AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Want me to stay?”
“Per favore.”
Francis nodded. “What grapes are we going to grow?”
“Huh?”
“In our vineyard?”
“Fat ones. What the fuck do I know about grapes?”
Francis laughed. “I assumed you must know something since it’s your idea.”
He knew he liked to drink wine. But that was the extent of his wine-making knowledge. “I tortured a wine-maker once.”
“Oh dear Lord.” Francis shook his head. “Did you torture how to make wine out of him?”
“Not really. It was more a… where’s-the-money-you-owe-or-die conversation.”
“Did you get the money?”
“I did, and a great bottle of wine.”
Francis’s laughter trailed off, leaving his sheepish, honest smile behind. The smile of a man who still wanted to help people, after all the horrors he’d witnessed, after everything the world had done to him.
“I fucking love you, Francis Scott.”
His smile tucked into his cheek, and Vitari’s heart swelled, filling his chest. “Fat grapes?”
Vitari shrugged. “The best grapes. We’ll make wine, drink it, and fuck all night under the stars.” It seemed like a stupid, far away dream, especially while they stood in a rank smelling concrete stairwell. But that was okay. At least he had a dream to hope for.
Francis sighed. “I suppose I can do that.”
Vitari gave a snort. “You suppose?”
“Yeah, it’s got to be better than gun smuggling.”
“You like guns.”
Francis frowned. “I don’t—” His eyes widened as he caught Vitari’s meaning.
“I know you like guns, Padre.” Vitari laughed, his heart free. “I’d kiss you, but you know?—”
“Nauseous? Yeah, no thank you. Definitely later.”
“Later.” Vitari ran his hand through his hair, then winced as his knuckles throbbed.
“Shall we fix that hand?” Francis asked.
Vitari flexed his fingers, regretting he’d lost it and lashed out. But it was done. He nodded, and step by step, they headed together down the stairs.
Inside the hotel room, Francis dabbed Vitari’s knuckles with antiseptic wipes he’d gotten from the receptionist’s first aid kit. Vitari watched him work, not really listening to his muttering about unsanitary conditions, just enjoying the sound of his voice.
“How’s your neck?” Vitari asked him once his knuckles were clean and wrapped in a soft bandage.
Francis danced his fingers down his neck, afraid to touch the bruises. “Oh, you know, sore… It could have been worse.”
He would have been dead if not for the Vatican’s intervention in the form of Father Davis. The American stood at the window, parting the stiff drapes to check the street. Vitari wasn’t sure what to make of him. But if he took the man at his word, then he’d been trying to do some good amidst all of this chaos. A little like Francis but with Vatican backing instead of flying blind.
