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Toni’s aim wavered. “I… You can’t hurt me, boy. I’m the Battaglia. The family is forever.”
“I used to think that.” Vitari breathed in, filling his lungs. His aim steadied and the screaming panic in his head subsided. “But without love, family is just a word. What we do makes us who we are. And men like you and me, we live as long as the bullet with our names on it. Stanmore is etched on yours.” Vitari tugged the trigger.
The gun kicked.
Toni jerked but fired too.
Vitari didn’t hear the shot over his own, didn’t feel its burn, just a numb punch to the chest. No bulletproof vest this time. But as Toni stumbled and fell, and Vitari staggered, it was worth it.
“Vitari!” He heard Francis in his head, heard him call out. Weakness washed over him. He dropped to his knees, dropping the gun too. But he didn’t need it anymore. It was good that Francis wasn’t here. But then by some miracle, Francis appeared in front of him. His warm hands touched Vitari’s cold face, his doe eyes were wide, and he was yelling from far away.
It was going to be all right, they were going to have a farm in the hills, filled with grapevines, they were going to make wine and everything was going to be fine.
“It’s okay, it’s going to be okay. I’m all right, Francis.” He tasted blood and touched his lips. Strange, how blood glistened on his fingers. “It’s all right. I’m okay.” Why was it so cold? “I love you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Francis
Vitari was dying in his arms and there was nothing Francis could do. Vitari said it was okay, but it wasn’t. His face was grey, his lips red with blood. “Vitari, wait, wait, don’t go… Stay awake.”
Vitari’s lashes fluttered. “It’s okay, Padre. I’m okay. I’m not leaving, I said… I-I wouldn’t.” He shivered, teeth chattering.
“Yes, yes, it’s all okay,” Francis said, echoing his lies. Oh God, no. Too much blood stained Vitari’s shirt under Francis’s hand. He tried to stem it, to slow the flow, but there was so much of it. “Help!” he cried. “Someone help!” But the people in the foyer stared, too scared to move.
“Vitari?”
Vitari mumbled something, but his eyes were blown, unfocused, glassy. Francis knew what this was. He’d seen it in hospital waiting rooms, seen it in the eyes of grieving husbands and wives, and now it touched him too. And it hurt, it hurt so much he wanted to scream. “Why, Vitari, why did you do this? We were almost there, we were almost home!”
“We are home,” Vitari whispered. “I see it. Don’t you?”
The tears fell now, and the sobs came. Francis tried to hold on, but the hurt was too much. Because he didn’t see their home, not like Vitari did. He didn’t see the end because it wasn’t his time, but it was Vitari’s. And it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. “Yes, yes, I see it. The vines, and the… the farm… on the hill. I’ll see you there, my love. I’ll meet you there, amore mio. We’ll be together there. Safe. Sempre.” He twined his fingers with Vitari’s. “Forever.”
“Padre Blanco!” a vicious male voice growled from behind Francis. “Face me, priest!”
Someone yelled “gun!”
Francis grabbed Vitari’s fallen weapon, twisted on his knees, aimed up at the man’s face, and didn’t hesitate, not for a second. He pulled the trigger. The gun kicked, and the man fell. Only then did he recognize him. Little Toni. Sal’s father. The gun skipped from Toni’s fingers, skidding across the floor, and the man’s twitching body finally stilled.
Doors banged. Police swarmed in. A dozen guns pointed at Francis. “Wait.” Vitari’s eyes were closed. Was he breathing? “Wait!”
Arms separated them, yanked them apart and hauled Francis away. “Vitari! Wait!”
Armed police muscled him against the reception desk, crossing his arms behind his back, cuffing him. Paramedics crowded Vitari, so he couldn’t see.
“Is he alive?”
Someone was telling him he was under arrest, telling him his rights, but he didn’t care about any of that. The words were meaningless. All of this was meaningless. He closed his eyes and prayed, begged. He knew God didn’t make deals, and Francis’s soul was surely worthless by now, but he offered it anyway. He’d send himself to Hell to save Vitari. If there was such a thing as divine justice, then God had to listen. He had to. Vitari deserved to live.
When they dragged Francis from the desk, he fought to see and caught a glimpse of the floor where Vitari had fallen. There was nothing there now, just a pool of blood.
Cuffed and thrown into the back of a police car, he bowed his head and prayed until there was no breath left in him.
What sin brought you here?
You did.
His angel could not die.
