Stefano stood very still, looking into the window of Masci’s. Francesca was at the counter, smiling at old man Lozzi. She looked beautiful–and alive. Real. Not the fantasy he’d feared he’d made up in his mind. The tension, coiled so tightly in his gut, eased just a little. He had needed to see for himself that she was unharmed. The glass was tinted and he couldn’t see details, but she moved easily. She was friendly, but she didn’t actually engage in informative chatter.
“Satisfied?” Giovanni asked.
“Not yet.” Stefano turned to face his brother, his features set and hard. “Let’s go home. I want to see those fuckers and find out what the hell they thought they were doing.”
Giovanni slid back behind the wheel of their Aston Martin while Stefano climbed in on the passenger side. Both were used to high-performance luxury and neither noticed the smooth, purring ride as the car glided from the curb and into traffic.
“Emilio said it’s the same three-man crew we’ve been hunting again. We only have two of them. The third is in the wind, or maybe he wasn’t there that night.”
Stefano didn’t reply. Instead, he stared out the window, his gut churning. They could have killed her. The three muggers were notorious for their violence and it was escalating with every robbery they committed. Vittorio had “talked” with two of them once already when they’d mugged a woman in their territory. He’d gotten her money back from them and made them pay for her injurie
s. He’d also extracted a promise that no member of the Ferraro community would ever be targeted. That was their one chance. The only chance.
“Are we looking for the other one, Gee?” Stefano asked, still staring out the window at the passing buildings. He loved their small village within the city. He loved the people there. Some he’d known almost from the first breath he’d taken. Others had moved in later, but he considered them all his. Under his protection.
“We’re looking, but so far, nothing. They’ve been living off the grid so there’s no trail at all. The last place they stayed was an abandoned building about three miles outside of Little Italy. We think the third one drives for them and is named Scott Bowen. He wasn’t in the abandoned building. He must have gotten the hell out when he realized it was our family that took his friends. He was either there the night they mugged Francesca or he heard word on the street. But whatever the reason, he’s gone.”
The gates opened and the car slid up the private drive to their sprawling home. The moment they exited the car, Henry, their valet, was there to take the car keys. Both men moved away from the house, selected a shadow and made the ride to the warehouse owned by their family in the very heart of the city, far from their territory. They didn’t want a camera at a stoplight to accidentally catch their car moving through the city.
Stefano jerked open the door and strode through the cavernous space. The smell of blood and fear hit him first. That didn’t surprise him. Emilio and Enzo weren’t known for their kindness to anyone who beat up women. They hadn’t wanted Vittorio to allow the two muggers to walk away when they’d first encountered them. Technically, the two men hadn’t crossed into Ferraro territory, but even if they had no idea Francesca belonged to Stefano, they had to know Joanna did, or they were just plain stupid, coming that close to Ferraro territory.
Tom Billings and Fargo Johnson stared up at him through swollen bloodshot eyes. Emilio had done a number on both of them. Terror entered their eyes when they saw who had walked in. Stefano stood in front of them, but didn’t say a word. He merely reached for the file Enzo handed him. Seeing the thick papers, the two men looked at each other and instantly began fighting the ropes binding them. Stefano wasn’t worried they’d get free. Emilio had mad skills when it came to tying knots. He didn’t match Ricco’s skill, but what he tied up stayed that way.
His cousins had been busy, detailing the muggers’ long history of crimes. Stefano took his time reading. He didn’t skim. When he was deciding someone’s fate, it was only fair to explore every detail, even when the men had put a knife to his woman’s throat. He couldn’t let it be personal, but he found it was. No matter how hard he tried to think clearly, he knew he couldn’t make the decision on what would happen to the two muggers.
“Send for Vittorio and Ricco,” he told Giovanni. “Have them drop whatever they’re doing and come immediately. Ask Taviano and Emmanuelle to come as well.” Giovanni nodded and took the file Stefano handed him. “All of you read that. I’ll stand down from this one and you four make the decision. If there’s an even split, have Eloisa cast the deciding vote.”
“Stefano . . .” Giovanni protested. “You have the right. She’s your woman.”
“No way am I touching this one. Not when I want to rip their dicks off and shove them down their throats.”
Both muggers froze. Billings swallowed hard, shaking his head. “We didn’t know who she was, Mr. Ferraro.”
