Shadow Rider (A Shadow Riders Novel Book 1)

Francesca studied Stefano’s face. He was intimidating, no question about it. Even with the way he interacted with little Tonio, he had a look about him that demanded respect. More, he commanded the room. She was acutely aware that every single person in the restaurant had turned to watch them as they made their way to their booth. Even now, people were watching. They were trying to pretend that they weren’t, but she knew better. It was fairly clear that Stefano Ferrero was a well-known man. Liked by some, feared by others.

Still, there was an underlying sadness about him that she caught glimpses of, and everything in her rose to soothe him. Needed to do that. She wasn’t altogether certain how or why she came to be sitting beside him, but she was fascinated by his take on the people in the neighborhood. There was genuine affection in his voice when he spoke of them. She liked that he knew so much about them and seemed to care.

Up close, he was hot, hot, hot. A gorgeous man. She couldn’t believe how handsome he was. Tough looking. Confident. Even a bit arrogant, but one could forgive that when his face was so perfect. The angles and planes, the strong jaw and straight nose. His mouth fascinated her and she had to work not to stare at it. Twice she found herself doing just that and wondering what it would be like to feel his mouth on hers. A really stupid fantasy to have about a man she thought was mafia two days earlier.

Francesca was a little ashamed of herself that she’d thought that of him, even when he’d had a foul mouth and was so abrupt. Clearly she’d read the silence in the deli as something it wasn’t. It felt like fear, but looking back, she had been terrified of everything that day and probably had just projected what she was feeling onto the crowd in Masci’s.

She couldn’t decide if she liked his eyes the best, or his voice. His eyes were a beautiful blue, dark and mysterious, with long black lashes that matched his thick, wavy hair. His voice was soft, pitched low, a warm honey that moved over her, promising all sorts of sinful things.

“Francesca.”

His voice startled her right out of her fantasy. She blinked rapidly and brought him into focus. She hadn’t had time to go over the things about his body that appealed to her, but it was probably just as well. She lifted her gaze to his, and everything in her stilled. Stefano stared straight into her eyes, capturing her without even trying. He held her there–she was unable to look away. She was totally mesmerized by him.

Francesca felt his power. Felt a connection between them. Her heart stuttered and then began to pound. He leaned toward her, frowning. His finger slid along her skin, right at her throat, skimming lightly over the shallow laceration where the knife had burned as it went into her flesh. She shivered at the way the blue of his eyes darkened so intimately.

“This is obscene. Someone putting hands on you. A knife to your throat. I’m sorry this happened, Francesca. This is normally a safe neighborhood. We

have small things, petty, teenagers drinking too much and getting a little out of hand, but this . . .” He broke off, shaking his head.

Without warning he leaned into her and brushed her throat with his mouth. Her heart stopped beating. She was certain it had. She froze, unable to move. Unable to think because her brain had short-circuited. His hair brushed her chin and along her shoulder. She’d never felt anything so sensual in her life.

Her breasts ached. Needed. Her nipples pushed into the lace of her bra and suddenly the little lace panties she wore were damp. Her sex clenched hard. Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn’t move even to save herself–and she had a feeling she needed to save herself. She wanted desperately to run her fingers in his thick dark hair. She knew it was soft because the thick strands moved against her chin and throat. She blinked and he lifted his head.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “You must have been so scared.” His voice whispered over her like the intimate brush of fingers.

She touched her tongue to her lips, trying not to imagine his mouth on hers. “I’ll admit, I was afraid, but mostly because I didn’t want them to get blood on your coat.”

His eyebrow shot up. “You what?”

Her mouth curved in a rueful smile, although her heart hammered hard in her chest. “I didn’t want to get any blood on your coat. I was wearing it and when he cut me, all I could think about was that the blood might run down my neck into your coat.”

His eyes went scary dark. His face stilled. His fingers curled around the nape of her neck and he pulled her head toward his. “Are you telling me that you were so afraid of me that when a mugger put a knife to your throat, the thing you feared most was getting blood on my fucking coat?”

His voice had gone scary soft to match the devil shining in his eyes. Her heart jumped and then thudded hard. She was acutely aware of his fingers curled around her neck–of every detail of him. His warmth. His broad shoulders. His enormous strength. The way the pads of his fingers felt possessive on her skin. His scent enveloped her, surrounded her, until there was only him and the other people in the restaurant faded away. He was too close to her to breathe, the shadows in the booth enfolding them in an unexpected intimacy.

