Shadow Rider (23 page)

“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 had 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.”

F
rancesca stared at herself in the mirror, feeling a little as if she was a princess in a fairy tale. She smoothed her hand down her dress—the dress Stefano had bought her for tonight. He was casual about it, coming to her room, knocking once and opening the door. He walked straight to her, a large box in his hand, bent his head and brushed a kiss across her mouth.

His touch was all too fleeting. Barely there. But it was a brand and it burned right through her. He pushed the box into her hands. “Gotta go,
bambina
, things to do, but Emmanuelle and my cousins will be here to escort you to the club. You stick close to them until I get there. Understand?” The pad of his finger traced her lips. “I don't want you dancing with other men. Stay with Emme.”

Stefano never got close to her without touching her. His arm snaked around her waist to pull her tightly to his side. His lips brushed her temple or her mouth. He liked being close, but he hadn't made a move on her, not a real one. She found herself at night, lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, waiting. Just waiting.

She'd seen him leave tonight. As always he wore an impeccable suit. This one was charcoal gray with ultrathin lighter stripes. It was one of his inevitable three-piece suits and he looked amazing in it. He was so sweet to her. Making certain she ate meals. Insisting she text him from the deli
several times throughout the day. Always, if she stepped outside, one of his cousins was close.

Stefano made her feel as if she mattered. As if she was his entire focus, even when he was at work, or wherever it was he went. Her eyes went back to the mirror and she raised her hand to her throat. She never asked him what he did. She thought about it and prepared herself to ask him, but he always distracted her before she did. He was just so intimidating and darkly sensual, filling the room with his presence until she could barely think straight.

She inspected herself very carefully. The dress was beautiful—the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, let alone worn. It was also the sexiest, most flattering dress she'd ever put on. The material clung to her like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination, and yet revealing only hints of actual skin. The dress followed every curve to her small waist before dropping away over her hips. It was short, but elegant. Sexy, but not cheap.

She stared at herself, unable to believe that it was actually Francesca Capello looking back at her in the mirror. She didn't look like that. Hot. Beautiful even, with her hair left loose to tumble around her face and down her back. She couldn't wear a bra with the dress, but it had a lining that gave some support because the material hugged her so tightly. In the box along with the dress was a tiny black lace thong. There was a bow on the back of the waistband, if you could call it a band; mostly it was tiny black strips of material. The thong rode low on her hips, barely there, so no lines showed beneath the clinging material of her dress.

She'd put on her makeup with an edge toward drama, but still barely there. She liked the color of her lipstick, a nice deep red that showed off her full lips and good skin tone. Her shoes were perfect black heels with complicated straps that edged up her ankles and looked superhot. The shoes had to have cost as much or more than the dress. She loved the entire look.

The elevator
pinged
, warning her, and she caught up her
clutch and hurried out to greet Joanna and Mario Bandoni, Joanna's date, as they stepped into the foyer. Joanna looked awesome in her hot red dress. Both she and Mario were staring around the huge room, taking in everything so she had a chance to walk right up to them. Francesca couldn't blame them. When Stefano was there in his apartment with her, she felt at home and safe, but the moment he was gone, she felt like a fraud, an intruder. She didn't belong in his extremely wealthy world. She was very uncomfortable there.

Joanna's eyes widened in shock when she caught sight of Francesca. Her mouth dropped open and she stared openly. Mario made a low sound of approval.

“You look . . . so good, Francesca,” Joanna said. “Beautiful. Really beautiful. I'm not certain you should go out in that dress. Has Stefano seen you?”

Francesca laughed. Joanna and Mario had boosted her confidence level immensely just by their reactions. “Not yet, but Emmanuelle and the others should be here in a few minutes. Stefano and his brothers are already at the club. They had a meeting or something. His family is crazy large. Cousins have arrived from New York and they're showing them around. I've never seen so many cousins as Stefano has.”

“Most of them are male,” Mario pointed out. “He's got Rosina and Rigina, Romano and Renato's sisters. They're pretty nice, although I've never said more than hello to them.”