The knots in Stefano’s belly only coiled tighter. His breath hissed out of him. There was no way to suppress the rage roaring through him. “It shouldn’t matter who the fuck she is, you coward. You don’t put a knife to any woman’s throat. It was just your bad luck that you chose her, but had I heard you did this to any woman again, I would have come after you. Vittorio let you off with a warning and you should have left the city or at least gone to the other side of it and stayed as far from us as you could get.”
He wanted to beat the holy hell out of both men, even though Emilio had already done it. There would have been great satisfaction in feeling his fists sinking into them, breaking bones and causing as much damage as possible, but that was against his rules. He lived in a violent world and he had to have a code. He had to live by that code, no matter how personal this was to him.
Not trusting himself, he stepped back, away from them. He would abide by the decision of his family. They had all the facts and as far as he could see, these men had spent years robbing and viciously beating others. Stefano knew that when a person was hungry or desperate, they might resort to theft, but these men had escalated what they did into savage beatings. Ninety percent of their victims had handed over wallets, money and jewelry and yet they still were beaten. Even had they not touched Francesca, Stefano would have decided to end them.
According to the files his investigators Romano and Renato Greco had compiled, the beatings had gotten steadily more vicious over the years and the last few months, the men had put several people in the hospital, two of them with severe knife wounds. Clearly, the violence was escalating and Stefano believed, sooner or later, they would kill. The thrill was getting harder to get, so they upped the ante. He was certain once they killed, they would continue to do so.
Ricco, Giovanni, Taviano and Emmanuelle walked over together and stood facing the two muggers after they’d consulted just inside the doors of the building. Vittorio came right up to stand beside Stefano. “This is my mistake, my mess. I let them off with a warning,” he said softly.
Billings shook his head hard. “We’ll stay away. Leave town. Whatever you want us to do.”
Vittorio looked at him for a long while, the silence stretching out. “I should have ended you when I had the chance,” he said, no inflection in his voice. “It’s on me, the other victims. The ones you hurt. The ones in the hospital. It’s on me that you put a blade to my brother’s woman’s throat. You cut into her skin and made her bleed. That’s mine. I have to carry that burden for the rest of my life because I didn’t do my job.”
Tom Billings screamed, his voice high-pitched. Behind him, a shadow stretched out. Reached. Ricco, dressed as always in a dark pin-striped suit, just as they all were, emerged directly behind him, his hands on either side of his skull. Vittorio leaned forward and caught Fargo Johnson’s head in an implacable grip. Both men jerked hard. They’d been instructed practically since birth in this quick, hard motion. They were experts. Few people could snap a neck easily, but they knew the exact motion, the exact amount of power needed, the perfect angle.
Both men stepped away from the two muggers. “Justice is served,” Vittorio said.
Stefano took a deep breath and let it out. He had managed to maintain control even when it was the most personal job he had faced. Discipline had won out, although the anger still knotted his gut. Francesca had been cold and hungry when he’d first laid eyes on her. And terrified. Now a man had managed to slice into her throat and scare her, trying to rob her. The one person needing his protection the most and he’d let her down again.
“Hey, brother.” Emmanuelle curled an arm around his waist, tucked herself in close against his side and hugged him tightly the way she had from the time she was a toddler. “I’m so excited for you. We all are.” She didn’t even glance at the two dead men slumped in the chairs.
Stefano didn’t like her being there. He wrapped his arm around her and walked her back outside. From the beginning, when Emmanuelle had been born, he had known she would be trained. She was a shadow rider as well. The telltale feelers fed out of her shadow, seeking the shadows of others. He hadn’t liked it then–and he’d been a young boy, nine years old, when she’d been born. He had tried protesting, as had his other brothers, hoping to spare her their life, but there were so few of the riders anymore that the family insisted she be trained.
Emmanuelle knew what he was doing, taking her out of that place of death, but she didn’t protest. All of her brothers preferred to protect her. They had been raised to respect women. To treasure them. To protect them. They wanted her to have a life like all the other girls in the neighborhood, not one of violence and death. She had grown up with four big brothers always hovering close and she’d never protested or gotten angry with them. Instead, she’d developed a sense of humor and, much to their mortification, the ability to ignore them and do what she wanted anyway.
“I want to meet her.”
“You will, bella bambina, as soon as I have managed to make her mine. She has no idea. I have to go carefully.”
Her dark blue eyes moved over his face, the smile fading. “I want to help. I know this is going to be difficult for both of you, Stefano, but she will be my sister. She will make my brother very happy. She gives my other brothers and me hope. Surely, if she’s new to our neighborhood, she needs a friend. I can do that.”
