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“What the fuck do you think this is, fucking happy families? He didn’t do any of that because he’s protecting me. He did it because of shame, not because of some heroic fatherly duty. He fucking hates me. Don’t you get it? He blames me for the love of his life dying. I’m the root of all his fucking problems. Jesus… I can’t do this with you…” He took the spiral stairs below deck.
“Vitari?” Francis hurried after him.
The bedroom door slammed, and Francis stared at it. Torn. He’d messed up, but he hadn’t been wrong. He firmly believed that. Vitari was too close to everything to see clearly.
The photos of Vitari and Francis in Spain, the mess that was Venezuela, even threatening Francis to back off Stanmore—Luca had said it in Venezuela, it was bigger than just them—everything was about Vitari, not because Giancarlo hated him, but because he was protecting him. Francis was so damn sure of it, he’d hang their love on it.
A thwomp-thwomp sounded outside, somewhere nearby. A new, different sound to that of the yacht’s engines. And it was getting louder.
Francis climbed onto the main deck again, shielded his eyes from the early morning sun, and stared toward the horizon. A black dot hovered in the azure sky.
The yacht’s engines growled to life, and with a lurch, it plowed forward, churning water in its wake. Francis hurried up the steps to the bridge deck and found Vitari back at the yacht’s controls, dressed in a rough pair of grey cargo pants and loose white T-shirt he must have found among Cisco’s things.
“There’s something coming,” Francis said, glancing behind them. The black dot had grown bigger.
“Yeah, helicopter,” Vitari said. “Let’s hope they’re looking for someone else, not this yacht, because there’s not a whole lot of places to hide out there.”
Francis leaned against the bridge controls console. Vitari wasn’t looking at him, didn’t glance over at all. He stared ahead, face determined. The chasm was back between them, bigger than ever. And that was Francis’s fault. He should have told him before, or at the least talked to him before calling Giancarlo, but he’d have said no, and Francis wasn’t wrong.
“Is it still following?” Vitari asked.
Francis took up position at the wraparound windows. “Yes.”
“Shit.”
“Can we outrun it?”
“No. The only thing we can do is head out into the ocean and hope they get low on fuel before reaching us.”
“Who is it?”
“Cisco, Aikin, fucking Battaglia—who the fuck knows? It could be Miguel-fucking-Sanchez since you went all gangsta on his ass.”
Francis winced and tracked the helicopter, hating the sting in Vitari’s words. He knew Vitari could be vicious, he’d seen him lash out at others, but Francis had never felt that viciousness directed at him, and it burned. Even when Vitari had kidnapped him after they’d first met, he hadn’t been cruel, or perhaps Francis hadn’t cared what he’d thought back then. He cared now and could feel the love they’d had slipping like water between his fingers.
The chopper had gotten so big, he could see its rotors now. If it was police, then it was unmarked.
“They’re gaining.”
“Shit. Get a gun.”
Francis hesitated. If he picked up a gun, he might have to use it. And if he was holding a gun, then he’d probably be shot at. Which meant he’d definitely have to use it.
“Now is not the time to be a puppy-loving pacifist. If you don’t shoot them, they will shoot you. Get the guns, Francis.”
“All right. Okay.” He hurried down to the main deck, found the 9mm handgun—the same he’d gotten very personal with during the night—and an assault rifle left over from Cisco’s men, then hesitated as the noise of the helicopter vibrated the windows. He looked up. The helicopter came in low, keeping up with the yacht, then overshot them and banked, circling to come at them head-on.
Francis made it halfway up the steps to the control deck when gunfire peppered the yacht, pinging off the hull. Windows shattered, the engines roared, and Vitari turned the yacht so hard, Francis was forced to cling to the stair rail to keep from falling.
When it leveled out, he dashed up the remaining steps.
“Shoot them!” Vitari yelled.
The helicopter buzzed above, hovering back and forth. Popping gunfire strafed the yacht again.
“Get down!” Vitari yelled.
Francis dropped, hugged his knees to his chest, and buried his head under his arms, making himself small. Rounds pinged too close. Vitari dashed beside him, grabbed the assault rifle, shouldered it, and lunged toward the back of the bridge deck, in full view of the helicopter. Its door opened and a man leaned out, pointing a rifle right at them.
