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He’d cut off his own balls before being grateful for anything that sick fuck had given him.
Shame made his guts churn.
He’d fucked up in the past, but never like this.
He should have been the one to call Giancarlo, not Francis. He should have confessed it all to his father, and then maybe he’d have had a chance to make some of it right. Somehow. He should have listened to Francis.
Now he had to kill Giancarlo to save Francis, because Neo had slithered his way into the Battaglia gaps Vitari had left wide open.
And behind Neo, Sasha encircled them all, waiting to strike.
He dozed during the flight, waking when the rough edges of nightmares grated against old memories of dark rooms and bruised knees.
They landed at a familiar airfield in southern Italy, and Vitari climbed from the jet, blinking into the sunlight. He had no idea what day of the week it was, or if he’d live to see tomorrow, but at least he was back on home soil. His soul shuffled and settled. Italy. Despite the circumstances, it was good to be back. The Calabrian sun blazed. Azure skies stretched from east to west.
Neo removed the cuffs, for appearances, but warned him not to try any stupid shit or Francis would pay with a beating.
Neo had been right. Francis was Vitari’s weakness. But what nobody understood was how Francis was also his strength. Vitari would be dead without him. Dead in Venezuela, dead at the bottom of a bottle, dead from a drug binge, dead in heart and soul. So, what was a little patricide in the name of love?
They climbed into the family cars and headed toward the coast.
“You need a gun?” Neo asked from the front seat.
“Sure. Give me yours, right now.” So he could blow him away.
Neo rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man. I’m trying to help.”
Vitari sneered and wished it was over already. “If you want to help, you pezzo di merda, let me speak to Francis,” he said, keeping the conversation vague since the driver was a new face.
“After.”
“Fuck after. Now.”
“Fuckin’ after! Or not at all. Jesus. You don’t make the demands here, Angel, I do.”
Was Neo getting twitchy now he was in Italy? Home of the Mafia, kingdom of the Battaglia, where he was the fucking rat. “What sewer did Sasha fish you out of? How did you even get tangled up with him and the DeSica? He only hires psychos and whores, so which one are you?”
Neo laughed. “You got a mouth on you, Angel.”
The driver, a low-ranking Battaglia man, gave them both a hard side-eye. Drivers were paid not to comment and not gossip. Anyone who talked got a pair of concrete shoes and a long walk off a short pier.
There wasn’t a single soul in Calabria who would believe Vitari now that he was the traitor. Except maybe Sal? “Is Sal at the villa?” Vitari asked.
“Maybe. You fuck him too?”
“Jesus, were you born an asshole or did you practice your whole fucking life?”
Sal would have thought him dead, like everyone else. He’d be pissed, and in no mood to help him after that stunt, but he’d listen. If Vitari could find him before coming face-to-face with his father. “Is Giancarlo there?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“You goin’ to babysit me, Neo? Are you sure you want to stay in the same room as me? You aren’t afraid you might catch being gay?”
“I’m as straight as a fuckin’ arrow, man.”
Vitari sensed the typical macho bullshit that always bubbled to the surface when anyone mentioned gays. It riled him, had made him hate himself in the past, but right now it was a chink in Neo’s armor. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. You wear the same clothes, followed me like a lost dog. Are you sure you haven’t wondered, huh? You look like the type who just might like some dick up your ass?—”
“Shut up. How long until we get there?” Neo asked the driver.
