AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Francis saw where this was going and sighed. “He uh… Sal said something to me. He said, this time, we won’t miss.”
Vitari clamped his jaw shut, then squeezed his eyes closed and fought back the urge to scream. Because he knew exactly what those words meant, and it was the final nail in the coffin of his love for Sal. We won’t miss meant one thing. Sal had been behind the hit on Francis. He’d sent the assassin who had taken a shot at Francis in St. Peter’s Square, same as he’d sent the would-be assassin to the Spanish villa. He was the only one who had known where they were hiding out.
It was always Sal. His fucking friend. The one man he’d trusted, the brother he’d chosen.
“I’m sorry, Vitari…” Francis said. He stroked his neck and winced. “My files on Stanmore, the ones that were taken from my apartment in Westminster? Do you think Sal or his father took them, looking for the evidence that’s on that drive?”
It fit. All this time, Sal had been watching him, working against him, for Toni. Vitari doubled over, fists clenched on his thighs, and choked on betrayal. Sal had blown up the yacht in Puerto Banus, almost killing Vitari. Because he’d believed they knew about Toni’s snuff images from Stanmore and the dead boys from the back room.
Vitari would have been among those dead kids, if not for his father.
The father he’d almost killed, the father he’d hated and loved and lost when Neo had blown his brains all over Vitari’s face.
“I need a minute.” He left the room and jogged up the trashy hotel’s cluttered, filthy staircase that smelled of mold and piss and made him want to heave his guts up. He climbed three floors, but on the third landing, the stairwell closed in around him. He reached for the wall to keep from going to his knees.
The assassin had told him months ago who was behind it.
They’d almost assassinated Francis on St. Peter’s steps.
His father could have—should have fuckin’ told him about Toni, told him everything. But he hadn’t because it would have brought down the Battaglia. And Family was all. Except, it hadn’t been. If Family had been all, then Giancarlo would have razed Rome to the ground for Stefania, he’d have scorched the earth to get Vitari back.
His father was weak, just like him.
Vitari swung a fist at the wall. His knuckles struck concrete, splitting open. Pain shot up his arm. He hit it again. Pain felt good, felt real. How much it hurt was the only thing he could control.
Francis’s slim black outline hovered in Vitari’s peripheral vision. “Don’t…” Vitari braced both hands against the wall and bowed his head between his arms. “Don’t touch me, Francis.”
Scarlet blood dripped on the filthy floor.
Francis’s hand skimmed his shoulder, landing like lightning. Vitari hissed and reeled, needing to get away. He shoved, not caring it was Francis he hurt, not caring about anything, needing to lash out, to fight, like he’d always done. Francis didn’t leave though. He caught Vitari’s wrist, over the razor-wire tattoo, and dragged Vitari into his arms, holding him against his chest. Vitari hated him, hated everything, tried to push him away. But he didn’t want him to go, not really. He needed him, because if Francis let him go, he’d fall and never get back up.
He'd always been the broken boy in that back room.
He’d always been forgotten, alone in the dark, his knees bruised, with stranger’s hands on him.
L’ Angelo della Morte didn’t exist, and never had. It was all a lie to keep himself from shattering. Like he was right now.
He clutched at Francis’s cassock, clung on as though he could climb inside him and hide. “God, Francis, I’m so fucking scared.”
“Me too.” Francis’s arms encircled him, making him small inside them, but building him up too, piece by piece. “We’re going to beat this, you and me, Vitari. I know it.” His voice, so calm, and a little rough from his bruised throat. The calm voice of reason in the hurricane of his mind.
Vitari swallowed, his own voice long gone. He was just Vitari, he’d always just been Vitari, scribbling his name on a wall, afraid his initials would be all that was left of him. V.A.
A little boy, clinging to hope.
He pushed from Francis’s arms. “I’m uh…” he said, then slumped against the wall, head back, swallowing. “Just…” He held up a finger and swallowed more hot, wet saliva. “I might throw up.”
Francis leaned a shoulder against the wall beside him. “You can throw up on me. I don’t mind.”
He slid his gaze sideways, fighting nausea, and caught his shy smile. “It must be love,” he croaked, blinking through wet lashes.
“Yeah, must be.”
He’d told him not to touch him, and like always, Francis hadn’t listened. He was glad for that, for him. He needed someone who didn’t listen, someone he could trust, someone who would always hold him up when he fell apart.
“You want some water?”
“I’ll be all right.”
