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“I want the Battaglia there, I want us all over him. Surround him and close in. Any rats, any traitors in your ranks, take them out now. Fucking mail their eyes to the DeSica bastard so he knows we see him, and we’re coming.”
“This will be all-out war,” Slider said—the capo running the gun trade with the US. “Is that what you want?”
“It was war when Sasha killed my mother and took me. Giancarlo was too weak to fight back. I’m not weak. Are you weak, Slider? Are any of you weak?”
Nobody said a fucking word.
Slider’s lips twitched. “There will be blood on the streets of Monte Carlo.”
Vitari smiled. “Then we’ll paint the fucking city red.”
“L’ Angelo della Morte,” Sal said, raising his voice above the murmurings and catching his father’s eye, as though to challenge him to deny Vitari his place. Sal had his back and always would.
Toni hesitated a beat and raised his fist. “L’ Angelo della Morte!”
Others joined in, until the entire group chanted Angelo della Morte, Angelo della Morte, Angelo della Morte! Vitari measured his smile, keeping himself calm, even as his bruised heart soared. He’d been so fucking afraid they’d reject him because of who he was, where he’d come from, and who he loved. But right now, in this very moment, the Battaglia would follow him.
He glanced over their heads at Francis and saw his smile too.
The one smile in the room that touched his heart.
The meeting wound down. The Mafia old guard took Vitari’s hand and kissed the backs of his fingers, pledging their allegiance and offering their condolences, even while they likely plotted his downfall. Several spoke with Francis, probably in his capacity as a priest, as most of the capos were religious men. He prayed with a few, Vitari saw, keeping Francis on the fringes of his radar while he did the rounds and smoothed over frayed edges. The meeting dragged into the morning hours, as they often did. Too much wine and macho bullshit flowed, loud posturing, DeSica death threats and all the creative ways they could destroy them.
Vitari kept an eye on Francis through it all. He didn’t seem distressed, but he was clearly trying to convey something with several frequent, pointed glances at Vitari.
Francis caught his eye again and twitched his head, signaling to step away. He headed for the restrooms, and Vitari counted down the minutes before he could leave without it seeming too obvious. He feigned getting a drink at the open bar, then slipped through a back door.
Francis waited outside the restrooms, saw Vitari coming, and opened an adjacent door. His stern expression suggested he might be about to chastise Vitari. The only thing upsetting its perfection was the tiny scar over his eye. Vitari glanced around, checking if they were being watched, then ducked into the room—a large walk-in pantry with racks of shelves along each wall—and turned to ask Francis if he was all right.
Francis’s mouth slammed into his, desperate hands cupped Vitari’s face, then shoved Vitari back to the shelves, rattling spice jars. A few breathless moments of shock vanished and he grabbed at Francis, wrapping him close. Vitari slid his hand up, grasped the nape of his neck, holding him firm, and kissed him as though he could taste his soul.
Francis’s hands speared into his hair, then his fingers dragged down his back, hauling a needful moan up from Vitari’s depths.
This was the worst possible moment for them to do this—in a storage cupboard, a room away from a collection of brutal, vicious men who would hang them both if they were caught—but fuck, Vitari needed him, craved him, was out of his mind for the touch and taste of Francis. He shoved, forcing him against the opposite shelves. Something clattered to the floor.
Vitari grabbed his thigh, lifted it as far as the priest’s gown allowed, and ground his eager dick against all the hard parts of Francis he could find.
Francis flung his head back, and Vitari attacked his neck, sucking, biting, pressing himself into Francis—needing to be inside him. But they couldn’t fuck here. They had to get back before they were both missed. “Voglio scoparti. We can’t,” Vitari breathed, forcing himself to stop.
Francis, freckles ablaze, looked at him as though he were about to launch into a vicious tirade. “I’m naked under this gown.”
The growl that tumbled out of Vitari was a whole new sound he hadn’t known he could make. He hiked up the cassock’s thick black fabric and ran his hand up Francis’s bare, warm thigh. He was naked. And hot. Francis bit his lip, like the sweet innocent priest he hadn’t been in a long time.
Vitari almost lost it, might still lose it. He jerked Francis’s thigh higher, slamming him into the shelves again, then reached in and cupped and roughly squeezed his balls. Francis’s throaty moan spilled into his ear and shivered to his soul. Vitari grasped his cock. Francis grunted, hips shifting, trying to plunge his dick through Vitari’s fist.
It was mad, and rough, and brutal. He was pretty sure he’d hurt him, pushing him into the shelves. If the restaurant staff hadn’t heard them, they would soon.
“I want to turn you around and sink inside you, Padre, but there’s no way I can go back out there after fucking your tight ass.” God, the restraint was killing him. If he didn’t cool off, he’d come from dry-fucking him alone.
Francis dropped his hand, and like the wicked tease he was, he palmed Vitari through his trousers, rubbing hard.
He just might explode if Francis didn’t stop.
And then he did stop. He dropped his hands, leaned back, and smiled a smug bastard smile while Vitari gripped his dick. Two could play that game. Vitari let him go, brought his hand out from under his gown, and licked pre-cum from his thumb, then staggered back. Francis’s innocent brown eyes dropped to Vitari’s crotch, probably taking in the sight of his straining cock.
Francis wanted it, wanted to be fucked, right now, and hard.
“Fuck, you’re killing me.” Vitari laughed. He was going to ruin Francis later and when it happened, there would be no stopping him. “Enjoying yourself, Padre?”
