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“Well, no, actually…” He stopped himself right there before saying too much. She was still smiling, as though she knew something more.
“How was your vacation to Panama, Padre?” she asked.
“Oh…” How did she know about that? She must have been watching him—of course she was watching him. But it was just a quick stop. There was nothing to suggest anything untoward had happened there, nothing… illegal.
“You didn’t stay long, just a single night,” Catalina said, sipping her wine, waiting for his reply.
“You’ve been tracking me?” Did he sound as guilty as he felt?
“We make it our business to have high-risk witnesses watched, Padre. Especially one who makes a forty-eight-hour trip to Panama.”
“It was just…” He waved his hands, groping for an excuse. “You know, memories. We lived there for a while, Vitari and I, and… I wanted to go back.”
“For memories?”
“Yes.”
“Not for the duffel bag you brought home with you?”
He clamped his mouth shut. Could she hear his pounding heart? Did he need a lawyer? Was she about to arrest him? He had done worse things than bring a bag full of ill-begotten Mafia money into Italy, like shoot a Mafia don dead in full view of a dozen witnesses at the Hôtel de Paris, and she’d managed to wrangle him out of those charges, since he was instrumental in the upcoming prosecutions. The farm, though… He couldn’t lose the farm and the business… And the money he’d gone back to Panama for, hidden under Father Federico’s church—he had no excuse for that. The money was dirty. But he figured he’d deserved it, so…
She chuckled. “I’m sure you bought all this with legitimate funds, Padre. Besides, money laundering is not my department.”
“Money laundering?!” he spluttered. “Oh, no, that’s not—I didn’t.”
Catalina’s eye wandered from Francis’s flustering toward a lone man trudging up the hillside. His unbuttoned shirt gaped, his tanned chest gleamed in the fading light, and under his arm, he carried a basket of grapes.
Francis sighed. Vitari was a rugged vision of masculine perfection and a welcome distraction from Catalina’s barrage of questions.
As he drew closer, it was clear he’d been in the fields for hours. Dust had settled in his dark hair and muddied up his creased shirt. The scar on his chest was a pale reminder of how close he’d come to death, so close to his heart the sight of it choked Francis every time he ran his fingers over it.
“I figure you wouldn’t be drinking our wine if you’ve come to arrest me?” Vitari eyed Catalina, and dumped the basket on the table, rattling the wine.
“Not this day, Angel.” Catalina smirked back.
“Francis, why do you look guilty as sin? What did she have you confessing?” His soft half smile tugged on Francis’s heart, pulling his thoughts way from the pain of Monte Carlo.
“Oh, nothing, it’s nothing…”
Vitari snorted, wrapped a sticky arm around Francis’s shoulders, and kissed him on the neck, but as he straightened, he whispered, “Shall I get the gun?”
“No, no!” Francis laughed too hard. “Definitely, not. Uh, no.” Goodness, Catalina was already suspicious, and now she was surely convinced of their guilt.
Vitari’s hand rested on Francis’s shoulder, a steadying anchor. “So why are you here, Inspector?” he asked, his tone closer to hostile than friendly. “Since we’re not supposed to see you?”
“They found Sasha, he’s dead,” Francis said, covering Vitari’s hand with his own.
Vitari stilled, absorbing the news, then lowered himself into the chair next to Francis. “You’re sure?” he asked Catalina.
“We’re sure,” she confirmed.
“It’s over…” he muttered and lifted his pained gaze to Francis.
Sasha Zhokov had never physically abused Vitari, but his influence had, and the horror of it showed on Vitari’s face in the relief. It really was over. Francis nodded and squeezed his hand.
“We’re going to need more wine,” Vitari announced, jolting from the chair.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to drink all the product?—”
