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“You’re killing me, Padre.” Vitari flicked his tongue over Francis’s, teasing, then easing off, rocking together but hardly touching.
Maybe they could get off quickly, before the day began? The idea of having sex while dressed in his robes had been a spur of the moment thing, but since Vitari’s eyes now burned with lust, that idea had lit a blaze inside Francis, searing his veins. “Can I change my mind?”
“No.” Vitari chuckled and backed away, then adjusted the front of his trousers, drawing Francis’s gaze to the thick line of his trapped dick. “You made your bed, now lie in it, Padre.”
Francis glanced back at the bed with a heavy dose of suggestion, but Vitari laughed him off. “I am going to make you pay.”
Vitari stalled at the door, probably waiting for his erection to wane, or mentally preparing for everything waiting for them on the other side. Francis loitered by the end of the bed. Padre Blanco was a myth created in a Venezuelan village, a way for Francis to pretend, but he didn’t exist. But that was the point. Father Francis Scott hadn’t been real either. Underneath it all, he was just Francis, a broken man who loved a broken angel.
“You good?” Vitari asked.
“Yes, I think I really am.” He held Vitari’s gaze, like he’d held him in his arms earlier, feeling every sob rack his soul. Together, they were going to be okay. “Are you all right?”
“Fuck, no.” Vitari opened the door. “I’ll get through this shit show knowing you’re beside me. You ready?”
Francis was about to become part of the Mafia. How hard could it be after a lifetime raised by the Church? “Not in the least.” He smiled, and Vitari mirrored the same smile. Despite what they were about to endure, Francis really did believe they’d survive. As long as they were together.
They drove into the picturesque, ancient city of Catanzaro and climbed from their line of cars outside a restaurant with tables beneath a vine-wrapped pergola, but no customers. Francis guessed the Mafia owned these parts of old southern Italy. The entire town probably knew they were here and had been told to stay away.
One of Sal’s people handed Francis a cassock and directed him toward the restroom at the back of the restaurant, where he could change.
He found himself alone in the men’s room, cassock folded in his arms, staring at his pale reflection.
The scar above his eye seemed more prominent under the harsh lighting. What was he doing here? He spoke only a handful of Italian. How was he going to back up Vitari without following what was about to happen?
But it was happening, so he’d better get himself together and act like he was Padre Blanco. He’d taught himself some basic Italian, perhaps enough to muddle through, but the accents in the south were different to the north. Although, the accents weren’t going to be his main problem. Pretending he belonged would be.
Being gay in the Catholic Church didn’t get you killed. Out here, in rural Italy among the Mafia, desiring another man was a death sentence. And if that man was the dead don’s son?
Francis’s hands trembled. He placed the cassock down, gripped the washbasin, and bowed his head. He’d lost all right to pray for guidance at a time like this, but he prayed anyway, and when he faced his reflection again, all the doubt and fear had vanished from his glare.
He’d do this for Vitari. No cost was too high.
With the cassock and white collar on, the proud, stoic priest in the mirror stared back. Padre Blanco. It was theater, and he’d been playing this role his whole life. He’d just… fine tuned it some. Evolved it.
He emerged from the restroom strangely calm, almost untouchable, as though God’s grace made him invincible. The cassock wouldn’t stop a bullet, but it felt as though it would, and when he passed by the guards dotted about the restaurant, they all looked at him differently. Some even dipped their chins. He’d forgotten how powerful religion could be, which was absurd, since he’d been submerged in it his whole life. But he’d been looking out from the ruined, twisted mess of his own mind. People looking in saw a priest, and one who wasn’t afraid to go to Hell for what he believed in.
He might be able to do this.
The large back room had been made up to cater the group with a long oval table, decorated with fine cutlery and all the sparkling luxuries. A few men were already seated, and from the sounds of car doors slamming, more were arriving. Francis wasn’t taking a seat. He needed to be visible, to be the first thing they saw. He stood beside a huge arrangement of blood-red roses, making sure everyone who entered had to look him in the eye.
His heart pounded in his throat.
Eighty percent of the men were older, over fifty, but there were some younger faces too. Vitari wasn’t yet here.
Francis clasped his hands behind his back, hiding how he squeezed them into fists.
Sal arrived and nodded at Francis. As he sat, Francis spotted the bulge of a gun under his jacket. The others were likely armed as well. With the table full at almost thirty men, Vitari still hadn’t arrived. But only one chair remained, the chair at the head of the table. Were these men waiting for Giancarlo to fill it? Did they know the Battaglia don was dead?
Vitari had to walk into the lion’s den and preside over a world he’d been trapped in, wear a crown he didn’t want, control men who he believed despised him.
Francis breathed in, filling his chest, and stared ahead, waiting for the new don to arrive.
He’d get through it.
They both would.
They didn’t have a choice.