Stefano thought it over. Francesca only knew Joanna. He nodded slowly. “Her friend, Joanna Masci, asked her to come here to work for her uncle. Francesca is in some kind of trouble.”
Emmanuelle nodded. “Renato and Romano are working on finding out everything they can about her. Zia Rachele and Zio Alfeo are helping. I think they even have Rosina and Rigina helping. The entire Greco family.”
His aunt and uncle and their children were all investigators–and good ones. Powerful ones. Rosina worked with Renato and Romano most of the time, using the computer as a rule, and Rigina helped her parents doing the same thing. If they were looking into Francesca’s past, he had no doubt they would uncover her every secret. For a moment he actually thought to stop them. It was insane, but if she had something to hide, maybe it was best for him to find out before anyone else. She wouldn’t like her privacy torn apart in front of his entire family.
“Stefano,” Emmanuelle said softly. “We all want to help you. She’s ours as well as yours. When she comes into la famiglia, she becomes our sister. A daughter to our parents. She has to fully embrace our life, be one of us. You know that. Let us all help you in whatever capacity we can. Give us that. You always take care of us. We’ve always counted on your strength and guidance. This time, let us be there for you.”
He looked around him. His brothers faced him in a loose semicircle. Ricco, Vittorio, Giovanni and Taviano. His cousins, Emilio and Enzo, stood shoulder to shoulder with his brothers. La sua famiglia. His family. He put his hand over his heart, pressing his palm deep into his chest.
“Grazie.” He meant it. Sincerely. His heart aching and full. He tightened his arm around his sister. “Perhaps you
and the cousins could befriend Francesca and Joanna and do a few things with them. Put her at ease and make her feel as if she’s putting down a few roots. My schedule’s fairly heavy. If a couple of you could lighten my load”–he looked at his brothers–“I would greatly appreciate the time to try to work things out with her.”
“Of course,” Ricco answered immediately. “We’ll divide your jobs between us for the next few weeks.”
“And we’ll keep our eyes on her,” Emilio said. “This time, much closer. She already knows you put a couple of teams on her so there’s no use in hiding.”
“We could coach you,” Emmanuelle ventured. “In what not to do.”
He looked down at her upturned face. “I don’t know if I want to ask you what the fuck that means.”
“It means you can’t act all scary, like you do. I’m used to it so you don’t intimidate me . . .” She cleared her throat. “Much. But that’s my point. You can’t scare her off while we’re all trying to work on her.”
“You think I’m going to scare her off, then your job is to make her see me as a good guy, the white knight.”
Laughter broke out, his brothers first. He was fairly certain Ricco started it. Emilio and Enzo joined in and lastly, Emmanuelle. The warm, fuzzy feeling in his heart disappeared and he glared at them. “Seriously?”
“No one is going to look at you that way,” Vittorio said. “You were born with that face and you came out of the womb as mean and bossy as a snake shedding his skin.”
He couldn’t deny the charge because it was probably true. “Fuck off. All of you.” He turned to Emilio. “Call Zio Sal and tell him we need his cleaning service immediately. Tell him to bring clothes and shoes for Enzo and you. You know the drill–everything goes. Anything that can be traced back to you. Get rid of all of it. Give it to Zio Sal and let him and his boys do their thing. I want you showered and shaved, looking good and back out on the street where you’re visible.”
Emilio nodded. “Will do. You all need to be away from here.”
His brothers and Emmanuelle turned toward the shadows to make their way back home. Stefano was anxious to go to Francesca, but it took a while to make his report to his parents–well, to his mother–his father never actually was there to hear a report, a necessary evil. He believed it was necessary just so Eloisa could look her child over and make certain no harm had come to him.
He drove from the main home where his parents resided to the hotel where he stayed and then walked from there to the store where Francesca worked. Each of his brothers and his sister had their own wing in the main house, but they all maintained a personal space outside of the Ferraro estate. He had a penthouse at the hotel they owned. The suite was enormous, taking up the entire top floor. He had a private elevator that went straight to his floor and another private entrance very few knew of.
He paused on the sidewalk, looking into the store. Francesca had her head down, but she nodded every now and then as she listened to the man standing at the cash register. Stefano recognized Tito Petrov. His father owned the local pizza parlor and Tito managed it and also cooked there. He was as good at making the pizzas as his father. He was also a bit of a ladies’ man. He dated often and women seemed to fall hard for him. Stefano didn’t like Tito’s body language at all.
