Shadow Rider (27 page)

“Of course I'm going to get a say. I'm bossy and controlling, remember? I'm also jealous, a trait I had no idea I possessed until I laid eyes on you.”

His voice held laughter so she wasn't certain if he was serious, although he looked serious. She was saved from having to reply because four men walked up to them, two dressed in dark pin-striped suits. She recognized Lanz and Deangelo immediately and knew instantly the other two were Stefano's cousins as well. All four men were extremely good-looking and fit, but the two new ones really stood out. Something about the way they moved made her think of Stefano. They could easily be brothers, not cousins.

Stefano stopped on the edge of the dance floor as the others came up to them. Francesca tried to step away from him, to put a little space between them, but he simply stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her rib cage, right under her breasts. The feel of his arms pressing so tightly on the undersides of her breasts made her feel needy. Achy. He was too potent and she couldn't be so close, not with the spotlight so clearly on them. She couldn't even take a breath without breathing him in.

“You know Lanz and Deangelo,
bambina
, right? These are two more of my cousins from New York. Salvatore and Lucca, this is my Francesca.”

Salvatore took her hand and brought it to his mouth. Before he could touch his lips to her knuckles, Stefano reached out and caught her wrist, pulling her hand away. Immediately his cousins burst into laughter.

“Damned swine,” Stefano said, without the least rancor. “Francesca, it's best not to look directly at these New Yorkers.
They may be my cousins, but they're truly the devil's best friends. Stay very close to me so I can protect you.”

She couldn't help but laugh as the cousins looked pleased with Stefano's assessment. Stefano waved his hand toward the VIP section and their table. Surrounded by the men, Francesca felt unbelievably protected as they moved up the stairs to their table. Stefano's brothers were already there, seated with Emmanuelle, and they actually rose when Francesca approached the table. She found herself blushing at the attention they were getting.

“Where's Joanna?” she asked Emmanuelle, a little worried that her friend might be upset that she'd disappeared.

“On the dance floor with Mario. They can't take their eyes off each other,” Giovanni said. “I'm looking into that man. He'd better not break her heart.”

Francesca liked that, even though he really did sound menacing and the quick nods the brothers gave one another made them seem just as threatening. Still, it was Joanna, and she was grateful the Ferraro brothers took her protection seriously.

“Rigina and Rosina are keeping an eye on things,” Emmanuelle said. “Don't go all cavemen on poor Joanna. She's really into Mario, and he seems genuine enough.”

Stefano held out the chair for Francesca and then, when she slipped into it, pulled the one beside it close, so their thighs were touching and he could easily wrap his arm around her shoulders. He caught her hand and pulled it to his thigh, pressing her palm deep into his heat.

The waitress was there instantly. Francesca knew she shouldn't—she needed to keep her wits about her—but she ordered another Moscow Mule with lime. The lime, vodka and ginger beer made a refreshing drink. It went down smoothly, sometimes too smoothly, but she didn't care. She relaxed into Stefano and let the talk flow around her, although the cousins, brothers and Emmanuelle made certain she was a part of the conversation.

There was a lot of laughter. The Ferraro family clearly was close and they liked one another enough to give one another a hard time. Salvatore and Lucca's brother, Geno, couldn't attend the family celebration but had sent his congratulations.

“What exactly is the family celebrating?” Francesca asked Stefano, leaning close to him, her head on his shoulder, her lips pressed against his ear to be heard above the noise of the club.

Stefano threw back his head and laughed. She
loved
the sound. Carefree. Masculine. Enjoying life. He didn't laugh a lot. “You,
bambina
, we're celebrating me finding you.”

She was stunned by the sheer honesty in his voice. By the raw desire so plain in his vibrant blue eyes for anyone to see. By the possession stamped deep into his dark expression. He meant that. His cousins and family were celebrating Stefano finding Francesca. Claiming her. That knowledge went deep. She felt tears burn behind her eyes. Before anyone else could see them, she turned her face into his neck.

Immediately he wrapped his arms around her. “You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Francesca. Of course I'm going to share the most important woman in my life with the people I love. My cousins from San Francisco couldn't make it, but they wanted to.”

“We're careful not to all gather in one place,” Taviano supplied. “San Francisco drew the short straw.”

The short straw—she'd heard that term before when Emmanuelle hadn't come to support her during what she thought of as “the interrogation.” “Why wouldn't you be able to gather in one place together?” She frowned at them as they all went silent.

Stefano shrugged casually, when she knew he was feeling anything but casual. She could feel the tension around the table.

“It stems from hundreds of years ago, a law handed down in our family generations ago. The Saldi family in Sicily
murdered the Ferraro family, killing as many members, men, women and children, as they could. The decree that we don't all gather in one place was passed down by those surviving that massacre. It was a long time ago, just history really, but we still abide by that rule.”

