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“Yeah, sure.” He reached up and removed the cash cupboard back panel, then began emptying the stacks onto the counter. “It’s not as though we have to stay together.”
“Vitari?”
Vitari continued emptying the cupboard. He couldn’t turn, he didn’t dare look. If he saw the goodbye on Francis’s face, it would break him wide open.
After he’d removed the last of the stacks, he checked over his shoulder, but Francis had gone—probably downstairs to gather his belongings. Vitari muttered a curse and sighed. Everything he touched turned to dust, so why should this be any different?
The front door flew open. Armed men poured in, yelling in Spanish for him to raise his hands. There was no time to go for his gun, they were almost on him.
“Francis, run!”
The men grabbed him—dragged him to his knees.
Aiken strode in, as though he had every right to wave guns around their home.
“Vaffanculo, stronzo!” Vitari snarled. In his rush to return home, he’d led him straight to their front door.
The men yanked Vitari’s arms behind his back and tossed his gun onto the countertop, while two more ran down the stairs. If Francis had gotten out, he’d be all right. He just had to run and get the hell away from Vitari. He’d be safer on his own anyway.
Aiken loomed, straight faced and businesslike. “You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you, Angel?”
“Depends. Who’s paying you?”
Aiken eyed the fresh piles of cash, told his men to bag it up, and settled his glare on Vitari once more. “That has yet to be decided.”
He was going to ransom them off to the highest bidder. Vitari would have done the same in his position. If the DeSica or Battaglia got hold of them, they were dead men.
That couldn’t happen.
A gunshot boomed from the bedrooms.
“Francis?!” Vitari bucked and flung his head back, smashing his skull into the nose of the bastard holding him. No, fuck, it wasn’t ending like this, it couldn’t. He twisted, and the grip on his wrist vanished. Vitari lunged, snatched the gun off the counter, and spun. Aiming up, he pulled the trigger, spinning the nearest armed guard around.
But there were two others, lifting their rifles.
Vitari grabbed Aiken, thrust the gun under his chin, and held him close, as a shield. “Point those fucking guns at me and your boss eats a bullet!”
Aiken raised his hands. “Relax, Angel, relax. Nobody needs to die for this.”
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me to relax. Francis?!” Vitari backed toward the stairwell, dragging Aiken with him while keeping an eye on the two twitchy guards. “Francis, answer me!”
“I’m okay!”
A gasp that sounded a lot like a sob fell out of Vitari. “You need to go,” he called down to him. “Get out of here.” He wouldn’t listen. He never did. Vitari loved that about him. And hated it.
“I don’t think I can…” Francis called.
“Are you hurt?”
“Yes.”
Blinding rage surged through him. His finger twitched on the trigger. They’d hurt Francis—nobody hurt Francis. “Tell your men to put their guns down or I will blow your fuckin’ brains out.”
The guards didn’t move.
“Fuckin’ do it!”
Aiken nodded, and the men dropped their rifles.
