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“You are stronger than I have ever been. When I learned of all the things that had been done to you… Son, I… I was sick, sick for days. I did not want that. And to go through it and become who you are? You are the man I wished I was. You are worthy.”
The knot was back in his throat, choking him. His smile twitched, and the more he clung to it, the more it cracked and fell away. “You don’t get to say these things now, when it’s too fucking late!”
Giancarlo turned his palms up, pleading. “Forgive me.” His face was wet, but that wasn’t possible. Giancarlo didn’t do emotion, just stone-cold viciousness.
He’d never seen his father cry before.
Vitari’s aim wavered, his hand trembling, like his snarl trembled. This had to be done! Giancarlo had to die! Vitari stood, knocking the chair back, and aimed the gun between his father’s haunted eyes.
Damn him, it was too late to be proud, too late to talk of being worthy. He’d needed that fifteen years go.
He had to end this, if there was even the smallest glimmer of hope in seeing Francis again.
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
Giancarlo nodded, smiling as the tears fell from his face. “So am I.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Francis
Something was wrong.
He waited in the car outside the pretty Italian villa, just as Giancarlo had told him—the only words he’d said since collecting Francis from the private airfield.
The porch light glowed, and all around was quiet. Maybe too quiet?
Everything had felt wrong since he’d spilled the whole truth to the Mafia don over the phone, on his knees, on a muddy track somewhere outside Cartagena. He still wasn’t sure what, if anything, Giancarlo believed. After the call, the Battaglia men had bundled him onto a plane, and nine hours later, here he was, on the other side of the world again, somewhere in picturesque Italy. But the wrongness was getting worse. It felt slippery and oily, like guilt, for leaving Vitari in Colombia, even though he hadn’t had a choice.
He had to be here. Giancarlo was the single person who had the connections and power to stop everything, and while Francis was under no illusions that the man was as wicked as they come, his gut told him this was the only way.
And now his gut was telling him Giancarlo had been gone too long.
He peered out of the passenger window and saw a lone man walk up the driveway. Something glinted in his hand, something shaped very much like a gun. Was that normal? Did people carry openly in these parts? He glanced around, but nobody was about. No staff, no guards, even their driver had disappeared.
Was this how a Mafia don did things in his own home?
Back in Rome, Giancarlo had guards nearby.
There were no guards here now. Unless that man walking toward the villa was a guard?
The figure stepped onto the porch, and Francis saw his face.
Neo.
Oh dear.
Francis had told Giancarlo everything about Neo, and if he believed him, then he knew Neo was an imposter, put among the Battaglia to disrupt it and supply Sasha with any and all information he required.
Should Francis do something? Should he warn Giancarlo?
Neo entered the villa, leaving the front door ajar behind him.
He had to do something.
He climbed from the car and searched the nearby grounds for someone to pass on the warning, but there wasn’t anyone… This wasn’t right. He had to go inside. He stepped onto the porch, passing under the light, and eased through the open front door.
“You don’t get to say these things now, when it’s too fucking late!”
