Plan B

Back at Sandfort Estate in the conference room, Nico stood at the head of the table, facing a group of soldatos. "This is a quick hit—get in, grab the boss, and get out."

His blue eyes scanned the room, settling on each man. No need to spell out the consequences of failure. Behind him, the door creaked making all eyes shift to Roman as he walked in. "This is family business," the dangerous growl in Nico's tone could have made some men feel two inches tall. "Go back upstairs."

Roman calmly pulled out a chair to sit. "I want to help."

In a few strides, Nico was nose-to-nose with Roman. "This isn't a game. You'll get yourself killed then what?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

It seemed Nico might have been considering physically throwing Roman out of a window. His jaw was wound so tight a vein bulged on his neck. "Why must you always be a stubborn ass?"

"I told you," Roman said slowly as if addressing a small child. "I want to help."

Realizing how futile it was fighting with this knucklehead, Nico's lips pursed into a thin line before turning back to address the room. "Alright, listen up," he barked to the group. "All of you know your roles. Timing is everything. If we're off only by a second this mission is dead. Once Sandro takes out the lead driver, we throw in the gas grenades. Federico, you move in quickly to bust the back door, secure the boss, and we're out." 

"I'm sure they'll have air support," Roman spoke up, interrupting. "How are you planning to deal with that?"

"We'll be long gone before they send a bird in the air," Nico shot back, but Roman didn't look convinced.

Nico gave one final look to the room. "Any other questions? No? Good, let's move."

As the men began to file out, Roman followed Nico to the exit. "I need a gun," he said.

"Not happening."

"I'm not going out there unarmed."

"That's because you're not needed," Nico was already halfway through the hallway. "Remember you're just my brother's mantenuto."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means know your place."

Roman stepped right in front of him. "Just give me a damn gun, Nico."

"Try not to shoot your own foot off." Nico slammed a Glock 37 into Roman's chest so hard it's a miracle he didn't crack a rib from the impact.

"Thanks."

***

An hour later, perched on a ridge overlooking the freeway, Nico checked the GPS for the sixth time, eyes glued to a red dot that represented Saint's convoy. "They should be coming into view any minute now," he announced into the comms. "Everyone, take position."

Roman's gaze was fixed on the underboss's every move. "You're doing this for show." It wasn't a question. "You want your men to believe you did everything you possibly could to get Saint out."

Nico laughed not bothering to take his eyes off the screen. "Are you high?"

Nothing about it was funny for Roman. "I know about your little surveillance room at The Qube," he added. "So what's the plan? Do we get Saint out, or do you let him rot in prison? You can't have it both ways."

What the actual fuck is this stronzo yapping about?

Nico's lips parted only to be shut off by Alessandro's voice coming through their earpieces. "I have eyes on the convoy."

Four SUV's following each other in a tight formation. Alessandro lay hidden in the shadows of pine trees adjusting the scope of his rifle, his finger poised on the trigger. "Ready when you are."

"Take the shot, assassino," Nico ordered through the comms.

The first shot was perfect. The windshield of the lead SUV shattered, and the driver's head jerked back violently as the vehicle swerved off road—slamming into a tree five meters away. The rest of the convoy screeched to a halt and agents poured out with guns drawn, shouting orders but they were already too late. Gas grenades flew in the air, exploding into a thick, white fog. Within seconds, the agents were dropping one by one, choking on fumes.

From the ridge Nico shouted, "Go! Go, now!"

Federico sprinted toward the second SUV, crowbar already in hand. With a grunt, he wrenched the door open and that's when he saw it—a figure in an orange jumpsuit, slumped over in the white haze.

"Shit," Federico cursed as he hauled the unconscious man toward the getaway vehicle. The whir of helicopter blades breaking through the fog above only made him quicken his pace. "The boss is secured!" he shouted into the comms as the driver floored it.

At the regrouping point, Nico stormed to Federico's Range Rover and yanked the door open. The prisoner who stared back at him wasn't Saint. Not even close. It was a bald, senior citizen with sunken eyes and a confused expression.

"Who the hell is this?" It was a roar filled with fury that silenced everyone. "Federico!"

"I thought—" Federico's words were cut off by Nico's fist slamming into his face. The crack of his nose echoed throughout the space making blood spray out like a geyser.

"Figlio di puttana!" Nico grabbed Federico by the collar and started shaking him. "You grabbed the wrong guy!"

