Shadow Rider (A Shadow Riders Novel Book 1)

Stefano’s fingers tightened on the nape of Francesca’s neck and he bent his head slowly toward hers. He needed her mouth. The taste of her. No matter what she said, no matter that he’d acted as if he was giving her a chance to get away from him, he knew better. He knew she was already lost. His. He’d never thought he’d really have a chance at finding a woman of his own, one he could love and center his world around, one who would accept him and his fucked-up life, but now that she’d stepped into his world, he knew he wasn’t about to let her go.

She should have pulled away from him. He’d told her the truth about himself and hinted at his world. He’d let her know exactly what she had to look forward to with him. She should have tried again to make her escape, but instead, she lifted her face to his. Offered herself. Her eyelids drifted down, covering that sexy, slumberous look that sent scorching arrows igniting the blood in his veins.

He took her mouth. Ruthless. Merciless. A little savage even. Hungrier than he’d ever been in his life. Her lips were soft, parting for him instantly on his demand, and his tongue slipped into her mouth. Her sweet, sweet mouth. Instantly his blood rushed hotly through his veins to pool low. Brutal. He devoured her. Taking everything he could get from her and demanding more. He would never get enough of her, of the way she kissed him. Giving to him. Giving him everything. She didn’t know what she was offering him. Trust. Absolute trust. Her body went boneless, melting into his, her mouth moving under the assault of his.

It didn’t matter that he was wild. Rough. That he was allowing the kiss to spin out of control. She just gave and gave to him. That got to him as nothing else could have. She didn’t think she had anything to offer him. He got that. She had no money, no family, nothing at all in her eyes. Yet she gave him everything because she gave him this magnificent gi

ft–her and her trust, when she had no reason to trust anyone, least of all him.

He had never had a woman who didn’t want something from him. He knew the score and he was all right with that. Francesca was . . . extraordinary. A gift. A miracle. She just gave herself to him. He was connected to her through their shadows and he knew how she felt. Frightened, bordering on terror. Still, he mattered to her. She saw him, not the Stefano the rest of the world saw, but the man inside who needed. Who didn’t want to stand alone. She gave herself to that man. And God help him, he wasn’t ever going to let her go, so he had to do this right. He had to give the best he could, certainly not ripping her clothes off and taking her the way his body demanded.

He drew back before it was too late, before he took her right there in the hallway on the floor. Before the roaring in his head became too loud and the need in his body took away every ounce of sense he had. Dimly, he heard the ping of the elevator and instantly, even with his body on fire and his cock so damned hard and full he was afraid he might burst, he turned, blocking Francesca’s body with his own, dragging his gun from his shoulder holster and tracking the elevator doors through the archway.

Ricco stepped into the foyer, followed by his other brothers, all of them, and his New York cousins. They looked grim. Determined. The truth was, he wasn’t surprised to see them. He knew why they were there. Francesca represented hope to them. Already, knowing that he was claiming her, she was family to them. They took family seriously. They wanted to know what had her spooked, why she would think she had to run. More, why she would think she had to protect Stefano. He also knew that if they believed he was in danger, they would pull out all stops to ensure his safety as well as Francesca’s. Any other time he would have been glad to see them, but the timing was poor.

“My brothers, bambina,” he said softly, turning back to her as he slid the gun back into his holster. “And two cousins from New York.” His cousins were the family investigators out of New York. “They will be asking you a few questions. If you aren’t comfortable answering, look to me. I’ll handle it. Understand?” Because even with his family, he would stand in front of her. Always. She didn’t know that yet, but she’d learn.

“I don’t understand.” Francesca’s eyes went from dazed and dark with need to confusion and wide with shock as she stared at the gun. “What questions? And why are you carrying a gun? Is that legal?”

He threaded his fingers through hers, his thumb sliding gently over her knuckles in a little caress. He felt her answering shiver. He could still taste her in his mouth, that particular addicting blend of Francesca’s passion and innocence. He tugged until her front was tight against his side and he stepped from the hallway into the great room to greet his brothers.

“You know the family, and this is Lanz and Deangelo Rossi, my cousins. This is my woman, Francesca.”