“Dolce cuore.” He breathed it.

She shouldn’t like that he called her sweetheart. She shouldn’t be sitting there with his hand curled around her neck. She was drowning, hypnotized by him. She’d never experienced such intense chemistry. She didn’t even know physical attraction could be so strong. He was like a magnet and she couldn’t seem to find the resistance necessary to break free.

“You’re far more important than a fucking coat.”

“It’s your favorite,” she whispered, shocking herself at what that admission implied. She’d been afraid of him, hadn’t she? Not attracted. Not worried that he’d be upset over his coat and she didn’t want that. Or that she’d come to love that coat and the way it made her feel.

“It’s a coat, Francesca.” His hand slid from her neck and he straightened, turning his head toward the interior of the restaurant.

She hadn’t heard anything at all, yet he’d been aware of movement in the pizzeria. She blinked several times, trying to come out from under his spell, out from under the web of sexual attraction.

“Your pie,” Tito said with a flourish, placing the pizza between them. “The house specialty. Enjoy.” He winked at Francesca. “You’ll think you’re in heaven.”

“Grazie, Tito,” Stefano said, shifting his body subtly to put himself once more very close to Francesca, his posture possessive.

Even Francesca saw the blatant warning. She smiled at Tito. “Thanks, it looks fantastic.”

Tito nodded, gave them both a small salute and slipped away, leaving her once more alone with Stefano.

Francesca knew she had to protest Stefano’s proprietorial behavior. She wasn’t in a position to have any kind of a relationship and in any case, she didn’t do casual. Stefano was way out of her league. She couldn’t imagine that a man like him would want to date someone like her. She shopped at the thrift store. He’d be appalled if he saw where she lived. She was appalled whenever she went to her little apartment, but still, it was hers. She knew she’d faint if she ever saw where he lived. His coat cost more than three months’ rent, maybe four.

Stefano put a slice of pizza on her plate. “No one makes pizza like Tito or his father. Benito Petrov is impressive. Big, like Tito, but that’s where the similarity ends. Tito smiles all the time. Benito is very sober. Tito’s sweet, and Benito is gruff.”

“How did Tito get to be so different?”

“He takes after his mother. She was the sweetest woman alive. They lost her about seven years ago to breast cancer. Benito had a difficult time getting over it. That’s when Tito stepped up and really took over the restaurant.”

“What else is different about them?” Francesca was curious, but more, she loved to hear Stefano’s voice. It was beautiful, perfectly pitched. Low. Sensual. She could listen to him talk all night.

“Benito is covered in tattoos, has one earring, is bald and looks like he would rip your throat out for a buck.” He laughed softly. “He’s a regular volunteer at the food bank and heads up the committee for fund-raising to help supplement it. He started a community garden with the idea that anyone could eat when they were hungry. He’s been working on plans for a greenhouse so the food can be grown all year-round.”

She forgot all about her protests and leaned on the heel of her hand, her eyes on his face. It was fascinating to see the way his expression softened when he talked about the neighborhood and its residents. “Where did they get the land for the gardens and greenhouse? I imagine that land here would be very expensive.”

“Take a bite. You don’t want to hurt Tito’s feelings. The land was donated.”

She knew his family had donated the land. She knew it instantly. She took a bite of the pizza and nearly moaned, it was so good.

He grinned knowingly at her, nodding. “Right? Superb.”

“I had no idea anything could taste this good, let alone a pizza. I might be spending my paycheck here.”

“On weekends, there’s a line to get in. Petrov and Tito cater to the locals so there’s an entrance around the side they open when the line’s long. They slip the locals in. A few tables are held in reserve so they can seat them as soon as possible.”

“This is a very tight-knit community, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Good people.” He touched the scratch along her throat with a gentle finger. “I hate that this happened to you. I’m very sorry, Francesca.”

She frowned at him. “Stefano.” His name slipped out easier than it should have. She didn’t care. She leaned close. “This wasn’t your fault.” That’s why he had brought her to Tito’s restaurant. He felt guilty. She felt such an overwhelming sense of physical attraction she’d nearly made the mistake of thinking it had to be mutual. He felt responsible. He watched out for the residents and someone had tried to mug her. “Please stop worrying about it. I’m perfectly fine.”

