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“Sal.” Vitari swallowed. “Your father is making you do this, I know that. Toni wants the Battaglia, right? Always has. Put the gun down, we’ll work it out. Brothers. Together. You and me.”
“‘Brothers’?” Sal snickered, but the sound was toxic. “If we were brothers, this wouldn’t ever have to happen.”
“I don’t… understand.” Why was he doing this? Toni, it had to be. Sal’s father was the only one who could make Sal do anything. But they could talk through it. “Sal, wait.”
Sal was on him now, the silencer inches from his forehead. “Where’s the fucking drive, fra?”
He knew the USB stick he wanted, but had no idea why. What was on that drive that could turn Sal against him like this? “Sal.” Vitari wet his lips, “Listen, I don’t know what drive?—”
Sal swung the gun. Pain lashed through Vitari’s head. He staggered, stunned, fell against a wall, and then the gun muzzle wedged under his chin, holding him up.
“Where’s the fucking drive, Vitari?”
The man snarling at him, the man holding a gun under his chin—it wasn’t Sal. Not the Sal he’d known and loved. He’d turned into a stranger.
“I fuckin’ loved you, man.”
Sal’s thick fingers locked around his throat. “Does the priest have it?”
Vitari glared. “Touch him and I will fucking kill you.”
Sal squeezed his eyes closed and gave his head a disgusted shake. “You should have let him go.”
No. No, if Sal went to Francis, he’d butcher him. “Don’t—” Vitari shoved, jerked his knee up, trying to catch Sal in the balls, but skimmed his thigh instead.
Sal smacked his forehead into Vitari’s. Pain exploded across his face. The room spun. Vitari’s head flew back, hit the wall, and he dropped, clinging to the edges of consciousness. Francis… His vision drifted, there and gone again, like a dream that faded on waking. His ears rang. He couldn’t pass out. He had to stay with it. He tried to claw at the thick fingers around his wrist, dragging him. Tried to kick out. But then the room greyed, washed away by the thudding in his ears.
The metallic sound of cuffs ratcheting around his wrists brought him back into blistering reality in time to see Sal stomp away.
“Wait…” Vitari mumbled. But it was already too late. When he blinked again, Sal was gone.
Cuffs clattered—locked around water pipes.
“Fuck!” Vitari yanked, trying to rip the pipes from the wall. They rattled but didn’t loosen. He writhed, trying to wriggle his wrist free, but the cuffs were too tight. He pulled anyway, pulled until his thumb bled, hoping he could yank his hand through. But it was no use.
He groped with his free hand into his pocket and removed his father’s phone. But who was he going to call? There was no one he trusted more than Sal.
And Toni had gotten to him…
This was it. This was the end.
Vitari had been king of the Battaglia less than twenty-four hours. Little Toni was making his move on the crown, like they’d all known he would.
Sal would kill Francis for whatever was on that drive, for Toni.
Vitari slumped against the wall. “Don’t trust him, Francis,” he spoke aloud, to nobody. “Trust your instincts. Run. Please run… God, please keep him safe. Please.”
The hotel reception. He could search the internet for the number. If he called the front desk, would they connect his call to the suite, to Francis?
With his free hand, Vitari opened a browser, and searched for the hotel webpage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Francis
It probably hadn’t been Father Davis. Francis was just jumpy. This whole trip, on top of witnessing a double homicide, in addition to almost being executed in Colombia, had frayed his nerves to ragged edges.
He stood at the windows overlooking the marina and wrung his hands, waiting for Vitari. Next door to the hotel, the infamous Monte Carlo casino glinted in the dark. He’d seen that facade in a movie once too. Now it felt as though he lived in one of those Saturday morning movies he’d watched at Stanmore, one of the action ones, but with more murders, graphic violence, and sex.
