’m just here to take the cash and get you far away from my operation. You’re like a bad fucking omen, L’ Angelo della Morte. Death follows you.”
Then he was waiting for the highest bidder. DeSica or Battaglia, Sasha or Giancarlo. Either way, Vitari was screwed. “If I’m bad luck, let me go.”
Cisco laughed again, then cut himself off. “Who is Francis?”
Vitari arched an eyebrow and ignored how his heart dropped through the floor. “Who?”
“You don’t know a Padre Blanco then?” Cisco smirked. “Father White.”
“Never heard of him.” Fucking Francis, what had he done now?
“Huh. You see, that’s real strange. An old friend of mine called me up. He says a gringo—Padre Blanco—shows up at his door, waving a gun around, demanding to speak to me, says he has money. Wants to pay your ransom. And you’ve never heard of him?”
Fuck. “Just some crazy white guy.” If Francis got on this boat, they’d shoot him and dump his body overboard. There was no way Francis could touch any of this. Why hadn’t he taken the money and run? How did he always get his hands on a gun?
“You know what I heard?” Cisco added.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Padre Blanco is a Mafia priest. Rumor is he killed a Mafia man in Venezuela, one of your own?”
“I don’t know anything about that.” Fuck.
“Other rumors credit him for a village massacre, as though this priest and his angel of death herald a whole lot of bad mojo. Is Padre Blanco going to be a problem?”
Fucking Francis. Vitari’s smile grew, mostly from disbelief, but Cisco saw it and narrowed his eyes.