*
Ignoring Tito, who continued to flirt outrageously with her, Francesca smiled at the older couple behind him as she wrapped sandwiches for them. She knew they owned the small boutique three stores down. They had come in and introduced themselves her very first morning at work. Sweet. Genuine. Very Italian. They held hands when they could and smiled at each other often. She loved that. She considered Lucia and Amo Fausti the poster couple for romance, and considering she didn’t believe in romance, she also thought maybe they brought a little hope with them.
She could never afford a single item they offered, all those beautiful designer dresses and silk scarves. She knew they traveled extensively to find the best designers. Joanna told her people traveled from all over the city to shop in the little boutique.
“How are you this afternoon?” Lucia asked her.
They came into Masci’s every evening after work hours for their evening meal, Joanna had also informed her, but then, nearly everyone came into Masci’s at one time or another. Masci’s represented all twenty regions of Italy, importing cured meats, handmade cheeses, olive oil and even vinegar.
Francesca smiled at her as she took their money and put it into the cash register. “Fine, and you?”
She had walked into their boutique because the clothes in the window had really appealed to her. It was a beautiful space, open, marble, decorated mainly with huge leafy plants, lacy ferns and a few flowering plants. The clothes were from all over the world, designers from France, Italy, India and even the local area. They carried beautiful but very different items, all unique.
“It was a lovely day today,” Lucia said. “Cold, but lovely.”
“We’re going to eat here tonight,” Amo said. “It’s nice to visit after working all day.” He beamed at Francesca.
“I suppose it is.”
“You could visit with me,” Tito encouraged.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Amo asked, winking at Francesca. He took his wife’s hand and led her toward one of the small tables at the back of the shop.
“I’d have plenty of work to do, Amo, if you’d eat at my place instead of here,” Tito called to the backs of the couple.
Amo laughed. “Prettier view in here.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Tito said, once more leaning on the counter, smiling at Francesca, his voice low and flirty.
Stefano pushed open the door to the deli and instantly all conversation ceased. He had his gaze on Francesca, but he scanned the room as he entered. As usual, the place was packed. He recognized most of the customers and lifted a hand toward a couple of them as he made his way toward the counter. The few people waiting in line instantly shifted to make room for him.
Francesca looked up, and he saw her face go pale. She pressed her lips together, a hint of wariness creeping into her eyes. “You’re back,” she greeted. “Just a minute and I’ll get your coat for you.”
“Not looking for my coat, dolce cuore,” he said, and then shifted his gaze to the man slowly straightening from where he’d been leaning against the counter. “Tito. How’s your father? I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“He’s good. Great.” Tito looked from Stefano to Francesca. “She has your coat? I heard . . .”
“It’s true,” Stefano said, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence. The last thing he wanted was for Francesca to deny his claim on her in front of the neighborhood, especially Tito Petrov.
Pietro hurried out of his office. “Mr. Ferraro, good to see you. What can we do for you?”
“Drop the ‘Mr. Ferraro,’ and just call me Stefano.”
“Yes. Of course. Stefano.” Pietro nodded several times. He’d been invited more than once to be on a first-name basis with all of the brothers, but he never actually did it for long. “What can we do for you?” he repeated.
“Lend me Francesca. I’m starving and after seeing Tito, I’m hungry for one of his pies. I need a chance to talk to her, so I thought we could do both.” He ignored Francesca’s reaction. The quick, shocked deep breath. The shaking of her head. Stepping back from the counter. Away from him.
Pietro ignored it as well. “Of course. No problem. She worked extra hours yesterday.”
“I’ll get back to the restaurant and get busy on your pie,” Tito said.
Stefano sent him a quick smile. “Thanks, Tito. I appreciate it. We’ll be there in a few minutes. I have to talk to a couple of people first.” He glanced at Francesca, who hadn’t moved. “We won’t need the coat. It’s just down the block.” Again, before she could protest, he walked away from the counter, to the back of the room where the Faustis were seated.
“Lucia, you’re looking beautiful this evening.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss at her temple. She immediately caught his head in her hands and kissed both sides of his jaw before letting him go. “Is Amo still treating you right? I’d run away with you if I thought I could get away with it.”
Sh
e laughed softly. “Amo is the best, but if he ever messes up, Stefano, you are the front-runner.”
