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“You mean out there or in here?” he croaked.
“Both?”
“I am… Both. It’s strange, but I like it.”
He briefly looked confused. Before he could overthink it, Vitari swooped in and kissed him on the mouth. “Thank you.”
Hazel eyes lifted. “What for?”
“For being here.”
He reached down and twined his fingers with Vitari’s. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“Hiding in a pantry with a raging hard-on and blue balls?”
Francis snickered. “Are you going to be able to go back out there?”
“If you stop torturing me, yeah.”
“I’ve stopped. For now.”
He was such a tease. “I’m going to fuck you raw. You know that right? If I tell you exactly what I’m going to do to you, my dick will never calm the fuck down. But you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow. Maybe never again.”
Francis’s mouth twitched around a grin he tried to control, and failed. “You know, I always thought you were saying sweet, romantic things in Italian, but all this time, you’ve just been telling me how you want to fuck my tight arse, haven’t you?”
Vitari covered his mouth, muffling his choking laugh. “Say fuck my tight arse again.”
Francis’s grin grew. “Get back out there, Don Vitari. I’ll join you once I’m certain my cock isn’t going to poke at this gown like a tent pole.” Which was exactly what it was doing.
“Stop making me love you more.” Vitari chuckled, straightened his hair, then his shirt, since Francis had wrenched around, and willed his dick to get over it.
He side-eyed Francis and caught his satisfied smirk. “You’re going to be the death of me, Padre.”
“Then I’ll pray for you.”
He had no right to be so fucking adorable while also being a savvy, cold-blooded badass.
Vitari steeled himself, took a breath, and sauntered from the pantry as though he hadn’t been about to fuck a priest blind.
The end to the capo meeting couldn’t come fast enough.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Francis
It was still dark out when they left the restaurant and returned to the villa, but with a hint of red on the horizon. Francis should have been exhausted—he hadn’t slept since dozing on the plane from Colombia and so much had happened—but he wasn’t tired. He was wired. The meeting had gone better than anyone expected. Vitari had the support of the Battaglia, and Francis had even helped some of the Battaglia’s most important men grieve the loss of their leader and pray for their continued success—although he doubted God was going to grant those prayers since the Battaglia’s success came from the violence and extortion of others.
Vitari posted two guards at the front of the villa and two more on the grounds. Loyal men, friends of Sal, his friends, he’d assured. He’d told them, with a straight face, how he was going to confer with his priest, and they were not to be disturbed.
Then they’d headed inside.
“Where shall we confer?” Francis asked, wandering into the enormous open-plan lounge. He still had the bruise where Neo had hit him over the back of the head a day before. Was it a whole day? He couldn’t remember, didn’t know what day it was. Life had blurred together in one long desperate attempt to survive until tomorrow.
It would be better now, wouldn’t it? Easier, now Vitari was the boss.
It had to be. He turned to Vitari to ask him if they were safe.
Vitari held up a finger as a thought occurred to him. “Wait here.” He disappeared down the corridor, leaving Francis drifting between enormous luxury leather couches and over rugs that cost more than a priest’s salary.
