AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Francis
Francis was embarrassed to realize Monte Carlo was in southern France, not Italy, as he’d assumed. Although there were only a few miles between the two countries. Monte Carlo was a waterfront city, resplendent alongside sparkling azure waters. Countless luxury yachts clustered in the marinas like gems in a crown, and enormous palm trees framed pretty, ancient hotels, all gathered around colonnade structures and limestone churches.
The Battaglia’s obvious procession of impressive black cars pulled up outside the Hôtel de Paris, and the moment Francis entered the domed foyer, he willed himself not to react to the gleaming marble floors, sparkling chandeliers, white and cream furnishings, and breathtaking fresco that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Vatican.
“We’re rather…. obvious,” Francis mentioned to Vitari, as their troupe of at least twenty men left their cars and entered the hotel.
Vitari flashed his L’ Angelo della Morte smile. “That’s the point.”
They didn’t stop at the reception, going straight to the elevator. Sal stepped inside, then Francis, but as Vitari approached, one of the others in their group called him back. “I’ll be right up,” he said, then the door closed, leaving Francis rigid beside Sal.
The floor numbers counted up slowly. Background music chimed. It might have been quicker to take the stairs.
“I have a great deal of respect for priests,” Sal said. His deep baritone voice rumbled in the tiny space. “But a priest who breaks his vows? He has no honor, no integrity. He is no priest.”
Since they’d met, Francis had sensed Sal didn’t like him, and now, trapped in an elevator, that sense had been proven right. Of course, much of the Battaglia probably thought the same, especially if they believed he was in a relationship with Vitari. “There are vows of the head, and vows of the heart. The head can be deceived, but the heart knows the truth.”
Sal ruminated on that for a few floors, then side-eyed him and asked, “What vows have you pledged from your heart, Padre?”
“Vitari is my calling, not the Church, not God.” Francis met Sal’s less-than-friendly glare. “I will protect him regardless of the cost or sacrifice.”
Sal held his glare, scrutinizing him, and as the elevator dinged on the top floor suites and the doors opened, he said, “You may have to.”
The hotel staff brought their overnight bags to the ocean-view suite, and a few guards eyeballed Francis when they thought he wasn’t looking. As lovely as the enormous suite was, he’d have much preferred a smaller room on the ground floor and with more exits. On the hotel’s top floor, they had nowhere to run, should they need to make a quick exit.
Perhaps that wouldn’t be necessary and this trip would go as Vitari hoped.
Vitari joined him a little while later and dismissed the guards. Now they were alone again, Francis watched him stop in the middle of the lounge, take a deep breath, and drag his hand down his face, clearly trying to settle himself.
“Are we safe here?” He didn’t feel safe. He hadn’t felt safe since Neo had shot Giancarlo. But the villa had felt safer than this hotel, as luxurious as it was.
“Fuck, no. Let’s get a drink at the bar.”
“More escape routes?”
Vitari smiled. “You’re learning.”
“I’ve rather had to.”
They headed back down to the hotel bar, a glitzy high-ceiling room with low-hanging enormous light features and a black marble wraparound bar. Vitari ordered their drinks in French, while Francis got settled on the stool and scanned the other patrons. All were well-dressed business men and women, their smiles as perfect as their sparkling jewelry and expensive watches. Vitari fit right in. Francis, on the other hand, in his black cassock, felt as obvious as a nun at a strip show.
Two glasses of wine arrived. “I probably shouldn’t drink,” Francis said.
Vitari picked up his wine and glanced around. “Nobody gives a shit if a priest is sinning here. It’s Monte Carlo. The rich man’s playground.”
They may not give a shit, but they were looking over. Francis squirmed some, unaccustomed to being stared at when he wasn’t at a church pulpit. “I feel like a target,” he admitted, picking up the wine.
“We both are, but you’re also a deterrent. Nobody is going to shoot me next to a priest. And you’re untouchable, Padre. Own it.”
“I am very much not untouchable.” He’d learned that—among many, many other things—about himself during the past year. He tasted the wine, liking it, and chinked his glass with Vitari’s, unable to resist his contagious smile.
“Act like you own the world, and they’ll believe it,” Vitari said, turning his back to the staring faces. “We’re the fucking wolves here, you and me. And the sheep know it.”
“Is that what you do? Act like you belong?”
“Every day since my father saved me from Stanmore, and I owned nothing. I’ve gotten this far on bullshit and bluster.”
“No…”
