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Francis forced the tears away and steeled his heart and mind.
His angel would not die.
He believed it. So, it was true.
God owed him. For Stanmore. For a lifetime of Montague’s abuse. For the dead kids. For Vitari’s horrible past. God had to make this right, or damn Him to Hell.
Francis bowed his head and sobbed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Francis
Four Months Later.
“Padre, Padre, there’s a car coming up the hill.” Aldo raced into the bottling barn and skidded on the dirt floor. “Padre!”
Francis looked up from the bottle of wine in his hands. He’d told the young lad not to call him Padre, but ever since Francis had volunteered at the local church, Aldo had latched on to the idea Francis might be something more than a local wine maker.
“A car?” he asked in Italian and checked his watch. It was late, gone six. The vineyard rarely had visitors.
He glanced at the bottle-labeling machine. Hidden behind it, out of sight, a shotgun rested against the wall. It was only a car, no need to go for the gun…
He left the gun where it lay, and emerging from the barn, he shielded his eyes from the setting sun and scanned the hillside. A small car was indeed making its way up the track that threaded between the rows of grapevines. Dust billowed behind it.
“Go to the house,” Francis told Aldo as he started down the slope toward where the track met the front yard. A glance behind confirmed Aldo had listened and dashed into the house. The boy never did anything at half speed, always running.
He reached the end of the yard, where a small fence separated the garden from the vines, and placed the wine from the bottling barn onto the picnic table as the car rolled to a stop.
The engine died and Catalina Diaz climbed out, dressed in cream pants and a floral, loose-fitting shirt. She removed her sunglasses, smiled, and reached out a hand. “Padre, you look well.”
Francis gave her hand a shake. “Welcome. Yes, who knew being outside was good for your health?” They chuckled and traded a few pleasantries, but he couldn’t help wondering why she was here. He hadn’t seen her since Monte Carlo, since the chaos that had ensued after the hotel massacre. Of course, that wasn’t over. Not yet. The many trial dates against those accused of multiple crimes had been set for another six months, and he was, technically, in witness protection with a new name and a new life. Nobody from before was supposed to be here, which made Catalina’s visit unusual.
“Is this the wine I have heard about?” Catalina asked, noticing the bottle on the table and making her way over.
“Yes, the first run of bottles actually.” A thrum of pride warmed his chest as she picked up the bottle and admired the label. “Would you like some?”
“I shouldn’t…” She grinned with mischief. “But I will.”
“Aldo,” Francis called. “Bring out some glasses?”
Aldo emerged about three seconds later, running with two glasses and a bottle opener. He bounded over divots and tree roots, making Francis wince. Aldo welcomed Catalina by kissing her hand, and blurted how she was beautiful and he was delighted to meet her.
“Teenage Italians,” Francis half-apologized, watching Aldo sprint off again. “You get used to him.”
“He works here?” she asked, watching Francis open the bottle.
“He helps, some. His family doesn’t have much, so I offered to teach him about business, keep him busy and out of trouble. Although, I’m beginning to suspect he’s more into football than wine.”
They sat at the table. Francis poured the wine and tried not to stare as she took a sip.
She nodded, and her eyes lightened. “Bello,” she said.
He grinned. It felt good, felt… honest. He’d made something from the earth, cultivated the land, revitalized the farm’s mature grape vines, harvested them, invested in the equipment, and now all that toil was coming to fruition. It wasn’t going to make him rich, not in money. But the wounds in his soul had begun to heal.
“This is very impressive, Padre. The wine, the house. Your own business. Bravo.”
He laughed, a little embarrassed by the praise. “Yes, well, it hasn’t been easy, of course.”