"How was I supposed to know there was another prisoner in the convoy?" Federico's hands trembled as he tried to wipe the blood gushing from his nose. "I thought it was the boss!"

"You thought?!" Nico's face was turning into a deep shade of crimson. "You had one fucking job! One!" He swung at Federico again letting his body drop to the ground. "Did you do this on purpose? Did someone pay you off to leave Saint behind?"

Federico gasped. "No! I swear! I thought it was him! The gas—"

"Shut up!" Nico went for another punch, but was held back.

"We don't have time for this."

Nico pulled away from Alessandro, breathing hard. "We just left Saint back there!"

"Brooks screwed us," Alessandro met the storm barely contained in Nico's eyes. "He fed you wrong intel."

Nico's lips curled into a snarl as he pulled out a burner phone which he dialed with shaky fingers. When Brooks answered, Nico sounded colder than the arctic. "You set us up."

Brooks' voice crackled through the line. "No—you know I wouldn't dream of it, they decided to use a decoy last minute. I'm sending you the new route now."

A ping on Nico's phone confirmed the new GPS coordinates. He cursed under his breath seeing it was ten minutes away. "Regroup," he told the others. "We have a new location."

As the team scrambled to get back in the vehicles, Alessandro saw Federico lingering behind typing rapidly on his phone. "Who are you texting?"

Federico's head snapped up before he quickly shoved the phone inside his pocket. "My girlfriend. In case something happens to me. We're expecting."

The hard lines around Alessandro's mouth eased. "Congratulations," he handed him a handkerchief. "Here, clean yourself up."

Federico gave a weak nod and muttered. "Grazie."

***

This time around the extraction went smoothly. Within minutes, the team had Saint and racing toward a private airstrip where a jet was already cleared for take off. The second Nico had laid eyes on Saint he was kissing him on both cheeks and pulling him into a bone crushing hug.

Still groggy from the gas, Saint managed a loopy smile. "You're acting like I've been gone for a year."

"Shut up." Nico squeezed him tighter.

Saint chuckled softly, then his eyes finally landed on Roman standing a few meters away from them. As soon as Nico moved away, Roman strode forward and punched Saint square in the jaw. A collective gasp filled the air from the soldatos watching the scene unfold with big wide-eyes.  No one dared to touch the boss. Ever.

"Che cazzo?!" Saint stumbled back, eyes blazing with fire.

"That's for denying me visitation rights," Roman seethed. "You have no idea—"

Saint didn't let him finish as he roughly hauled Roman to his chest. For a split second, his whiskey-green eyes flicked down to the priest's lips which were firmly pressed together. "You don't need to hit me to get your hands on me, sweetheart."

Roman's face flushed instantly as unwanted heat creeped up his neck to his cheeks. Saint's grin widened. "Come on," he dragged the priest toward the jet. "You can pound me all you want when we get to Sicily."

A sound resembling a choking frog left Roman's throat. He didn't think it was possible for a man to turn any redder. As they boarded the jet, Saint glanced back at his brother. "You're not coming?"

Nico shook his head. "I still have unfinished business here," he simply said. "I'll join you in a few days."

"Take care of yourselves, all of you," Saint's eyes lingered on Nico and the rest of the soldatos until they were gone. "Looks like it's just us." He turned to Roman with a sly smile.

The jet was a far cry from all the chaos of the last few hours. So calm, luxurious, clad with soft leather seats. The flight attendant, a tall, poised woman, approached Saint. "These are for you, Don Bertinelli," she politely offered him a garment bag.

"Grazie." Saint set the new clothes on the seat next to him and started unzipping his jumpsuit.

Across from him, Roman's mismatched eyes were fixed on Saint. The jumpsuit slowly slipped off, revealing taut, muscular arms. He allowed his gaze to trail over Saint's body without restraint.

"Enjoying the view?"

Roman's lips twitched. "I'm disappointed you didn't get a prison tattoo. Thought you might have added a skull wrapped around barbed wire or something suitably intimidating."

That caused Saint to laugh—a deep, full-on belly laugh. "You think I'd brand myself for the feds' amusement?" He shook his head still fighting to get ahold of himself. "I don't need ink to be terrifying, cuore mio."

"Of course you don't," Roman's voice was like gravel, deep and rough like the rest of him. His eyes drifted over Saint's chest, pausing at his fresh bullet scar. "But you should know orange suits you, it brings out the color of your eyes."

Saint snorted as he slipped into his tailored pants. "Should I be concerned you have a prison kink, Roman?"

