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Riley laughed. “Do you even hear yourself, Padre Blanco?”
“I’m not like you.”
“The infamous vengeful priest with the angel of death at his side who together leave a trail of bodies in their wake? No, my mistake, Father Scott is the epitome of saintliness.”
Francis rolled his eyes. He didn’t have time to convince this man he was the good guy here, or time to go door to door. “Vitari?” he called. “Are you here?”
“Room twenty-three!” Vitari replied.
Francis hurried down to the right numbered door and tried to open it. It didn’t budge. The key reader glowed red. “I don’t have a key,” he told Davis.
A door to a room farther down the hall opened and a middle-aged man emerged. Francis hid the gun at his back again and smiled innocently. “Good day—night.” What time was it?
“Father,” the man said in English, side-eying them.
Admittedly, they did look horribly suspicious. “You’re drawing attention to us,” Francis hissed at Davis.
“Me? I’m not the one in a cassock holding a gun. He’s going to call the police, you know that, right?”
“Francis, are you all right? What’s going on?” Vitari called from behind the door. “Who’s with you?”
“I don’t have a key,” Francis called back.
Some colorful Italian swearing sounded from inside.
Francis stepped away from the door, aimed at the lock, and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked, the muffled shot still sounded loud, but the door clunked open.
“O Dio mio!” Vitari’s eyed widened, taking in the gun, then Father Davis. “You’re all right? Did he get to you, did he hurt you? What happened—your neck! I’m going to kill that motherfucker, or did you kill him? Francis, what happened, are you hurt?”
Francis slipped the key into the cuff’s lock. Vitari flicked the handcuffs free and flung his arms around him. “Amore mio, you’re all right.”
He smelled so good, felt good too, solid and real and safe. Francis shivered, adrenaline wearing off, but there wasn’t time for him to crumble. “I’m fine.”
“Thanks to me,” Father Davis said, standing back.
“Who the fuck—you’re the priest. The other priest.”
“Father Riley Davis,” Francis said as he helped Vitari to his feet. He held out the gun, relieved when Vitari took it so he wasn’t tempted to use it on Davis. Not that he would ever kill a man of the cloth. Probably.
“Did you—did Sal… ?” His eyes asked the rest. Had Francis killed Sal?
“No, Father Davis hit him with a vase.”
“He was about to shoot Francis, I might add,” Davis said.
“Fucking priests.” Vitari chuckled, but soon turned serious. “Whose side are you on Father Davis?” he asked, checking the gun’s chamber. The wrong answer would see Vitari point that gun at him. “Little Toni’s or mine?”
“The Vatican!” He raised his hands. “I work for the Vatican! Always have.”
“What?” Francis and Vitari both asked together.
“Explain,” Vitari said.
Father Davis huffed and waved his hands.
“Quickly,” Vitari added.
“Where to begin… Well, with three bodies in an English church. Your church, Francis. No, actually, it began before that. With your mother, Vitari. The night Stefania Angelini disappeared.”
