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A glint of knowing shone in his eye. “It is not that difficult to figure out. Italian accent, Battaglia guns. You are a long way from home.”
Vitari backed up. It was definitely time to leave. If they knew who he was, then they likely knew he was supposed to be dead, and the guns weren’t his to sell.
Aiken nodded at his guards. They shouldered their weapons and aimed at Vitari.
Fuck.
Vitari reached for his own gun.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Aiken warned.
He froze, then raised his hands. His heart sank. He’d been so fucking close to making it. “You goin’ back on your word, Aiken? I thought we had an understanding.”
Aiken nodded again at the rest of his people—the ones who had been loading the truck—and they started forward, toward the Jeep, where he’d stowed the bags of cash. Vitari could only watch as they grabbed the bags and hauled them to their truck.
He’d lost the guns and the money.
“You should be happy,” Aiken said. “I’m letting you live. You have enemies who will not be as generous.”
“I’m thrilled,” he drawled, watching the rest of his escape money vanish behind slamming truck doors. If Aiken hadn’t told anyone he was here, he would soon. People would pay handsomely to know the location of L’ Angelo della Morte. People like Giancarlo. Like Sasha.
Their trip to Panama was over.
Francis would leave him after this.
Aiken climbed into one of the cars, and his armed men closed in on Vitari.
“Hey, come on, I’m not resisting. Just take the product and go?—”
One at the front lunged. Vitari swung a punch, danced back, and tried to grab for his gun, but they were on him. A rifle butt slammed into his cheek, the skin splitting. Someone kicked his leg out, and he dropped, knees in the mud. A kick to the gut made sure he stayed down. He coughed and wheezed around crackling rib pain.
He blinked through watery tears as the truck, and his future with Francis, disappeared into the jungle.
He stumbled to his feet, winced around a riot of new bruises, and hitched himself behind the Jeep’s wheel. A glimpse at his reflection in the rearview mirror revealed blood and mud smeared along his cheekbone.
Fuck, he was a mess. Francis was going to kill him.
Wincing and groaning, he drove his sorry ass back to the house. By the time he pulled up outside the steps, it was dark, and as he cut the lights, Francis appeared on the top step, all haggard and furious.
Jesus, this might be the final straw, the thing that pushed them too far apart…
Vitari opened the Jeep door.
“Thank the Lord, you’re back.” Francis hammered down the steps. “I’ve been calling you! Why didn’t you answer your phone?!”
“You called me?” Vitari climbed from the Jeep and gasped as bruises in his gut sparked alive. Francis had been trying to reach him? The phone… He’d left it in the glove box. Francis was only supposed to use it in an emergency. “Why were you calling? What’s wrong?”
“Your face!” Francis was in front of him, his soft hands on Vitari’s face, thumb scraping the swollen split. Vitari’s cheek burned, and he hissed. “You look terrible. Were you attacked?”
“No. It’s nothing.” Vitari brushed him off and started up the stairs.
“‘Nothing’?”
He didn’t need to look behind him to see Francis’s judgmental frown, it was right there, in his voice. “It doesn’t matter.” Vitari made it inside and went straight for the whiskey cupboard. “We need to leave.” He sensed Francis simmering behind him, and since he hadn’t replied, Vitari filled a glass and stared at it, waiting for the accusations to fly.
A drawer slammed. Utensils rattled. He glanced over his shoulder. Francis wet some cloths and opened a first aid kit. “Come over here.”
His voice was all cold, flat efficiency.