“I nod,” Joanna said. “Females can be really bitchy and I never wanted to be put in my place so I was careful around them.”

“They put people in their place?” Francesca asked. She knew she
looked
good, but it was the dress. She didn't run in Stefano's circles. If his cousins decided to be mean to her, she'd much rather stay home. She really wanted to go out wearing the dress and shoes, but not if it meant feeling awful about herself when some woman made her feel like she didn't belong.

“No, they've never done that,” Joanna hastened to say. “Get that look off your face, honey. You're with Stefano. No
one would dare to be mean to you.” She looked around the large room with its high ceilings and open floor plan. “Show us around. I've always wanted to see where Stefano lived. This is . . .
amazing
.”

Francesca's stomach knotted. This was Stefano's home. His private sanctuary. Instinctively she knew he wouldn't want anyone peeking into his private world. Joanna looked eager, nearly rubbing her hands together with glee. Mario was happy to go along with her, but Francesca just couldn't do it. Showing them Stefano's home felt too much like a betrayal.

She shook her head. “I can't do that. This isn't my home, Joanna.” She kept her voice very firm.

Joanna pouted. “Seriously, Francesca? Come on,” she wheedled. “I won't say anything. It's not like he'd know. I really want to see where he sleeps. At least show me his bedroom. I can imagine it's all sexy. Big bed. Satin sheets. Very hot.”

Mario laughed. “You're giving me ideas, Joanna.”

“Keep getting them, Mario,” Joanna flirted.

Francesca wrapped her arms around her middle and held tight. There was no way she was going to show Joanna anything at all. She hated the idea of anyone fantasizing about Stefano's bed and sheets, let alone about him.

Stefano had shown her around the enormous suite—and it was enormous. He had his own workout room complete with every machine imaginable. There was another room that he used for training in several types of martial arts and boxing as well as street fighting. His brothers and sister and sometimes his cousins trained with him there. She'd peeked into the large rectangular room and had been in awe of the equipment there as well as the mats and floor. There were racks of swords and knives and other weapons, some wooden, some not, on the far wall.

Stefano's hand had been on the nape of her neck, or fingers threaded through hers, arm sometimes around her waist, as he'd taken her through his home. The tour had felt intimate, Stefano showing her his private world. She wasn't
about to share that, not even with her best friend. She felt the need to guard him, to protect him. This was where he came to relax and no one was going to invade his privacy, not even her friend.

Francesca had seen him every night throughout the week and knew his life was difficult whether he was aware of it or not. The phone rang constantly with demands for his time. His cell went off as much or more than the house phone. No one left him in peace. More than once she'd been tempted to give his neck a massage while he impatiently—and dropping F-bombs liberally—listened to pleas for his help, most of which he answered positively.

“You can just forget all about seeing his bedroom, Joanna.” She glanced up at the clock, hoping it was time to go, knowing she had to change the subject. Joanna often was like a wrecking ball when she wanted something. “You look good in that dress. Red is definitely your color. And, Mario, that suit is amazing.”

Mario's hand went to his tie a little self-consciously. “I can't be the only one not looking sharp tonight. Look at my girl.” He sounded proud, his eyes on Joanna.

Joanna forgot all about pouting and beamed as she slipped her hand onto his arm. “You look very handsome. Thanks for coming with me tonight. I think it will be fun.”

The elevator
pinged
and the doors opened. Emmanuelle emerged and Francesca's breath caught in her throat. Emmanuelle was the most beautiful woman Francesca had ever laid eyes on. Although short, no supermodel could hold a candle to her. She was everything an Italian beauty was reputed to be and more.

She wore a short black dress that clung to every curve. The front was a camisole that dropped into a little flirty skirt. The laces going up the front were tight over her rib cage and up under her breasts, but there was a generous opening showing plenty of cleavage. She looked hot. Gorgeous. Trendy. Sophisticated. Instantly Francesca felt as if she needed to check her own clothes again.