His eyebrow shot up. “‘The front-runner’?” he repeated. Switching his attention to Amo, he shook the man’s hand. “How many men does she have waiting in line?”
“Too many to count,” Amo said with a heavy sigh. “Such is the life when a man marries a beautiful woman. You would do well to remember that.”
Lucia laughed again and leaned into her husband. “You two. You always make me feel so special.”
“Because you are,” Stefano said, meaning it.
“She’s very beautiful,” Amo said, indicating Francesca, keeping his voice low. “Very sweet to all the customers. Works hard, that one. She doesn’t talk much and she seems sad. Is she all right?”
“She will be.”
“Anything we can do, Stefano. You’re a good boy. You’ve always been good to us,” Lucia said. “Ever since . . .” She choked, her eyes filling with tears, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, forcing a smile behind her palm.
“Don’t, Lucia,” Stefano said, crouching down beside their table, sweeping his arm around the older woman. “You’re here with the love of your life . . .” He glanced at Amo. “Oh, and Amo, too.”
She laughed. It was a little forced, but still, she managed to make the sound merry. Her husband reached across the table and took her hand in his. “This man is always trying to steal you from me, bella.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “This happens too often, woman.”
“You should be used to it by now, Amo,” Stefano said, rising, brushing another kiss on top of Lucia’s head. “I think my woman is ready to go.”
Clearly she wasn’t, but Pietro had pushed her out from behind the counter. Francesca looked nervous and as if she might be working herself up to telling him to go to hell. He grabbed her hand as he came up beside her, tugging until she was next to him and he could wrap one arm around her waist, drawing her into his side.
“Later, Pietro,” he said, and walked her right out the door while she was too shocked at finding her body locked tightly against his side.
“Later, Mr. Ferraro,” Pietro answered, laughter in his voice.
Francesca placed a protesting palm flat against his chest and then pulled it off of him as if his heat had burned her. “I’m not having a pizza with you.”
“You don’t have to eat if you’re not hungry,” he said, covering the pavement in long strides, his arm sweeping her along, forcing her to keep up with him.
He kept her moving, not wanting to give her the chance to protest. “Have you met Lucia and Amo Fausti? The couple sitting in the back? They own Lucia’s Treasures. It’s a little boutique a few stores down from the deli.”
She snuck a little peek at him from under her ridiculously long lashes. She didn’t have mascara on, and still her lashes were thick and long and curled upward on the end. He was fascinated even with that little detail. Her eyes were beautiful. The thought came to him unbidden that he wanted to be looking into her eyes when he took her, when he made her come apart in his arms. When they were locked together, and he was moving in her, bringing her what no other man would ever give her again.
“Yes, they’re a lovely couple. You seem to be friends with them.”
She sounded a little shocked that he could have friends. That made him want to smile, but he resisted, continuing to walk, nodding toward a couple of people who stepped out of their shops to greet him. He kept moving because he didn’t want them to engage him in conversation and give her the opportunity to break away.
“They lost their only son. Cencio was murdered coming out of a theater across town with his fiancee. Lucia was so devastated she nearly died. Amo wasn’t himself for a couple of years, either. I grew up with Cencio. He was a good man. Always laughing. Sweet, like his parents. We served together in Marine Recon. He was someone you could count on. We’d only been out two months before he was murdered.”
Her face softened. The lashes swept down and back up, but the softness didn’t leave her eyes. “I’m so sorry. That must have been terrible for all of you. He was their only child?”
Stefano shook his head. “They had a little girl. She died of cancer when she was three.”
Francesca stopped right there in the middle of the sidewalk, her free hand covering her mouth. She looked as if she might cry. “Those poor people. To lose both children like that. I can’t imagine anything worse.”
He nodded, pulling her a little closer to him, keeping her under his shoulder. “They’re both very brave. Sometimes tragedy tears people apart, but they seemed to grow stronger together.” He started them moving again. The entrance to the pizza parlor was only a few feet away.
“They’re actually my favorite customers,” she admitted. “Not that I’ve met all that many people yet, although the store is very busy all the time. Was the murderer ever caught?”
He glanced at her sharply. There was something in her voice that caught at him. She was looking at the ground, not at him and not trying to see where they were going. She sounded skeptical, as if she didn’t believe Cencio’s killer would ever be brought to justice. She also sounded very, very sad. That tore him up inside. He didn’t want her ever to be sad.
