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There had to be something, some vital piece of information, something that would save him…
“Did you speak to Giancarlo directly or did”—his voice cracked—“or did Neo relay the order?”
Neither of them reacted, just stared, like two cold, hard statues.
“Did the order come from his lips?” Francis asked with more force. “You heard him order me dead? Tell me that.”
The driver looked over at the big man. “The kill order came from don Giancarlo, right?”
“No, man. Neo’s running this op.”
There! See, they had to listen! Francis swallowed a sob. “Neo is DeSica?—”
The big man waved the gun. “Shut up, priest. Let me think.”
Francis ducked his head and prayed.
“Fucking call Giancarlo. Now,” the smaller of the two demanded.
Francis slumped and breathed through the urge to throw up. He gripped his thighs and clung on, praying hard, praying as hard as when he’d sat next to Vitari in a hospital bed, desperate to keep him alive. Darkness throbbed around the edges of his vision. He prayed Giancarlo answered the phone, prayed the Mafia don would listen, and prayed he believed Francis, if they let him speak with their boss.
If he passed out, none of that would happen.
Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.
He swayed, and breathed, and prayed. His ears rang.
“Here.” The big man held out the phone.
Francis blinked up at him.
“Take the fucking phone, Padre.”
He reached up with trembling fingers and pressed the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Father Scott,” Giancarlo said. “Tell me everything.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Vitari
He had the honor of sharing a private jet back to Italy with Neo, who smirked through his champagne and kicked his shoes up on white leather seats, like a fucking king.
Vitari spent the entire first half of the flight staring out of the window, watching the clouds pass beneath them, wishing he could reach out to Francis and tell him he was sorry for everything—sorry for being a dick, for being stupid, for being the opposite of what Francis deserved, for not being good enough. He’d said some shitty things to him, blaming him when he’d known Francis had only meant to help. His own stupid hang-ups about his father had made him deaf to everything Francis had been telling him. Whether he was right or not, didn’t matter. He should have listened. He hadn’t, and so Francis had made the call. Literally. A call Vitari should have made himself.
There was nothing he could do now but hope Neo would stick to his word—a word that was worthless.
Francis might already be dead.
He couldn’t think it, couldn’t allow that thought to creep under his armor, or he’d lose his mind. He’d already fantasized about taking that gun at Neo’s hip, shooting him in the head, then the guards, then himself. But he couldn’t. Not while there was even a slim chance Francis was alive.
But if they fucking killed Francis, he’d lay waste to every fucker who had ever stood in his way, ever looked down on him, everyone who had ever hurt or betrayed him, and he’d crucify his fucking father.
Once Vitari was painted in blood, Francis’s god would have to fucking listen then and know that love was worth every drop. He’d meet Francis again in Hell, if that was what it took to be with him.
Although, even with murder under his belt, Francis wasn’t going to Hell. There was never a man more worthy of Heaven than Father Francis Scott. Vitari would spend eternity on his knees, peering at him through those pearly gates. That would be his own personal Hell.
Fuck, how had it come to this?