She nodded but didn’t smile, clearly very confused.

He didn’t tell her why they were there, that in his family, an investigator from another branch would help out when they were directly involved. He didn’t want to risk questions. She wasn’t ready to learn the family secrets. He needed to hook her deep, make certain she loved him enough to stay. She wasn’t there yet, and he wasn’t about to chance fucking his one shot with her up. He wanted the spotlight off his cousins. “Where’s Emmanuelle?”

“Someone had to be the sacrificial lamb,” Taviano said. “She drew the short straw.” That meant she would keep Eloisa, his mother, busy while they held this meeting.

Stefano nodded. “Anyone want coffee? Wine? Something else to drink?” He led Francesca to the shorter love seat, allowing his brothers to take the larger couches or more comfortable, deep armchairs.

Vittorio was already at the bar, mixing drinks for his brothers and cousins. He served his cousins first and then flashed Francesca one of his winning smiles. “What can I get you?”

She looked up at Stefano. “Am I going to need a drink for this?”

“It might be best, dolce cuore,” Stefano said. He ran his hand over the fall of soft hair tumbling around her face. “We have some questions that need answering.”

Her face instantly shut down. She shook her head, her hand slipping from his. She dropped her hands to her lap, lacing her fingers together tightly. “Stefano . . .”

“It has to be done, Francesca. We need to know what we’re facing. I’ve got my cousins looking into what happened and also into Anthon’s past, but we need to hear the truth from you.”

She shook her head again, glancing nervously at his cousins. They remained steadfastly silent. “How are you going to know whether or not I’m telling the truth? I told the police, the judge, my boss at the deli where I’d worked since I was sixteen, the landlords of two apartments, and in the end no one believed me except Joanna. Your brothers barely know me and your cousins don’t know me at all. Why would they even consider I’d be telling the truth over him?” She made a move to stand, getting ready to flee. “I’ve done this too many times. I don’t want to do it again.”

He stood solidly in front of her, refusing to give ground, making it impossible for her to move. She subsided back onto the love seat and he sat beside her, his arm sliding along the back of the couch, fingers settling on her neck. “Red wine, or would you like something stronger? Vittorio makes a killer margarita.”

She moistened her lips. He felt her body shiver and instinctively he moved closer to her until she was locked against him, thigh to thigh, her body beneath his shoulder.

“You have to trust me to take care of you through this,” he said. “I know it’s upsetting, but you have us now. You’re not alone. Anthon may think that, and he’ll make his move, but you won’t be alone ever again, bella. You’re mine. I take care of what is mine.”

“Ours,” Ricco corrected. “Famiglia.”

The others nodded in a show of solidarity.

Francesca’s hands trembled and Stefano put his over them, tugging until she let him pull one open palm onto his thigh. He covered her hand completely with his, pressing her palm into his muscles, holding it tight against him. She looked up at him for a long time, her gaze searching his. He knew what she saw. He wasn’t a man to lie. He was hard. Cold even. Tenacious. Ruthless, and when he had an enemy, without mercy.

He knew if it was just him asking the questions, she would answer without hesitation, but her gaze continually strayed to his brothers. She was uncomfortable with them there.

“We’re here to help you,” Ricco reiterated. “You belong to Stefano, so that makes you belong to all of us–even our cousins. We’re all family. That means something to us. Don’t be afraid. We’ll know the truth. Don’t you, when you hear it? Haven’t you always been able to tell when someone is lying to you?”

Francesca nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was very low and filled with reluctance as she made the admission, as if they would think she was crazy.

“Our entire family has that ability,” Ricco said. “Our cousins and our parents, an aunt and uncle as well. It’s a gift we deliberately chose to develop in our family, for generations, not just us. We’ll know the truth when you give it to us.”

Francesca’s palm pressed deeper into Stefano’s thigh. She knew Ricco had given both reassurance as well as warning, but she nodded and Stefano felt some of the tension ease out of her.

“I’ll have a glass of red wine. I didn’t eat dinner, and I’ve noticed even a small amount of wine seems to affect me. I’m a lightweight, but I do enjoy the occasional glass with dinner.”