“Francesca. You look . . . beautiful.” Emmanuelle sounded sincere and her smile was warm, enveloping all of them. “Joanna, Mario, how nice to see you both again.”

She walked with complete confidence in her four-inch heels, coming straight toward Francesca without slowing down. She hugged Francesca tightly and then kissed her on both cheeks.

“Forgive me for not being with you when my cousins came to talk to you. I would have been with my brothers to protect you, if only so you'd have another woman present, but I had to keep the parents occupied.” She squeezed Francesca's arm. “I know it was difficult for you—the boys told me. I want you to know how much I respect and admire you. Thank you for worrying about my brother and for making him so happy.”

Whoa.
That was the last thing Francesca expected from Stefano's sister. She made it sound as if Francesca really did belong to Stefano. That it was a done deal and somehow she was totally accepted into their family. Things moved very fast around the Ferraro siblings. Francesca felt uneasy, a fraud even. She wasn't as certain as they were that her relationship with Stefano had progressed to the point of his entire family claiming her.

She wanted a family. She loved that the Ferraros were so tight-knit, but she barely knew them. She didn't even really know what Stefano did for a living. There was just a little bit of fear when she was around them all. Power clung to them. They wore their wealth so easily, like a second skin. More than that, they wore a cloak of pure danger. When any of the Ferraros walked into a room, there was a stunned silence—a collective gasp from any other occupants of the room.

“Are you ready for a night out?” Emmanuelle turned to include Joanna and Mario in her query.

Joanna was staring at Francesca, wide-eyed, a grin on her face. She turned toward Emmanuelle immediately. “I've been looking forward to this all week.”

“Rigina and Rosina are downstairs in the limo.” Emmanuelle laughed, her voice low and melodious. “I figured we'd
better have a driver if we're all going to party tonight.” She slipped her arm through Francesca's companionably. “Has Stefano seen that dress?”

Francesca smoothed one hand down the dress, wondering why both Joanna and Emmanuelle had asked that. She nodded, color stealing into her face at having to make the confession. “He brought the dress to me.”

Emmanuelle's smile widened. “But he hasn't actually
seen
you in the dress, has he?” Her eyes met Joanna's and they both burst out laughing.

Francesca wasn't certain what the joke was. “Is something wrong with the way I look?” She couldn't keep the anxiety out of her voice. She wanted to look good for Stefano or she wouldn't have accepted the dress from him. It cost more than her weekly wages and it had been a little disconcerting to have him go out and buy her the club dress. She didn't know why that seemed worse than pretending to believe he or his brother was responsible for losing her clothes and replacing them with much more expensive ones.

“No, Francesca,” Emmanuelle assured. “Nothing at all is wrong with the way you look. You're absolutely beautiful and my brother is going to think so, too. It's just that he can be . . . possessive of what is his.”

Francesca felt a jab to her stomach, hard enough that she hunched a little. The thought of Stefano being possessive toward other women really bothered her. She knew he had a history with women—beautiful women—but he'd told her that she was special to him. She really wished her self-esteem hadn't taken such a beating and she didn't constantly feel inadequate, worrying about Stefano and the beautiful women who had been in his life prior to her.

A limo awaited them, right in front of the hotel, the long sleek lines making Joanna squeal in glee. Francesca felt it was a little on the ostentatious side. She would never get used to the casual display of wealth and privilege. She slid into the vehicle after Joanna and Mario and discovered that two other women already occupied the leather seats. They
were drinking red wine from elegant glasses. Both smiled at her, their gazes running over her dress and shoes automatically, as if they did a sweep of everyone they saw.

“Rigina and Rosina Greco, my cousins,” Emmanuelle introduced. “They are sisters of Renato and Romano. I think you've met their brothers.”

If she had, Francesca knew she wouldn't be able to place them. She'd been introduced to too many people and some when she was being carried upside down in a sleeping bag through a murky apartment building. She smiled and nodded. The women looked like Ferraros. They carried themselves with that same enviable confidence.