“I had my cousins watching over you, but I told them to hang back so you wouldn’t feel crowded. That was my mistake. Most residents are known. You’re new. Criminals stay away, but . . .”

“Technically, we left the neighborhood,” Francesca pointed out. Without thinking she laid her hand over Stefano’s. “You had no responsibility in what happened to me.”

The moment her palm curved over the back of his hand, she knew she had made a mistake. His heat seemed to fuse them together. Little sparks of electricity crackled along her nerve endings. She jerked her hand away, feeling as if she’d just gotten burned. Not burned. Branded. She’d laid her hand over his, yet she felt as if he’d captured her. Connected them. That connection seemed to grow stronger each time they physically touched.

“Any resident of our neighborhood should be safe anywhere they go in the city,” he said, his voice suddenly scary. “They blew half of Cencio’s face off. His own mother couldn’t even see him in the coffin one last time.” He sounded fierce. Guilty. As if somehow he was responsible for Cencio’s death. He sounded grief-stricken.

That was the worst. That a man like Stefano, so arrogant, so confident, strong and absolutely a rock could be so shaken. She couldn’t help herself. She shook her head, her eyes meeting his. She had to take that pain from him, she didn’t know why, but she had no choice. “I know what grief is, Stefano. To suffer the loss of a loved one through murder. To feel responsible when really, there was nothing I could have done. You can’t look out for every single person in your neighborhood. It’s impossible. You aren’t responsible for me or the attack on me.” Her voice was soft, persuasive.

She couldn’t believe she’d given away what she had. She didn’t talk about her past; she didn’t dare. Still, she had to take the pain from his eyes. Her heart hurt just looking at the pain.

His eyes changed. Focused completely on her. Saw too much. Took her breath. Made her heart flutter and her stomach do a slow roll.

“Someone you loved was murdered?”

She nodded. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I just don’t want you to think that you have to protect the entire world because your friend died. You can’t, Stefano.”

“Not the entire world, Francesca.” He picked up her hand and idly played with her fingers.

She should have pulled her hand away, but she couldn’t make herself be that mean, not when she was trying to make him see reason. It was just that, with his fingers moving through hers, brushing along and between them, her body reacted, making her all too aware of secret places and a growing hunger–for him.

“Just my neighborhood. Just the people in my world. Someone has to look after them, and that’s my job.”

She wanted to cry for him. It was no wonder that that first time he’d walked into Masci’s he’d seemed so alone. So remote. He had taken on an impossible task, even to the point of looking out for a total stranger. She shook her head and reached for the wineglass, needing to do something to counteract the empathy and awareness of him.

“Where is your family?” he asked.

She knew sooner or later he’d ask. It was a natural enough question. “I don’t have any family. My parents died in a car wreck when I was fourteen. I didn’t have any aunts or uncles or grandparents. You have a big family, but it was just my sister, Cella, and me. She was older by nine years so she raised me.”

There was a silence. He leaned back in the booth, hi

s arm sliding along the back of the seat. “Are you telling me Cella was the one murdered?” There was an edge to his voice.

“I don’t like to talk about it.” She took another sip of wine. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“You were trying to make me feel better. That just pisses me off. Someone fucking murders my best friend, Cencio, as he walks out of a theater, and someone murders your only sister.”

The vibe around them got a little scary, as if his anger was so oppressive it could weigh down the entire room.

“Was it random? A stranger?”

Like Cencio? he was asking. She shook her head before she could stop herself. How had she allowed such personal information to slip out? They’d been having a good conversation, and just like that she’d ruined the mood. Stefano was intense. His anger was intense. He’d gone from being sweet and easygoing to vulnerable and then dangerous in the space of a couple of minutes.

“I’m sorry I spoiled the mood,” she said, trying to backpedal. “You were relaxing and I just . . .” She broke off when his fingers went to her neck, massaging the knots there, in an effort to ease the tension out of her.

“You didn’t kill the mood, Francesca. You were trying to help me and I appreciate it. Very few people would have even seen that I’m still carrying that load around with me. I appreciate you sharing.”

