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Vitari shifted to the opposite counter and watched as Francis’s quick fingers opened the antiseptic wipes. He straightened and peered into Vitari’s eyes. “Hold still. This might sting.”
The cloth touched Vitari’s face, shocking him. He hissed.
Francis winced. “Does it hurt?”
“It’s cold.”
He wiped at the blood and mud, focused on that, while Vitari studied his face up close. His freckles had bloomed in the Panama heat, and his chestnut hair had lightened, turning more sandy blond than brown. Vitari hadn’t been this close to him in weeks and missed the view. He shouldn’t have shut him out, but then Francis had gotten all withdrawn and icy, and Vitari had been afraid to try to fix whatever was wrong with them, knowing he was the problem.
He couldn’t fix himself.
“I’m going to ask again,” Francis said. “Please don’t lie, Vitari. What happened?”
He huffed. “I fucked up.”
Francis’s gaze lifted, lashes fluttering as his eyes widened. “Your drug deal went wrong?”
“Yeah.” In a break between Francis fussing over wipes and cloths and poking at Vitari’s face, Vitari sipped his drink. “I got made and lost the product. It’s not drugs, if that matters…”
“So, what was it?”
“Guns. Battaglia guns. I remembered we had a stash here and took advantage of it. We need the money if we’re going to survive this.”
Francis sighed. “Someone at the hotel was asking around for you today. That’s why I called.” He straightened again and dabbed at the cut.
Vitari winced, gritting his teeth against the burn. “Did they know my name?”
“He had your picture.” Francis chewed on his lip as he concentrated on the cut. “But he didn’t say your name, no.”
Vitari closed his eyes and tilted his head, letting him work. The fact Francis wasn’t raging or throwing things proved he was better than Vitari deserved. He should have talked with Francis, should have discussed it all, but this, them, being a pair—he’d never fucking done this before. He’d always been alone. He didn’t trust people. Alone meant safe. Francis wasn’t like that. “I’m sorry,” Vitari said.
“For what?”
“For being an asshole.”
Francis stopped poking at Vitari’s cheek and stood back. “Is that all you’re sorry for?”
Yeah, he was mad. “I’m sorry… for not being good enough.”
His frown hardened into a glare, and now he resembled the infamous Padre Blanco who killed men who wronged him. He tossed the wipes, grabbed a butterfly strip, and jabbed it at Vitari’s face.
“Ow! Jesus.” Vitari flinched.
“Why do you have to be so… you.” He scooped up the used wipes and dumped them into the trash, his every motion jagged with anger.
His rage made Vitari’s insides tighten, made him feel small and vulnerable, and he hated it, hated feeling weak, hated how one glance from Francis could make him feel so ashamed that he wanted to drop to his knees. “Maybe you should throw something? Huh? Will that make you feel better?” Vitari had no right to be angry back, he should be on his knees, but old habits filled his blood with fire.
Francis grabbed the first aid kit and slammed it onto the countertop. “Maybe I will.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you want me to say. You know what? It doesn’t matter. Pack up your shit. We need to be out of the house now.”
“Thank you, Francis, for fixing my face.” Francis folded his arms and glared, red faced and fuming.
Vitari glared back, at a loss. He’d said sorry. What more did Francis want? “I have enough cash to set us up for a few months somewhere else—south, Cartagena maybe? Once there, I’ll get you on a boat to Belize. You’ll be safer there, without me.”
Francis’s face fell. And Vitari’s heart broke open. He turned away so Francis didn’t see how this wounded him more than any stupid split on his cheek. God, why did Vitari have to love him? Why couldn’t he make his heart stop loving him, when they both knew it was pointless anyway.
“Is that what you want?” Francis asked quietly.
