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Did it even matter if Father Davis was here? They had countless other killers in their entourage, what was one more? Although, he didn’t know for sure Father Davis was a killer, only that he’d lied. A great deal. And betrayed Francis’s trust.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He opened it to find the imposing figure of Salvatore looming in the hall.
“Vitari isn’t here.”
“It’s you I need to speak with, Father. May I come in?
“I uh?—”
“It’s a confession.”
He couldn’t turn anyone away from confession, least of all Vitari’s friend.
Sal’s right hand clenched at his side. A little gesture, nothing really, but add the sheen of sweat on the man’s forehead and the odd shift in his gaze? Something was off. But how could Francis refuse him without seeming rude? He didn’t want to drive a wedge between Vitari and Sal, and Vitari trusted him.
“Well, Father?”
A phone rang in one of the suite’s many rooms.
He glanced toward the room where the shrill sound came from, then back at Sal. “Vitari will be back soon, then we can?—”
“You should probably answer that,” the big man grumbled.
“Another time, perhaps? I’ll just… I’ll get that.” He closed the door on the man’s resolute face, crossed the living area, stepped up, and entered the bedroom. A light flashed on the ringing phone beside the bed. He scooped up the handset. “Hello?”
“Is this Francis Scott?” a French-accented female voice asked.
“Yes.”
“I have a call for you, Father. From a Vitari Angelini? Shall I connect you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Why was Vitari calling him, why hadn’t he come up to the hotel room?—
Something thin and dark fell in front of his eyes, then cinched around his neck. He gasped, or tried to, but the rope at his neck cut off his airway.
“Francis! Get out of there!”
Vitari!
Francis choked. The rope cinched tighter. The phone slipped from his fingers. He grabbed at whatever was strangling him—thick leather, a belt. He dug his nails under it, to try to pry it off. His heart pounded in his ears, wedged there. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t get air. His mouth gaped, his chest burned.
Jerked backward, he stumbled.
A hand slammed between his shoulders, toppling him forward at the same time as the belt loosened. He fell face-first onto the bed and clutched at the bedsheets, gasping, spluttering, wheezing. Even with the belt still on, but now loose, his throat was clogged. Air squeezed through, but not fast enough. Every breath wheezed into screaming lungs.
Hands gripped him, flipped him over. Sal loomed. “Where’s the drive, Padre?”
Francis kicked. His heel connected with Sal’s crotch, and the big man grunted and doubled over.
Francis launched off the bed and bolted for the door. Get out.
The belt still looped around his neck snapped tight, his feet flew out from under him, and his back slammed into the floor.
He lay, looking up, stunned.
Sal circled into sight, with one end of the belt wrapped around his fist. He stepped over Francis, knelt, and pulled the belt tighter. Francis choked and gasped and gaped all over again.