“You don’t eat enough,” Stefano said, his voice gruff. A bit bossy and disapproving.

That earned him a flash of amusement from her vivid blue eyes, and then it was gone as she accepted the glass of wine from Vittorio. Stefano felt something move deep inside him at that intimate look. He knew it was meant for him alone. He’d never had that. Not once in his life. A woman who was exclusively his. Francesca wasn’t aware of it, but she looked at him with far more trust in her eyes than he deserved. She looked at him as if the sun rose and set with him.

“I’m not exactly thin, Stefano.” She ducked her head, looking at her wineglass rather than at him as if the discussion about her curves embarrassed her.

She had gone hungry for a long while. Truthfully she’d lost some weight, but he could tell that she thought she needed to. Women seemed to always think that way. He preferred curves to supermodel thin. He didn’t understand why women were so hard on themselves. Francesca was beautiful and he didn’t want a single pound to go away.

His brothers, drinks in hand, found chairs and settled, all eyes on his woman. He knew that made her uncomfortable so he kept his fingers around the nape of her neck and his other hand covering hers on his thigh.

“Tell us about Barry Anthon, Francesca,” Ricco said. “From the beginning. How he came into your life and what happened from there.”

Francesca glanced up at Stefano for reassurance and then carefully set the wineglass on the small end table, fearing she’d spill it on the gleaming marble floor. Her entire body trembled and she didn’t seem to be able to do anything about it, even when she commanded herself to be still. She didn’t want to talk about Barry Anthon, or relive the nightmare world she’d been dragged into two years earlier when Cella first met Barry.

She risked another look around at the faces of the Ferraro brothers. Vittorio and Taviano looked encouraging. Ricco looked downright scary. Giovanni nodded at her as if to tell her to get on with it. She felt Stefano’s body sitting next to her, yet he seemed to take up the room, surrounding her, in front of her, at her back. He was everywhere. Dangerous. Determined. Giving her a feeling of security. How he managed that she didn’t know. The fingers massaging her neck almost absently were mesmerizing. Without consciously thinking about it she eased back into them, seeking more. Seeking his touch while she gave them what they wanted.

“My sister, Cella, is–was–nine years older than me. When our parents were killed in an automobile accident she decided to raise me herself. She didn’t have to do it–she wanted to. She never once made me feel like a burden to her, even though it was difficult. We didn’t ever have a lot of money and we lived in a tiny apartment, but I was really happy.”

No one rushed her to get to the place where she met Barry, and she appreciated their patience in allowing her to tell it in her own time and way.

“I was working

at a deli and going to school. Cella worked at a beauty salon as a hairdresser. She did nails as well. Her shop was downtown, in a good location, which meant they had a lot of high-end clients. She made decent money and her clientele really built. Next to her salon was a very busy and popular coffee shop. One day she was rushing back to work, and another customer at the coffee shop ran right into her. His coffee spilled all over her. It was hot and she got burned. She dropped her purse, everything went flying and he knelt down and picked everything up for her, immediately took her to a boutique to buy her new clothes for her workday and asked her out. That man was Barry Anthon.”

The brothers exchanged a long look and she hesitated, and then glanced up at Stefano. “What?”

“He does that. He sees someone beautiful that he wants and arranges an ‘accident,’ where he can play the mortified white knight, and asks the woman out, sweeps her off her feet and gets her hooked before his true colors come out.”

“You know that about him?”

Ricco took a drink of amber liquid from the tumbler in his hand and nodded. “He uses it when he’s at parties. I’ve witnessed it a time or two.”

A little shudder went through Francesca. Unconsciously she pressed closer to Stefano. Instantly his hand went from her neck to her shoulders and he shifted her right against him before his fingers slid back beneath her hair to caress her nape.

“That’s what he did. Cella would come home laughing and talking about him like he was Prince Charming. I was happy for her. She was certain she was falling in love. They dated often over the next six months, although little things she wasn’t thrilled with began happening. First, he was introduced to me, and I didn’t like him at all. Not. At. All.” She enunciated each word. “He was too charming and he would touch me all the time. Stand too close. Breathe on the back of my neck. More than that . . .” She broke off, frowning. How could she tell them without sounding insane? She was already going to have to combat insanity charges when she told them the entire story.