His voice was very low. Intimate. His eyes met hers and her stomach did another somersault. He was just plain beautiful.

“Signore Ferraro,” a voice called from across the room.

She saw impatience cross his face, but it was swiftly masked. When Stefano turned to see the woman standing in the doorway, a good distance from them, he did so with a smile. The woman looked every day of eighty. She was short and a little bent, her skin thin and her face still beautiful in spite of the few wrinkles proclaiming she’d lived her life. She wore a long black dress and matching shawl and she wrung her hands together as she hurried through the restaurant toward them, weaving her way through the tables and ignoring Berta, who tried to stop her.

Stefano raised his hand to Berta and she skidded to a halt and then went back to her station. Stefano rose as the older woman made it to them. He towered over her, settling his arm around her shoulders with a gentleness that took Francesca’s breath. No one would ever guess that he was the least bit impatient with the interruption. To Francesca’s dismay the woman had tears in her eyes and her lips trembled.

“Signora Vitale, you’re upset. Please sit for a moment and join us. Have a glass of wine.” There was nothing but solicitation in Stefano’s voice.

He held up his wineglass toward Berta, who clearly had been watching along with everyone else in the restaurant. She hurried toward them and placed another wineglass on the table as Stefano helped the older woman into the seat across from Francesca.

“Signora Vitale, may I present Francesca Capello? Francesca, this is Theresa Vitale, a dear friend of mine.”

Francesca loved how gentle his hands were when they touched the older woman, pushing the glass of wine into her hand and keeping contact with her. More, his voice was soft with affection. She murmured a greeting, knowing the woman barely registered her presence. Signora Vitale’s entire attention was centered on Stefano.

“Drink that and then tell me what has upset you.”

Theresa took the wine in shaking hands and obediently took a sip. Francesca couldn’t imagine anyone disobeying Stefano, not even a woman of Theresa’s age. He might be gentle, but there was no mistaking that he was the absolute authority.

“Perhaps I should leave, give you privacy,” Francesca ventured.

Stefano’s fingers slid around her wrist, shackling her to him. “No. Stay. Please.”

Her heart fluttered at the soft please. He had issued a command to her, but then he’d added that one little word that changed everything. She nodded, and he relaxed his hold on her. Instead of shackling her, the pad of his thumb brushed intimately along her inner wrist.

For the first time, Theresa looked at Francesca, dropped her gaze to Stefano’s fingers around her wrist and then her eyes went wide as she looked at his face. “I’m interrupting something important.” A fresh flood of tears came and she rocked herself back and forth.

“Francesca doesn’t mind any more than I do, Theresa,” he said gently, using her given name. “Do you, bambina?” he asked, his eyes on hers.

“Of course not,” she immediately replied. “Please don’t be distressed.”

Theresa drank her wine and placed the empty glass directly in front of Stefano. Still keeping his hold on Francesca, he obliged Theresa by pouring her more.

“It’s my grandson, Bruno,” Theresa confessed, her voice very low. “He’s in trouble again.”

Stefano sighed and sank back against the booth, his thigh brushing Francesca’s. He brought her hand to his mouth, nibbling on her fingertips absently, as if he had forgotten it was an actual flesh-and-blood hand. The feel of his mouth on her skin was even more intimate than when his thumb had brushed her inner wrist. The ache in her breasts increased and her body responded with more damp heat. His eyes were hooded, impossible to read, but Francesca had the feeling he was exasperated with the conversation, not at all aware of the explosive chemistry she was feeling.

“What kind of trouble this time?”

Theresa took another gulp of wine, looked left and right and then lowered her voice. “Drugs,” she whispered. “I think he’s selling them for someone and I think the police are watching him. He can’t get arrested again. He just can’t.”

Stefano didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Around them, the air got heavier. Darker. Francesca felt the scary vibe he gave off. She knew immediately that Theresa’s grandson was in far more trouble with Stefano than he would have been with the police. Theresa didn’t seem to notice, but the rest of the people in the room did. Heads turned and conversation grew muted.

“What do you want me to do, Theresa?” he asked, the tone pitched very low. His voice was devoid of all feeling. His face was set in hard, implacable lines. Expressionless.

