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Francis’s reputation might help them. Cisco was concerned about Padre Blanco, the gun-wielding priest who did not hesitate to kill notorious psychos like Luca Espinosa. Vitari could get behind the image. “Depends if, like you said, you want a quiet life, or a whole lot of trouble?” Vitari glanced at their opulent surroundings. “Seems like you don’t need a few more million, and maybe Padre Blanco is a curse you can do without?”
Cisco leaned back, losing all his smiles. “Fucking Europeans and your drama.”
Shit. Cisco was actually thinking about backing off.
“Does Giancarlo know I’m here?” Vitari asked, leaning forward. He saw from the twitch of Cisco’s face that he did. “Then he’ll send people for me. The money won’t matter. They’ll fuck it all up to get to me. If you don’t want my trouble to find you, let me go. The longer I’m here, the worse it will be. Not a threat, just facts. The Battaglia have already sent their priest…”
“This is a whole lot of shit I do not need…” Cisco mused aloud. “You know how I got here? Stability. No fuckups. You and your Mafia bullshit are not welcome in my Colombia.”
“I understand that. I don’t want to be here either. You seem reasonable. Let’s do a deal. Hand me over to Padre Blanco and walk away.”
Cisco seemed to be considering it. “All this fuss for some rich kid with daddy issues. Russians, Italians, even the fucking Catholic Church. They’re all fighting for a piece of you.”
The Church? Did he mean Francis? It didn’t matter. Vitari was getting through to him. Cisco just might decide he was too much trouble and let him go.
Cisco clicked his fingers and Sneakers made his way over. “Bring Padre Blanco to me. Let’s meet this infamous priest.”
Shit, that wasn’t the plan. If they saw Francis, they’d know he wasn’t the big bad Mafia priest the rumors had made him out to be—he was Francis, the love of Vitari’s life. If Francis got on this yacht, he wouldn’t leave it alive.
“Take me back to him, huh? Saves time you may not have.” Maybe if he could get back to San Blas, he’d find a way to escape them, but out here, on this yacht, even if he could get out of the restraints there was nowhere to run. If Francis came to them, they’d both be screwed.
Cisco considered it and nodded. “You so eager to see your priest, Angel?”
A few hours later, as the sun began to set over the idyllic San Blas Bay, Vitari watched the little speedboat bounce over small waves, growing larger as it headed toward the yacht. Francis’s mop of sandy hair gleamed in the dying daylight, and as the boat drew closer, he could make out the deep lines of determination on his stoic face. Francis couldn’t swim, but there was no sign of any fear.
Padre Blanco.
Vitari’s heart swelled. They might be able to pull this off.
Not only had Francis stuck around when he should have taken the money and run, he’d somehow made it known Padre Blanco was not to be fucked with, and he was coming for Angel.
When this was over, Vitari was going to strip him down and fuck him breathless, fuck him so hard there would be no room for doubt or fear in that amazing head of his.
Vitari waited by the bank of couches, flanked by two guards. Two more were in the boat with Francis, another piloted the yacht, and then there was Cisco, somewhere nearby. All of them were armed. Vitari and Francis were grossly outnumbered.
They just had to get through this alive. And much of that relied on Francis playing his part.
Don’t smile, Francis, don’t smile, don’t smile. Francis looked over as they tied up the boat, and as soon as he spotted Vitari, a broad, brilliant grin broke out across his face. Vitari didn’t even care, that grin was everything. He hadn’t realized how scared he’d been that he’d never see Francis again, until that big, stupid grin.
A few seconds later, Francis wiped the smile off his face so nobody saw and climbed from the rocking speedboat onto the deck. He tripped, earning a few raised eyebrows, but straightened and brushed it all off like a fucking pro.
“Padre Blanco!” Cisco announced, crossing the deck from the living area, arms out, as though meeting an old friend.
Francis didn’t smile, and instead eyed Cisco as though he didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. That’s it, Francis. Be that man I know you can be, the smart, bloodthirsty bastard who will fuck anyone up if they get in his way. He’d always been in there, ruthless, cold, and now Francis needed to own that side of him and use it.
“He had this on him,” Sneakers said, handing Cisco Vitari’s lost gun.
Cisco raised an eyebrow. “Not very Christian of you, Padre.”
“Catholic,” Francis corrected in that thin, emotionless voice he used when he was trying very hard not to explode.
“To-may-toes, to-mah-toes.” Cisco set the gun down on the coffee table, a few strides from Vitari. With bound hands, Vitari wasn’t going to be able to use it unless he could writhe out of the plastic ties. He’d been working on rubbing them loose, but he had no way of knowing if they were close to coming undone.
“So, you have money?” Cisco asked.
“I do.”
“How much?”