“Francesca.” Vittorio leaned toward her, evidently reading her reluctance. “Cara, we’re all family here. Say whatever it is and let us decide. We hear truth. We told you that. We meant it, quite literally, so whatever you say can’t be much more bizarre than that.”

Absently, beneath Stefano’s palm, her fingers bunched the material of his immaculate pin-striped trousers into her fist, holding on for support. “I know how this sounds, but sometimes, when I’m standing a certain way and the light is just right, my shadow will connect with someone else’s shadow. We’re not physically touching. Just our shadows, on the wall, or floor. Wherever.” She bit at her lip and then took a slow sip of wine, taking her time putting the glass down. She’d started. Now she had to finish. They were really going to think she was insane.

“Bambina,” Stefano murmured, his mouth against her temple, lips brushing her skin. Breath teasing her hair. “No one is going to think you’re lying.”

She sighed and forced her shoulders straight. “I don’t know if that has anything to do with it, the part about shadows, but I just noticed that they were always touching when I would get this sensation. I could feel what the other person felt.”

The brothers exchanged another long look and she hastened to try to make her explanation sound better. “I can’t explain it, only that sometimes, I just know what a person feels. He would have slept with me, but he didn’t feel anything for either of us. Not me. Not Cella. Not in the way Cella thought. It was more like a cat playing with a mouse. He was playing her for his own amusement. He planned on humiliating her. Dumping her. That kind of thing makes him feel powerful.”

She waited for recriminations, but no one said anything. Ricco nodded at her assessment of Barry Anthon. That was the most she got from them. “I tried to tell her. It was the first time we ever had a big fight. She refused to believe me.” That had really hurt. She couldn’t understand why her sister wouldn’t believe her. She didn’t lie. She never lied. They were close. It didn’t make sense to her.

“After the fight we had, Cella noticed little things that upset her. Barry never took her out in public. He would attend fund-raisers and go to huge events where the media was all over, and he would take an actress or some celebrity. He’d tell Cella he had to, because it was important to get the maximum amount of coverage for the event as possible, but even at ball games he’d be photographed with other women. He would make little remarks to her, sneering at her clothes or shoes, or laugh because she didn’t know which fork to use at his club. She made excuses for him, saying that she probably was looking for something to be upset about because of the way I felt about him.”

Ricco shook his head. “I’ve heard him do that, put his date down. Make fun of her. Say things to take away her self-esteem. He does it to just about all of the women he dates.”

Giovanni nodded. “I heard him talk to a friend of his once, about how you put a woman in her place and she’d do anything to be with you because she knew you were better than she was and she was damned lucky to have you. He believes that shit.”

“Fucking asshole,” Taviano muttered under his breath, and abruptly jumped up and paced across the floor to the bar to pour himself another drink. “I despise that fucker.”

She nearly smiled, more because she realized all the brothers were alike, even down to their colorful language. And they seemed to believe her. At least they knew Anthon and had observed his behavior so what she was telling them wasn’t so far out of line they wouldn’t hear her the way the police and judge had been with her.

“You aren’t alone,” she told Taviano. Because, in spite of the language, if there was a person on earth who could be described with that one word, it would be Barry Anthon.

“Keep going,” Stefano instructed.

She took a deep breath, trying to keep the door in her mind from cracking open, the one where she relived finding her sister dying on the blood-slick floor of their apartment.

“She spent the night with Barry at his condo and she called me very late. She was upset because she said that he had talked to her about this multimillion-dollar fight that was huge, televised, a title fight that had been in the making for a couple of years. She wasn’t into the fights at all and she was a little bored that he went on and on about it. That evening he bragged about how much money he made betting on the fight. He kept repeating how he knew how to pick them.”

“The Henessy and Morrison fight,” Giovanni guessed.