Francesca gently tried to pull her hand away, mostly because she was so aware of him, she couldn’t think straight. His fingers tightened around hers and he bit down with his strong white perfect teeth. The little bite of pain sent a streak of fire straight to her sex. He pulled the finger into his mouth, his tongue curling around the bite, soothing the sting.

She froze. He wasn’t looking at her. She wasn’t even certain he knew she was there. His entire focus seemed to be on the older woman.

“You have to talk to him, Stefano. You have to talk to him,” Theresa repeated. “If he gets caught, he’ll go to prison this time. He’s a good boy. He needed a father. My daughter, she was no good. You know that. Always the drugs with her. She just left him, and then my beautiful Alberto died and there is only me. I pray, but God is not listening to me. You have to, Stefano.”

Francesca stopped trying to pull her hand away. Her heart hurt for Stefano. Everyone expected him to take care of their problems. It was clear this wasn’t the first time Theresa had come to Stefano and Francesca was certain it wouldn’t be the last. He carried a terrible weight on his shoulders.

“Bruno is twenty-four years old, Theresa. No one can stop him from doing what he wants. I’ve talked to him.”

Theresa took a deep breath. “You haven’t made yourself clear.”

There was a long silence. The air was suddenly charged with tension. Most of that was coming from Stefano, but Theresa looked both scared and nervous.

“Are you certain you know what you’re asking me, Theresa?” Stefano’s voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper. Gentle. Still, it was somehow very menacing.

The old lady nodded. “He has to know there are consequences. It is the only way. Nothing has worked.”

“There is no taking it back.”

“I understand.”

Francesca didn’t. She was missing something big. Huge. Whatever Signora Vitale was asking for, Stefano was reluctant to do. She moved closer to him, wanting to comfort him. She didn’t understand why, especially since his scary persona was back. As he sat there in his pin-striped suit

with his expressionless mask and flat, cold eyes, she could understand why she’d first thought he was in the mafia. No Hollywood movie would ever find a better man to play the part.

Theresa held his eyes for a long time. Stefano lowered his long lashes as if weary beyond measure and then he lifted them. “Bambina, I’m sorry.” He leaned into Francesca and brushed a kiss over her forehead. At the same time, still holding her hand, he slid his index finger out and drew a soothing line along the scratch at her throat. “I had planned to walk you home, make certain you were safe, but I’m going to have to take care of this.”

“That’s all right. I can get home by myself.” Francesca could see the reluctance to leave her in his eyes. He really didn’t want to go and that made some small part of her very satisfied, even though the bigger part of her knew she was being a little delusional in thinking his concern could be anything but fear for her safety.

He shook his head as he lifted his hand to Berta and she came running. “Put this on my tab,” he said to the woman. He left two twenty-dollar bills on the table as he rose, a huge tip, and held out his hand to assist Theresa Vitale in rising. “My cousins will be waiting outside for you, Francesca. Please allow them to see you home.”

She smiled at him. “It’s unnecessary.”

“I disagree.”

His tone told her not to argue. His eyes and the hard look on his face told her the same. He was a scary man to defy, but she might have argued just on principle if she hadn’t seen him so vulnerable over his friend’s death. If she hadn’t figured out that he needed to protect everyone around him.

“All right then,” she conceded, not sounding very gracious. She’d enjoyed their talk together far more than she’d expected and she liked him much better than she had thought possible. Maybe too much. She’d certainly told him too much about herself. She was especially grateful that when she’d made that mistake, he hadn’t pried further. “Oh no. Stefano, your coat.”

He shrugged. “Did you get yourself a coat?”

She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. He wouldn’t like that. He’d specifically told her to buy a coat. It was just that all the ones in the neighborhood were expensive. She wasn’t going to use his money for a coat. “I’m saving for one.”

“Francesca.” There was warning in his voice. “Look at me.”

“Go. You have things to do.”

His fingers caught her chin and tipped her face up to his. “Nothing is more important to me. Get. A. Fucking. Coat.”

It was difficult to look into his eyes and not give him anything he wanted, even when he swore the way he did. “Stefano.”

“Francesca.”

He actually growled her name. She didn’t think a person could make that particular sound, but he managed it. Everyone in the restaurant stared at them. Waiting. Horrified at her defiance. She knew they couldn’t possibly hear the exchange, but they could read body language and see that Stefano Ferraro was not happy with her.

