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Vitari’s eyes turned hard. “Davis? Yeah, I know him. Two-faced suck-up. He was tight with Giancarlo and I never figured out why.”
“You know him?” Francis wasn’t sure why that surprised him. It shouldn’t have. Davis had been among Giancarlo’s closest people, who Vitari would naturally know of. “You never said.”
“I met him a couple of times, that’s all. How do you know him?”
“I didn’t, not really.” He was embarrassed to admit how he’d fallen for Father Davis’s lies, and it probably hadn’t been him anyway. “I didn’t see his face. It’s nothing. Why would he even be here?”
Vitari glanced around them with shrewd interest. “Yeah, why would a bent priest be in Monte Carlo?”
“Did you just imply I’m bent?”
Vitari grinned. “Padre, you bend in the best way. But if that sleazy prick is here, then we have a problem.”
“Why, if he’s Battaglia and half the hotel is full of Battaglia?”
“Because I didn’t invite him. Which means someone else did. I need to talk to Sal.” Vitari pulled his phone from his pocket. “He’ll be around here somewhere. Go back to the suite. I’ll meet you there. Don’t let anyone in, understand?”
Francis nodded and downed his wine. “You won’t be long?”
“I’ll be right up.” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Yeah, Sal, we might have a problem, where are you? All right, I’m coming up.” He ended the call. “Like you say, it’s probably nothing.” His hand closed around Francis’s and he guided him off the stool. Francis tightened his grip, not wanting to let him go, and the seconds ticked on, hands held in full view of everyone.
“I’ve got this, Padre.” Vitari kissed Francis on the cheek in a typical Mediterranean style. “I’ll be right up,” he said, holding his gaze. Vitari squeezed his hand, then let go and sauntered away as though nothing could touch him, but Francis knew everything touched him.
Alone now, he sighed and tried to find the composure he’d entered the bar with. He didn’t want to be here—he wanted to bundle Vitari into a cab and drive away and keep on driving, like he had in the Spanish countryside, drive until they ran out of road.
People were staring, watching him stare after Vitari, as though they could see how Francis’s heart beat for him.
He cleared his throat and smoothed down his cassock. He and Vitari just had to get through this night, locate and kill Sasha, and then it would be over. Vitari would leave the Mafia, and they would go find a farm in the hills somewhere, just like Vitari had said.
For the first time ever, they had a chance at a future.
“Just keep on surviving,” he muttered like a prayer and headed toward the elevators.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Vitari
“Come in, fra.” Sal opened the door to his modest room on the second floor, then stomped back to the bed. His suitcase lay open, with a few items of clothing flung on the bed around it.
“You good?” Vitari asked. Sal wasn’t usually so chaotic.
“Yeah, yeah.” He reached for the bottle of vodka on the bedside table and refilled a glass. The way his hand swayed suggested he’d already had a few.
“You sure?”
Sal sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s this problem?”
“Father Davis, you remember him?” Vitari ambled into the middle of the room, caught sight of a gun handle poking out under a discarded shirt, and remembered he’d left his in the suite. Didn’t matter, he was going there next.
“The loud cigar-loving American priest?” Sal asked, wiping a hand down his face. He wasn’t as together as he typically kept himself. Vitari was the one who lost his shit on a daily basis, not Sal. Maybe he’d had an argument with his papa. Vitari knew what that felt like.
“Francis thinks he saw him in the bar,” Vitari said. “Did you invite him? Because I know I didn’t.”
“Why would he be here? Don’t we already have one priest too many?” Sal slurred.
“Sal, I know I got no right to say it, but what the fuck is going on with you? You got your head on straight? I need you. This isn’t a vacation.”
“I know, I know,” he mumbled. “I’m good, I just—I’m good.”
