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“Stanmore was good money,” Sasha said, sipping his vodka. “Easy money.”
Vodka boiled in Vitari’s guts. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t known, but hearing the man describe so flippantly how he’d been used like a possession… Worse than that—possessions were cherished. Vitari had been a piece of meat passed around at a feast for the rich, influential, and famous, and Sasha had made it happen.
“Stanmore made you rich?” Vitari asked, his voice thin.
“Stanmore built the DeSica, built a family like family Giancarlo took from me.”
“Is that what you think, you were family?” Vitari swallowed the bitter nausea, then thought better of it. He rolled saliva around his mouth and spat. “Vaffanculo a chi t'è morto.”
Sasha jerked, spittle dripped down his cheek, and someone gave a shout from nearby, one of his guards.
Vitari snarled, “You’re nothing.”
“You have five seconds.” Sasha’s cold, hollow eyes fixed unblinking on Vitari. “Leave or my men kill you.”
Vitari eyed the vodka bottle, wishing he could smash it over Sasha’s skull. He would have once, if he didn’t have Francis to think of, but he sensed the wolves circling, and he was not dying here because of old family feuds that should have ended long ago. He needed to be gone already, but not before he gave the Russian a message. “I will destroy you in this life and the next for my mother’s murder and the kids you killed.”
He pushed from the bar and plunged into the crowd.
“Your priest will be dead by morning, Angel!” Sasha yelled.
Vitari hurried off the gaming floor, toward the tunnel. Out of sight, in one of the quieter corridors, he checked his phone and hit END. The memo was twelve minutes long and contained the confession that would destroy Sasha Zhokov. Vitari hit FORWARD and sent the memo to Catalina Diaz’s number. She’d get it when she landed. He hoped it was enough. Slumped against the wall, he took a few moments to stop and breathe. It had to be enough.
He just had to get back to Francis, meet with Diaz when she landed, and it was over.
“Vitari!”
He looked up at Sal blocking the exit into the hotel’s corridor. His eyes were clearer and fierce with purpose, now his earlier binge had worn off.
Vitari straightened and rolled his shoulders. Anger burned his chest, but he swallowed its heat. This was not the time for a standoff with Sal. “Step aside, Sal.”
“Why’d you come back, fratello?”
“Brother?” Vitari snorted. “Brothers don’t fuck each other, Sal.” He glanced behind him. Any second now, those doors would open and the casino security, the DeSica, and the Battaglia would charge after him. He needed to be anywhere else, not fucking around with Sal. Even if the hunger for vengeance demanded he pay Sal back for hurting Francis.
Sal drew a gun from his jacket. How the fuck he’d gotten it inside the hotel, Vitari had no idea. Paid off security, maybe. Vitari’s weapon was still in the restroom trashcan.
Vitari snorted a laugh and started walking toward him. “You’re going to have to shoot me.”
“Don’t make me.” Sal spread his stance and cupped the gun.
“Make you? I’m not making you do anything. Walk away. It’s easy. I was never here.”
“I need that USB drive, Angel.”
Sal aimed, and Vitari stared down the gun’s barrel, slowing. “You don’t need it, your father does. Did he tell you what’s on it?” Knowing now how Sasha had been Battaglia made a whole lot of things make sense. Things like how Little Toni knew about Stanmore to begin with, and why he thought he’d be safe feeding his sick desires under Sasha’s protection. Sasha had once been trusted as a Battaglia underboss. He and Toni might even have been close… Might still be close.
But Sal wasn’t a part of that; there’s no way he’d sanction the sexual exploitation of children. Sal was not his father.
“Take me to the priest,” Sal growled.
Vitari stopped with the gun an inch from his chest. If he made a grab for it, there was a high chance Sal would fire. “I’ll break your fucking face before I take you anywhere near Francis.”
“I will kill you, Vitari, and find him anyway.” Sal licked his lips. “I don’t want this, but I don’t have a choice.”
“Yeah, you do.” He stepped forward, into the hard press of steel. “We are not our fathers, you know that, right?” If Vitari told him now the kind of man Sal’s father was, he wouldn’t believe him. The truth wouldn’t be enough. But Francis had seen something in Sal, something that made him believe he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger, and Vitari thought he saw the same now too.
Sal was fair. He fought for what he believed in. He’d befriended the fucked-in-the-head boss’s son from England, who didn’t speak any Italian and couldn’t stop getting into trouble, because he’d known, given a fair chance, Vitari would survive, thrive even.