He sighed. “Wear my coat home and be warm. I’ll come by later this evening and see you.”

Her heart plunged. He couldn’t possibly come to her apartment building. The place would fall down if he walked into it. She didn’t live in Ferraro territory. Joanna had explained the boundaries to her, and her apartment building definitely fell outside of it. Surely he didn’t mean he would come to her apartment?

“Give me your cell. I’ll put my numbers in.”

This time her heart started pounding. She didn’t have a cell, and she knew instinctively he wouldn’t like that, either. It must have showed on his face because he swore savagely in Italian.

“Really? Damn it, Francesca. Do you know the first fucking thing about self-preservation?” His blue gaze glittered dangerously with pure menace.

Her stomach tightened. He was scary. Plain scary. Anger radiated off of him in waves. There he was. The man she’d first met. The man capable of just about anything–excepthis anger was over her safety and she understood him better.

“Some things have to be a priority, Stefano,” she said in a low voice, determined not to match his anger because she was embarrassed over her circumstances. “Like food and shelter. Even if I could save the money for a cell phone, I’d have to have a monthly plan. That costs money. I’m just getting on my feet.”

She tried to sound matter-of-fact. She didn’t want him to think for one moment that she was complaining. For the first time in a long while she had hope. She had a job where she earned better money than she had thought she would. She liked the job and the neighborhood. She had a roof over her head. She didn’t want him to feel responsible for her. She was responsible for herself.

He took a deep breath and, to her shock, nodded his understanding. His fingers left her chin. “I’ll catch up with you later.” Abruptly he turned and, slipping his hand under Theresa’s elbow, led her out.

Francesca sank back down into the seat. She was exhausted. Totally. Going up against Stefano Ferraro was a bit like going up against a force of nature. She felt a little battered and bruised and yet he’d been very gentle when he touched her.

She picked up her wineglass and took another sip. It was excellent wine. She couldn’t remember if she’d told him so. She hadn’t remembered to thank him for the meal–and it was a fantastic meal. If her stomach hadn’t shrunk so much she would have eaten far more. As it was, she was taking the rest of the pizza home with her. No way was she wasting it.

“Hey, girl!” Joanna slid into her booth. “Wow. Can I just say wow?”

“Where did you come from?” Francesca asked. She looked past her friend but she was alone.

“Eating with Stefano Ferraro? You didn’t tell me you had a date.”

“It wasn’t a date. He wanted to talk to me.”

“About?” Joanna prompted, and helped herself to a slice of the pizza. “Was this his glass? Because I’m totally drinking out of it. If you know where his lips touched, just point out the spot and I’m all about setting my lips right over his. He’s that hot.”

Francesca burst out laughing. Joanna had brought back fun into her life. She’d forgotten what fun was.

“I stopped by the deli and Zio told me Stefano had kidnapped you. It’s so romantic. I have to admit, I stalked the two of you, just to see how things were going. The Ferraros always sit back here and it’s hard to see them in the booth. They kind of disappear into the shadows. You did, too, so even though I bribed Berta with three dollars–that’s all I had–and she’s my friend–I couldn’t get seated close enough to the two of you to eavesdrop. So not fair.” She picked up the wine bottle and read the label. “Oh. My. God. Of course he got you this. It’s like the most expensive bottle I’ve ever heard of and there’s not a drop left.”

Francesca handed over her wineglass immediately. “I’ve had too much. It really is that good. But so is the pie.”

“Tito and Benito are the best. You can totally have an orgasm eating their pizza. But if I’d been sitting that entire time with Stefano, I would have had, like, ten orgasms. He smolders with sex. He walks into a room and doesn’t have to say or do anything.”

“His voice can do it, too,” Francesca confessed, and then covered her mouth. She’d had way too much wine to give that away.

Joanna laughed and then took a slow sip of the wine from Francesca’s glass. Her eyes closed and she moaned. “I’m in heaven right now. This has been the best day.”

“Really? Aside from your perving on Stefano Ferraro, what else happened?”

“I got a call from”–Joanna leaned close for dramatic effect–“Emmanuelle Ferraro. Can you believe that?”

“Stefano’s sister?”

Joanna nodded solemnly. “She’s the baby in the family. Can you imagine having five big brothers like hers? All of them are like Stefano. Definitely in charge. She never dates, but then I don’t think there’s a man on earth who would dare try it. They’d probably disappear, never to be found.”