Francesca nodded. “Those were the names. He was called to the door and he went outside with a couple of his men, who seemed to be upset. He’d left the door to his office cracked open. Usually it was locked. That was the one room in his home she’d never been in, so she peeked in to see what it was like. Cella told me she wandered around a little bit and then as she was going to leave, she was behind his desk and she saw a book open with names and numbers, and she recognized the name of the fighter who lost–the one Barry said everyone expected to win. It looked to her as if he had paid the fighter to lose. In case, she took pictures of the pages with her phone and then a video of the entries, and there were hundreds of them.”

“The book was just lying open on his desk?” Ricco asked, his voice disbelieving.

She bit her lip hard before she realized he wasn’t disbelieving what she was telling him, more that Barry was an idiot for leaving such a thing out, maybe for even keeping records, although she suspected it was for blackmail purposes.

“Cella said that he was in his office working late. He was interrupted by a commotion at the door and several of his men took him out where she couldn’t hear. She’d been in the kitchen cooking for him. He liked her to cook whenever she came over. Cella wasn’t the best cook. She worked all the time, but because I usually did the cooking for us at the apartment, she took the opportunity at his condo. She went into the bedroom and called me and told me she wasn’t going to spend the night. That she wanted me to call in a few minutes and say I was sick.”

Her voice faltered and she put her hand to her throat defensively. Already a lump was forming. Tears burned behind her eyes. She took another deep breath to keep from going

to pieces. “I should have gone straight home right then. I needed to study and I was already at the library. It was so silly really, how important I thought it was to do research for a paper I was writing.” She shook her head and had to swallow several times. Her chest hurt, her lungs burning for air.

“Just tell us the rest, dolce cuore–say it fast and get it over with,” Stefano murmured, his mouth once again against her temple.

“I called about ten minutes later and told her I was sick with the flu. She made lots of sympathetic noises and made her excuses to Barry. She didn’t realize he had a camera in his office and everything she did was recorded. When he found the door open, he looked at the feed and apparently saw her looking at the book. He went after her.” She tried desperately to separate herself from the rest of it, to be unemotional and recite the events as if they’d happened to someone else, but she couldn’t. Her voice shook, betraying her. She sounded strangled, close to tears and no matter how many times she took a breath, she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

“I came home late and the apartment was dark. The moment I tried to get in, I knew something was wrong because the door was cracked open. I could smell blood and I heard a mewing noise, like a wounded animal in terrible pain. The lamp was closest and I turned it on. Blood was everywhere. All over the walls, the furniture and the floor. Cella lay close to the couch, in a pool of dark red, her clothes red. Her hair was matted with blood. I ran to her, dropped to my knees beside her and tried to stem the blood and at the same time call 911.”

“All right, bambina,” Stefano said softly. “You’re safe with us now. He isn’t going to get away with this.”

“He was there. Barry was there. He had blood all over him. He didn’t try to deny that he killed her. He wanted me to know. He told me that she’d been stupid and that I’d better give him what he wanted. I could hear the sirens and he just walked out, as if it didn’t matter who saw him. In the end it didn’t. I told the police it was him, and they said he had an airtight alibi.” Her voice shook, turned bitter.

The two cousins leaned forward, almost in unison, instantly drawing her attention. She had forgotten they were there. For some reason, she didn’t mind Stefano’s brothers hearing her story, but the cousins didn’t seem as sympathetic. They were much more unemotional, although, she had to admit, not unkind.

The moment the cousins shifted forward in their chairs, their gazes fixed steadily on her face, every one of Stefano’s brothers reacted, hitching forward as well, but protectively. She felt that instant shield go around her. She looked around and saw that every shadow was connected. She was feeling the emotions the brothers were, and they were definitely protective of her. Stefano’s hand on her shoulder was suddenly different as well. His fingers dug into her arm, and she knew he was fighting anger.

His brothers hadn’t come here to hear her story; they had come to show solidarity. The knowledge hit her instantly and made her want to cry. They believed her on her word alone; it was the cousins she had to convince. She didn’t know why Stefano and his family had rallied around her, or had chosen to side with her against Barry Anthon, but she was grateful they had. Surprisingly, it was Stefano’s anger that settled her churning stomach. She didn’t want him upset at his cousins when clearly he had asked them there to listen to her story.

“He didn’t find her phone then,” Lanz said, making it a statement.

