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“Kick them over here.”
Reluctantly, the guards obeyed. Vitari—still clutching Aiken—maneuvered closer and kicked the rifles under the couch. “Over by the window, all of you, go. Turn your backs. Hands up.”
They obeyed, albeit too fucking slowly.
“This won’t save you, Angel,” Aiken said through clenched teeth. “They know where you are.”
“You think I give a shit about me?” Vitari snarled in Aiken’s ear. “If he’s been shot, you have no idea the hurt I’m going to rain down on you. You hurt my priest, all bets are off. You fuck with L’ Angelo della Morte, you die.” He could feel it, the surge of power, the taste for violence, feel it bringing him to life.
Aiken knew who he was. The second Vitari let him go, he’d tell Giancarlo where they were and that Vitari was alive, if he didn’t already know.
Neo, back in London, had been right about one thing—his chances of fighting the Battaglia and DeSica were slim. But he’d kill anyone and everyone before dying on that hill.
“Francis?” Vitari called.
“Yeah.”
“Can you make it up here?”
He paused for too long. “Is it safe?”
“Mostly.”
“I’m coming up.”
Good. That was good. If he was coming up, then he could still walk. He was going to be okay.
Aiken writhed and Vitari dug the gun deeper. “Your life depends on how bad he’s hurt, so you had better fuckin’ hope he’s fine.”
“They will come for you eventually. You’re a dead man.”
“You should have taken the guns and left the money, Aiken. We had a deal. You screwed me over.”
He caught movement in the corner of his eye and spotted one of the guards making his way up the stairs, hands raised. Then Francis limped up after him, pistol aimed at the guard’s back, his expression determined. Blood soaked his left leg and Vitari fought the violent urge to pull the trigger and end Aiken.
“Where’s the other guard?” Vitari asked.
Francis blinked. His face was pale, freckles dark. Or were those specks of blood?
“He’s uh… He’s not coming.” Francis said. He jerked the gun, indicating his prisoner should join the others at the window.
There had been one more man at the sale—that prick was probably outside, guarding the truck loaded with guns and a whole lot of money they’d stolen from Vitari.
He glanced again at Francis. Shit, he was pale. “Where were you hit?”
“My leg.”
“I see that, Francis. Where?” He kept his voice level, calm, and controlled, despite the feral urge to murder the whole fucking lot of them. “Is it still bleeding?”
“I’m not looking,” he said, swallowing hard. He kept his gun trained on the third guard, like a fucking pro.
Vitari’s heart swelled. Father Francis Scott, the most bad-ass priest in the whole Catholic Church. All the dead popes would be turning in their graves if they knew. “It really hurts,” Francis added, turning whiter by the second.
“Yeah, okay. It’s going to be okay.” Vitari wanted to kill them all for this. He would have done, once. Before Francis. “What do you want to do?”
“What?” Francis glanced over, so wide-eyed and innocent that Vitari loved him even more, if that were even possible.
“You want to kill them?” Vitari asked.