Francesca went still. “Joanna, seriously. You have to tell me the truth. Are the Ferraros a mafia family?” Because she actually liked Stefano. He’d given away so much about himself, and she liked what he’d given away.

Joanna glanced around the room. “It’s not a good idea to talk about things like that, Francesca. Not ever. The Ferraros are different.”

“Joanna,” Francesca warned. “You’re my friend. I’m not going to talk about it to anyone else. I’m talking to you.”

Joanna sighed, took another sip of wine and then shrugged. “I don’t honestly know. They could be. I know they’ve been investigated but nothing was ever proved against them. The family is very powerful internationally and they have like a bazillion cousins. Not just here, but all over the United States and Europe. No one has ever found anything on them, but people are afraid of them. Not us. Not here in their territory, but others. I don’t know,” she finished. “It’s possible. Maybe even probable.”

Francesca sighed. It wasn’t an answer. It was speculation. She knew better than anyone how rumors got started and became truth in everyone’s mind. She wasn’t going to do that to anyone, believe gossip without proof. Still, she had to be wary.

“So tell me about Emmanuelle’s phone call,” she prompted.

“She said Giovanni told her about how I couldn’t get into their club and she wanted to personally invite me to go with her and her cousins. She said I could bring anyone I wanted along. I thought I could ask Mario Bandoni–you know, you met him. He manages the shoe store. I already mentioned it to him and he seemed receptive.” Her words tumbled over one another, and she leaned toward Francesca. “I’ve liked him forever. Even in elementary school. He was always so popular and I could never make myself make a play for him because I really, really liked him. I thought you could go and it wouldn’t seem like I was asking him on a real date. Just casual, you know, a big crowd.”

“Joanna, if you’re going with Emmanuelle and her cousins, that’s already a crowd.” Francesca didn’t want to let her down, but she couldn’t go to a hot nightclub in her holey jeans.

“But not my crowd. I don’t run in her circles, and neither does Mario. We’re acquaintances, but not real friends. They aren’t just rich, Francesca–they’re ultrawealthy. I like them, but I’m not comfortable with them. I can’t imagine that they’re going to hang around with me in a nightclub. They’ll be sitting in the VIP section and I’ll be down on the floor, trying not to be tongue-tied with Mario.”

“Honey,” Francesca said softly. “You’re never tongue-tied with men.”

A thread of unease crept through her and she glanced up to look ar

ound the restaurant. Her gaze collided with a man’s. He was across the room, standing by the hostess booth. A shiver went down her spine. He was medium height, but powerfully built. Wide shoulders, a thick chest. He had the body of a prizefighter. He wore his hair cropped close. From the distance she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, but his mouth was set in a forbidding scowl. He looked vaguely familiar.

Berta said something to him and he instantly turned his attention to her, smiling down at her. Francesca sighed and forced her gaze back to her friend. She was just being overly paranoid. She was hundreds of miles from California. No one knew where she was. She’d covered her tracks fairly well. She took a breath and turned her full attention back to Joanna, having missed her reply.

“What did you say?”

“I said, you’ve never seen me around a man I really, really like. I make a total fool of myself. Please, Francesca. Do this for me. I’ll help find you something to wear. I can even help pay . . .”

“Don’t,” Francesca cautioned. “You’ve done enough for me. You want me to go, I’ll find a way.” Hopefully she could find something decent at the thrift shop. If not, she might have to dip into the money Stefano had left with her and that would be humiliating. She wanted to return the money along with the coat when she saw him next.

“Thank you, Francesca. This means the world to me,” Joanna said happily.

“Are you ready? I have to retrieve Stefano’s coat before your uncle closes up for the night.”

Joanna laughed again. “You and that coat.”

“Right? It’s the bane of my existence.”

Francesca followed Joanna from the pizza parlor. Joanna called a greeting to several people and waved toward the kitchen as they made their exit. The boxer–as Francesca thought of him–seemed to be waiting for a to-go order. She kept her eye on him just in case, but he didn’t appear to pay any more attention to her.

Emilio and Enzo lounged by the door, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes at them. They both grinned and put away their cell phones when she emerged.

“You cold?” Emilio asked.