She shook her head. “But at the time, I had no idea what he was talking about. I didn’t for a while.”

“Continue,” Deangelo encouraged.

Her heart began to beat harder and a little faster. She turned her hand, the one on Stefano’s thigh, threading her fingers through his, needing his reassurance. He instantly bent his head, his lips pressed to her ear, right through the thick mass of hair tumbling around her.

“Francesca, if you need a break or this is too upsetting, we can continue later. We don’t have to do this now.”

She wanted to take that out. The rest of her story was a roller coaster of emotions. She had managed to tamp down the horror of her sister’s murder, the terror of the man she knew had savagely killed her. She was tempted to take the out he gave her, but looking around the room at his brothers waiting so patiently for her decision, knowing all of them would back her up, gave her the necessary courage to continue.

Francesca shook her head. “It’s better to do this all at once. If you want to know, I’ll tell you now. Barry Anthon is a monster and he does all kinds of horrible things and gets away with it. You have to know what he’s like, because if I stay here, and I think he’s already found me, he’ll come after anyone who helps me.”

“I believe you’re correct on that,” Lanz said, sitting back in his chair.

At once she felt the difference in Stefano and his brothers. The tension in the room eased and several of them lifted their glasses to their mouths, where before they had just held them without moving. They wanted Lanz and Deangelo to believe her. That meant the two cousins had the same gift of hearing truth when others spoke. They believed her. She hoped they would continue to believe her because no one else had.

“An older man was arrested for the crime. He walked into the police department and turned himself in. He had the knife and his fingerprints were all over it. He said he’d been drinking and followed her home. He had brain cancer and sometimes he would fly into a rage. He was remorseful. Crying. He pleaded guilty and died before he ever served time. I believe he did it in order to get money for his family before he died. He couldn’t even look me in the eye.”

“His name,” Deangelo said abruptly.

“Harold Benson. His daughter, Carla O’Brian, was with him. She works for Barry Anthon and has, apparently, for several years.”

Deangelo nodded. “That’s easy enough. It does seem like everything leads back to him. But there’s more, isn’t there?”

Francesca nodded, tightening her fingers around Stefano’s. “Barry came by about a dozen times. He’d just show up in my house. It didn’t seem to matter what locks I used–he’d be in there with a couple of his men. They pushed me around a lot and threatened to . . .” She swallowed and lowered her voice, unable to look at any of them, the humiliation and fear crowding too close. “Rape me,” she finished. “They would shove me down and rip my clothes, always demanding I give them what Barry wanted. They never said what it was, but I knew they hadn’t found her cell phone.”

The tension in the room was back and with it, oppressive, scary heat. The room vibrated with rage. Not just Stefano’s but all of his brothers’ collectively. That was a lot of anger to fill even that large space. Only their two cousins seemed unaffected.

“But you didn’t have it,” Ricco prompted.

“I had no idea where it was. I couldn’t have given it to them if I wanted to, which I didn’t. I knew they’d kill me if I handed it over to them.

“I moved and they tore up my place one night. Acted like a party had been held there. It looked like it. Holes in the wall, burns in the carpets, mirrors broken. I was at the library, but my landlord didn’t believe me. The more I went to the cops, the more insane I appeared to them. Two apartments later, the judge gave me jail time for vandalism and hefty fines. Along with that, I had to pay the damages for both apartments Barry and his men had destroyed. What little money I had was gone. Then my job. At that point, another arrest and a judge ordered me put in lockup for seventy-two hours in a hospital.”

“That fucking bastard,” Taviano burst out. “Was he there? In the courtroom?”

She nodded, the terrible knots in her belly unraveling at the reaction of the brothers and Stefano. They believed her. When no one else would, they believed her. Not her neighbors, not her boss, fellow students, teachers, all the people she’d known for most of her life. Not one had believed her. Until Joanna. Until the Ferraros.

Tears burned and she had to look away from the rage on their faces none of them bothered to hide. Rage on her behalf. For her. She didn’t deserve it, not after thinking they were an organized-crime family. They were standing up for her. All of them. She turned toward Stefano and buried her face against his jacket. Immediately his arms enclosed her, hiding her tear-wet face from the others.