Momentarily taken aback Roman's mouth clamped shut. Did he? "Come here," he said quietly. It wasn't a command, though it might as well been.

Something about the way he said it made Saint instinctively move. Reaching up, Roman's fingers brushed against the scruff on Saint's jaw. Slowly, he pulled the man down until he was practically in his lap, faces left merely inches apart then he let his lips melt against Saint's soft ones in a sweet tender kiss.

When they finally pulled apart, Saint pressed his forehead against Roman's. "This could've been a better welcome other than clocking me in the face."

Roman groaned. "I wasn't thinking..."

A shuffle of footsteps made them both glance up. The airhostess awkwardly stood at the edge of the cabin. "Apologies for the intrusion Don Bertinilli, I didn't realize..."

...that your precious Don was tangled up in a priest's collar and halfway to confession? Roman nearly smirked at the thought as the phantom heat of Saint's mouth on his still seared his mind.

Saint waved her off not entirely letting go of Roman. "No, no. Go ahead, Macarena," he told her. "What do you need?"

Macarena—the hostess—clearly flustered but trying her best to maintain her composure wheeled a small cart with a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. "Compliments of the house," she uncorked the bottle and poured two flutes. "And if you're ready, I can take your meal orders."

"How about the filet mignon and mushroom risotto for me." Saint had to nudge Roman who blinked, completely caught off guard. He hadn't even looked at the menu. "Uh, same for me," he said, hoping that sounded reasonable.

"Very well, I'll bring it right out in a few minutes," Macarena said before exiting quietly.

The meal was served quickly, surprisingly so for gourmet dishes served at 35,000ft above sea level. It was yet another reminder of how Saint's world was totally different from Roman's. The man could get anything at the snap of his fingers, literally, and it wasn't even an exaggeration. When they finished eating, the plates were cleared, and Roman glanced out his window admiring the vast sea of blue. No clouds in sight.

"Ever been to the Mediterranean?" Saint broke the comfortable silence that had fallen between them.

"This is my first time leaving the States."

"You can't be serious?"

Roman let out a small, self-conscious chuckle. "Yeah. Never really had a reason to leave." Nor the funds to travel on a whim.

"There's so much to see out there. Beautiful places... things you wouldn't believe until you saw them with your own eyes." Saint went on and on about all the places he wanted to take Roman while the other man's thoughts wandered to what had been weighing on him ever since Saint was taken into custody.

He needed to tell him. Now.

"There's something you should know," Roman started and Saint's brow furrowed. "I found a surveillance room at The Qube," he tried gauging Saint's reaction but the man gave him nothing. "There was one monitor with live feeds from your apartment."

Saint stared at him for a long moment. "How long have you known about this?"

"I tried telling you that night at the club, but Nico was right there and I couldn't say any..."

"Cazzata," Saint stood up abruptly. "Allora you're telling me this now? Roman people have been breeching my privacy and you just decided to sit on that information?"

"I didn't just sit on it!" Roman growled. "I tried to tell you but the timing wasn't right."

After that Saint said nothing, his silence far louder than anything he could ever say. Roman hoped the tension between them would simmer once they were back on solid ground. But as they stepped off the jet into an SUV waiting for them eleven hours later, it was clear Saint wasn't letting it go.

Saint slid into the backseat his gaze fixed out the window and Roman followed, closing the door behind him. The driver glanced back at them through the rearview mirror after sensing the foul mood radiating off them in waves and decided to mind his business.

The silence was becoming unbearable with Roman clenching and unclenching his hands trying to keep his cool but failing. The longer Saint stayed silent, the more his frustration grew.

"Saint?" At the end of the day one of them had to be the adult.

Nothing.

He couldn't take it any longer. "You're really going to ignore me the whole time we're stuck here?"

Like a petulant child, Saint's gaze remained on the passing scenery.

"For Christ's sake Saint!"

"What do you want me to say?" Saint's eyes met Roman's mismatched ones with a cold, hard stare. "Thanks for finally telling me that my own brother is probably working against me?"

Roman let out a sharp breath. "I already explained why I couldn't tell you sooner. You don't get to play the victim when you were the one who refused to see me."

"Oh, so this is my fault now?" Saint's voice rose again. "I'm the bad guy because I didn't roll out a red carpet for you while I was locked up in federal custody?"

Roman glared at him. "That's not what I'm saying and you know it."

"Then what are you saying, Roman? Because right now, all I'm hearing is excuses."