She shook her head. Lying. The restaurant had been warm and the evening was very cool, but she knew if she admitted she was, Emilio would have whipped off his coat and then she’d be responsible for two of the darn things. Everyone seemed obsessed with her lack of a coat.

“Hey Emilio. Enzo,” Joanna greeted. “Out for a stroll again tonight?”

“Got orders, Jo,” Enzo said. “You two troublemakers decide you’re going to rob the jewelry shop, we’ve got orders to stop you.”

“So not fair! I’ve had my eye on a diamond bracelet,” Joanna declared.

“Sorry, girl. You’re going to have to give up that particular dream,” he said.

The door opened behind them and Francesca glanced over her shoulder. The boxer had emerged carrying a small box. He looked toward them and then abruptly turned the other way and walked unhurriedly down the street. When she turned back, Emilio was watching her. He raised his gaze to follow the man’s departure.

“Someone you know?” he asked. Low. Lethal.

He sounded just that little bit like Stefano. Definitely a relative. She shook her head. “I’m just a little jumpy.” She touched her throat deliberately. The last thing she wanted was for Emilio to report an innocent man to Stefano. She didn’t know what he might do, but she was leery. Until she knew what he was, criminal or just a very overprotective man, she was going to be very, very careful.

“We’re walking with you, Francesca,” Emilio said. “No one is going to touch you.” She saw the weapon hidden in the shoulder holster beneath his jacket when he moved. Like his cousin, both men wore suits, although not pin-striped. They were attractive and dangerous looking. She had to admit she felt safe with them.

“Thanks. I didn’t realize what a baby I’ve been until just now. I appreciate you taking the time.”

“Sei famiglia,” he said.

She didn’t touch that. They stopped at the deli and retrieved Stefano’s coat. Emilio, a gentleman like his cousin, held it out for her to slip into. She drew it around her, very close, loving the warmth. Loving that it still held Stefano’s scent. Joanna remained at the deli with her uncle while the two men walked with her to her apartment.

Francesca liked that they walked to her building. She stopped outside of it. Until that moment, she hadn’t been aware of just how different her building was from the ones they’d just passed. In the Ferraro neighborhood, all along the street where the businesses were, the buildings were immaculate, as were the sidewalks. Her apartment building was old and crumbling. Litter and debris were scattered everywhere along the walkway and, she knew, inside the building itself. Worse, it wasn’t that difficult to spot a needle or two lying near the entrance to the alley that ran along the side of the building.

“This is good,” she said firmly, halting abruptly. “I can take it from here.”

“Got orders, Francesca,” Enzo said.

They even talked like Stefano, in clipped, abrupt sentences when she knew they had the best education possible from private, very expensive schools as well as tutors in the home. Joanna had given her the magazines to read, the ones that had tons of information regarding the Ferraro family with their fast cars and faster women.

“Take a risk. Live dangerously. Ignore them,” she advised.

Emilio reached above her head and pulled open the door. “That’s not going to happen. You obviously don’t know Stefano. He’d skin us alive if we took another chance with your safety. How come anyone can walk into this building?”

She sighed. “If you insist on coming upstairs with me, try not to sound like him. It’s annoying.”

Truthfully, she hated walking into her apartment building, especially walking past the owner’s apartment. She was always afraid he’d open the door, and he was . . . disgusting. She didn’t feel in the least bit safe, but it was a step above sleeping on the street, her only alternative. There was something very creepy about the apartments. Oily and disgusting. She was fairly certain drug deals took place regularly both inside and outside of the building. She’d already stepped on a needle that had been thrown on the stairs. Luckily she’d been in her new boots and not her holey shoes.

The place was poorly lit. The stairs were creaky and the carpet torn and shabby. The walls were dingy and smelled like smoke. Still, it was a roof. It was cheap. She needed both.

Her apartment was on the third floor. She unlocked it, and before she could say anything, Emilio gently set her aside and went in first. Enzo kept a hand on her shoulder to prevent her from moving as Emilio walked through her apartment. That had to be one of the most humiliating moments of her life. She didn’t look at Emilio when he emerged. She knew what she’d see on his face.

He handed her the keys. “All clear. Lock the fucking door, Francesca, not that it will do you any good.”

Yep. He sounded just like his cousin. And he was unhappy.