“Are we about done here?” he growled. His voice actually rumbled, a deep, disturbing and definite warning. It was an order more than a question.

“She hasn’t told us what happened to the cell phone,” Lanz pointed out, not in the least intimidated by Stefano, although Francesca thought he should have been.

She was intimidated. Stefano could sound very scary when he chose to. The moment the words were out of Lanz’s mouth, the hostility in the room rose by volumes. Again, the Ferraro brothers’ reaction was what enabled her to answer without falling apart.

“She must have packaged it up and mailed her phone to our post office box on her way home. I didn’t check the box for a long time after because of everything that was going on. Most of our mail came to our house. We didn’t use that box for anything but packages and that was because our parents had done it that way. We kept the box for sentimental reasons.”

Deangelo nodded. “Some of the older generations still keep that tradition. I think it had something to do with bombs being sent when they were feuding.”

Francesca sucked in her breath. Cella and she had joked about that, teasing their parents that they were in trouble with the Sicilian mobsters. Both sets of her grandparents had resided in Sicily, as had every generation preceding them. It was her father and mother who had immigrated to the United States.

“I found the phone and knew I couldn’t keep it anywhere near me. By that time I was living on the street, but Barry’s men were always watching me. So I sent the phone to the only person I knew I could trust. I put it inside our mother’s jewelry box and wrapped that, put it in a box and sent it out of town. I knew if Barry killed me, at least there would be some evidence that I was telling the truth.”

“Why didn’t you take the phone to the police?” Lanz asked, his voice very, very gentle.

She swallowed the terrible lump that had been forming in her throat, one she’d barely recognized was there. But Lanz and probably everyone else in the room ha

d heard the way it strangled her voice. “They believed I was insane, or they were on his payroll. It didn’t matter which it was. I knew they would find a way to throw out the evidence and he would get away with his crimes like always.”

“We could take it to the police,” Deangelo suggested.

She shook her head. “No. Now, it’s the only reason I’m still alive. The moment that phone surfaces, he’s going to have his men kill me. He can get away with murder. I doubt if a little thing like a police station would keep him from destroying any evidence against him.”

“So you’d prefer him to walk?” Lanz persisted.

“No. I’d prefer him in hell,” she answered adamantly, “but men with the kind of money and power Barry Anthon has are untouchable. I’ve tried to tell Stefano that he’s dangerous and everyone around me will be in danger, but he isn’t listening.” She looked around the room. “All of you could get hurt. It really is best if I just leave . . .”

Stefano tipped up her face and slammed his mouth down over hers, effectively cutting off what she would have said to him. The moment he took possession and his tongue demanded entrance she was lost, the way she seemed to be always when he touched her. She felt him. His urgency. His hunger rising stark and brutal. Edging the kiss with danger. It was hot. Wet. Deliberately dominant.

She loved his kisses and gave herself up to him, pouring herself back into him, into his mouth, her arms creeping up to shyly circle his neck. She forgot about their audience. She even forgot who and what they were asking about because the world around her dropped away until there was only Stefano. His arms. His body. His awesome, perfect mouth. The taste of him she knew she’d never get enough of.

When he kissed her, her body heated, blood rushed hot, need pounded in her sex and thundered in her ears. There was no one like him and there never would be. Again, it was Stefano who slowly, reluctantly, broke the kiss. She was grateful he was reluctant, but she clung to him, wanting more. She stared up at him for a long time, lost in the vibrant blue of his eyes.

“You aren’t going anywhere, Francesca,” he stated, his voice low, but absolutely firm. “Not ever. You’re going to stay with me. Do you understand?”

She was mesmerized, completely under his spell in that moment, and it was impossible to do anything but nod. She didn’t understand at all. Not why or how Stefano would want her, but he did. There was no question about that now.

When she managed to look around her, Stefano’s brothers were grinning at her, not in the least giving them privacy or pretending to look the other way. Even the cousins were smirking, the tension gone, replaced by their smiles.

Ricco’s eyebrow shot up. “I’d say, little sister, you’re staying right here with us, where you belong.”