He reached around her to open the door of the pizza parlor, automatically stepping back to allow her to precede him. At the last moment, he pulled her out of harm’s way, and then pushed her behind him as a little boy with dark wavy hair barreled right into him with full force. His body rocked back, but he caught the child in his arms, preventing the boy from falling. He heard Francesca’s breath catch in her throat as if she feared for the child.
He set the boy back on his feet and ruffled his hair. “Tonio, are you chasing after Signora Moretti again?”
The boy nodded, holding up a pink handbag.
“Good man. Get to it then, but don’t run into the street. Come by my table when you get back.”
Tonio grinned at him and took off running. Stefano held the door open for Francesca and waved her inside.
“He’s a good boy, that one,” he observed. “Signora Moretti will eventually come into the deli. She’ll give you a very hard time. She’ll insist on watching you make her sandwich and everything you do will be wrong because she’ll change it as she goes along.” There was humor in his voice. Affection. He couldn’t help it. “Agnese Moretti is a holy terror. Never call her anything but Signora Moretti or you’ll get your ears boxed.” He rubbed his right ear, remembering the woman clobbering him when he’d called her by her first name.
“She hit you?” Francesca’s blue eyes went wide with shock–and humor.
“Signore Ferraro, we have your table,” the girl at the desk said, menus in her hand. She sounded breathless, gazing up at him with a dazed, flirty look.
He smiled at her. “Grazie, Berta.” He put his hand on Francesca’s lower back to guide her. To make certain everyone in the restaurant knew just who she belonged to. “How are your parents?” He had to acknowledge Berta before she tripped over her own feet. She wasn’t watching where she was going, only watching him.
“They’re both good, Signore Ferraro. Tito said to put you at this table.” Still staring at him, she indicated a booth at the back, in the corner where the low lights cast shadows and allowed for privacy. His family always requested that booth, and he was grateful that Tito remembered. “The antipasto and breadsticks will be right up. Wine? Beer?” she asked.
Francesca slipped into the inside of the booth because he didn’t give her much choice. He kept his attention on Berta even as his body crowded Francesca’s until she gave in and slid onto the cool leather bench seat. Stefano slid in right beside her. Close. His thigh pressed tight against hers. He inhaled her scent. She was beautiful, there in the shadows where he lived his life. So beautiful and innocent looking. He was going to take that innocence away and the thought made him sad. He resisted reaching for her hand, but he knew he would have to touch her soon.
“What would you like, bella? Wine? Beer? Something else?”
Francesca hesitated but then relaxed, some of the tension draining out of her. “Water is fine.”
“You don’t drink wine?” He raised an eyebrow.
She nodded. “It’s been a while since I’ve had any alcohol. I don’t know how I’d react.”
He liked her honesty. “I’ll make certain you get home safe. One glass can’t hurt.” Before she could protest he turned to Berta. “Red wine. You know my preference. Bring the bottle and two glasses.” When Berta left he turned his attention to Francesca. “My family owns a few vineyards and a winery in Italy. It’s beginning to make a name, and fortunately I enjoy the wine our family produces. I hope you do as well.”
She nodded, a little shyly. “Thank you. I’m sure I will. Tell me about Agnese Moretti. Did she really box your ears?”
He had never been more grateful for the older woman’s difficult and very feisty personality. His story had piqued Francesca’s interest enough that she was much more relaxed with him. She seemed to like the stories of the people around her. Good people. He liked his neighborhood and wanted her to see it through his eyes. It was where she would spend the majority of her life. Accepting their way. Accepting their rules. Living with a yoke of violence around their necks for the good of those around them. A part of him detested himself for doing that to her, but there was no way he could give her up.
“Oh, yes. She not only boxed my ears, but twice she grabbed me by the earlobe and marched me out of a room. Of course, I was a lot younger when the earlobe thing happened.” Deliberately he rubbed his earlobe as if he could still feel the pinch.
Francesca laughed. She had a beautiful laugh. Melodic. Low. Almost as if the laugh was intimate, just between the two of them. His heart beat in tune to her low laughter. He wanted to hear it for the rest of his life. The sound drowned out the voices in his head that refused to die when those who owned them did.
“How old were you when she boxed your ears?”
“That was last year when I made the big mistake of getting ‘fresh’ with her by calling her by her first name. Apparently I’m not old enough yet to do that. She ta
ught school and has never let me or any other student of hers forget it.”
“She sounds like a character.”
“She is,” Stefano said. “She’s wonderful. I can’t tell you how many students she tutored outside the classroom to help them when they had difficulties with a subject. She never charged their parents. There were some kids who didn’t have much and she would buy them the supplies they needed. Lunches. Jackets. She never let on that she did it, or made a big deal out of it, but they’d just find the supplies in their desk, or their jacket or lunch box.”
“Wow.” Francesca leaned her chin onto her hand, her gaze fixed on him. That sea-blue gaze that made him want to fall right into it. “She sounds incredible.”
“She’s a character. She forgets her purse anyplace she eats and her glasses in most stores. Tonio always rushes after her if she’s anywhere around. If not Tonio, then one of the other children. He’s the youngest and the most enthusiastic, which means he’s a little tornado and you have to get out of his way when he’s making his run.”
Berta was back with the antipasto, small plates, warm, fresh breadsticks and the wine. She expertly juggled each dish and poured a small amount of wine in a glass for Stefano to taste.
He liked that Francesca watched him so closely, that she seemed fascinated by the conversation and by him. He nodded his approval of the wine, waited until Berta poured both glasses and left before he picked up Francesca’s glass and handed it to her. Her fingers brushed his. Instantly a spark of electricity leapt from her to him. He felt their shadows connect. Merge. The pull was strong, just like the narrow slider tubes that nearly pulled apart his body when he stood in front of them–a powerful magnet drawing him close.
He heard her swift inhale. Her eyes darkened. Lashes lowered. Her breasts rose and fell. She pulled her hand away, bringing the wineglass to her mouth. She definitely felt the chemistry between them just as strongly as he did. It was explosive. His body reacted, going as hard as a rock, something that just didn’t happen to a man with his kind of discipline. He knew if he leaned into her and took her mouth, he’d ignite a firestorm–they both would.
She was dangerous to both of them. He had to stay in control around her and just being this close to her threatened that. He was the one shifting slightly to put distance between them, a mere inch, but even that little inch gave him a reprieve.
Tonio ran up, his thick, curly hair wild. Eyes shining. “I caught her, Signore Ferraro. Just as she was getting into her car.”
“Good man, Tonio.” He slipped his wallet out and handed the boy a bill. “I’m proud of you for looking after her. What do we do?”
Tonio puffed out his chest. “We always look after our women.”
“That’s right. Run along now and say hello to your parents for me.”
The boy took the money and slipped it into his pocket. “Grazie. Grazie.” He grinned at Stefano. “Is she one of our women?” He indicated Francesca.
Stefano nodded solemnly. “Tonio, this is Francesca. Francesca, Tonio. If you should ever need assistance, he is a good man and will come to your aid. Yes, Tonio, she’s very special to me. She’s one of ours.” He glanced at his woman. She didn’t know he was claiming her publicly, but that innocent question was welcome. Tonio would tell his parents exactly what Stefano had said to him. The boy always did.
Francesca looked pleased. He knew she would. She wouldn’t be thinking about the underlying implication, only that the boy was cute.
“Pleased to meet you, Tonio,” she said.
He nodded shyly. “Don’t worry. I’ll look out for you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Tonio turned with a saucy grin and raced through the restaurant back to his parents’ table. Stefano watched him go just to make certain he didn’t knock over any of Tito’s customers.
“He’s adorable.” Francesca dipped a breadstick into the marinara sauce and took a bite. Her eyes closed. “Wow. This is delicious.”
“No one makes pizza, antipasto or marinara like Tito’s family. They’ve been in the business for a couple of generations and they make the best. People come from all over to eat here.”
“You sound proud.”
“I am. They’re a good family and they deserve success.”
“You aren’t anything like I thought you’d be,” she ventured, and took another sip of wine.
“What did you think I’d be like?”
“I don’t know. You seemed so scary when I first met you. I thought you were . . .” She trailed off and shook her head, color creeping under her skin.
“Tell me.”
“I don’t want you to be upset. It was silly of me. I was so nervous about the interview and it seemed as if everyone in the store was a little afraid of you when you came in. You also were abrupt and a little rude, dropping F-bombs all over the place.”
He nodded. “I do that a lot, I’m afraid. More than once, Signora Moretti told me she was going to wash out my mouth, and that was this year.”
She laughed. He loved the way she laughed. Just in the two days he’d been away from her, she seemed much more relaxed. “Her warning didn’t do any good, did it?”
“No, I suppose it didn’t,” he admitted ruefully. “So tell me, Francesca, what did you think I was when we met?”