Stefano had sworn at Giuseppi Saldi, deliberately goading him. When the two families had feuded for over a hundred years or more, why would he feel he was safe talking to the head of a crime family like that unless the Ferraro family was also a crime family as she'd first suspected? A small, icy finger of unease snaked down her spine.

“We're celebrating tonight,” Ricco said, raising his glass. “To our Francesca. May she be followed by the right ones in a very timely manner.”

“Hear, hear,” the others chorused and clinked glasses.

She had no idea what they were talking about, but they all seemed happy, so she sipped at her drink, smiling. Letting herself believe that she could have a big family. That a man would love her the way Stefano seemed to. She didn't deserve it. She hadn't earned it, but she was determined to do so.

The talk flowed around her for another hour. She wanted to dance. One more Moscow Mule and she wouldn't care whether it bothered Stefano or not. She leaned close to him. “I'll be right back, Stefano,” she said. “I'm heading to the ladies' room and no, you can't go with me,” she hastily added as he rose with her. To her horror they all stood. The entire table of men. To try to stop the furious blush rising, she tugged at her hand to escape him. “And I'll want to dance, so if you didn't bring your dancing shoes, be prepared for seeing me dancing with another man.”

“That's not happening,
dolce cuore
, not unless you want to see bloodshed. Fortunately, I always bring my dancing shoes. And I will be escorting you, so don't argue with me anymore. I don't like it and it won't do you any good.”

She blinked rapidly, annoyed. “You seriously can't say things like that to me. I mean it, Stefano. I'm sorry if I annoy you, but if I object to something, I'm going to voice it.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her in close, her front to his side as they made their way to the restrooms in the VIP section. “Voice it all you like, Francesca. I didn't mean you can't tell me when you disagree, but there isn't any purpose in arguing when it comes to your safety. You won't get your way.”

F
rancesca made her way to the restrooms without looking at Stefano. It was easy enough because she was so close to him she could feel his heat right through his immaculate and extremely expensive pin-striped suit. He was annoying her with his bossy ways, but not enough for her to start a fight over it. She was far too mellow with her three Moscow Mules, the music, and the feel and smell of Stefano Ferraro.

“What's up with the suits?” she murmured, running her hand inside his jacket so she could feel the quality of his impressive dark shirt. “You and all your brothers wear them, your sister does and now your cousins. But not
all
your cousins. They all wear suits, just not pin-striped suits.”

Stefano hesitated. Just slightly, but it was enough of a hesitation that she noticed it and she stopped, forcing him to stop right along with her. Only then did she realize that the party had accompanied them. They were surrounded by his brothers and cousins, including Emilio and Enzo. She was once again in the center, as if they were all guarding her.

“Stefano?” Her voice trembled a little. Suddenly, from feeling safe and protected, she feared maybe there was a reason they were all surrounding her. Was it because they'd confirmed that the man staring at her at the deli had been sent by Barry Anthon? She'd continued to work and he hadn't returned, nor had anyone else shown up.

“I'll explain about the suits at home,
bambina
.” His voice
was gentle, once again obviously reading her mood, but not the reason why.

She looked around the circle of tough, handsome faces and found herself pressing closer to Stefano. “Is something wrong? Did Barry . . .”

“No.”
He was emphatic. “We're just watching over you your first time out in a public venue when the paparazzi are here. We try to keep them out, but cameras are everywhere.”

For the first time, she detected a lie. They hadn't tried to keep the paparazzi out. Why would that be? And why would Stefano lie about that when he clearly hadn't lied about anything else? She didn't understand his world. It was filled with intrigue and danger. More, she feared it was filled with violence.

She studied his face, taking her time. Letting him see her trepidation. He was so beautiful to her. The planes and angles of his face, so absolutely masculine. He looked like a man, not a boy. There wasn't softness to his features, yet he still looked model perfect to her. The long sweep of his eyelashes and deep blue of his eyes, the shadow on his strong jaw, his straight aristocratic nose and especially his mouth, that sinful, amazing mouth that gave her so many fantasies—all together were perfection.

His fingers curled around the nape of her neck and he bent his head until his forehead touched hers and he was staring into her eyes. “You gave me you, Francesca. Give me your trust.”

She went up on tiptoes and put her mouth to his ear. “You just told me a lie about the paparazzi, Stefano. You wanted them here.”

She expected him to be upset that she caught his lie, but instead he looked inexplicably pleased and proud of her. “We'll sort out your questions in time. For now,
bella
, just trust me.”

She took a breath. Inhaled him right through her nose, her mouth, her very pores until she was taking him deep into her
body. He had wound himself so tightly around her bones and heart that she knew she would never get him out. She just nodded, because she was incapable of speech. Her heart beat a weirdly frantic tattoo and blood thundered in her ears so loud she couldn't hear anything but her own driving need. She touched her tongue to her bottom lip. His face was so close, the tip of her tongue touched his lip as well.

“
Bambina
, right now, go into the restroom while you still can. When you come out, we'll dance and then I'm going to take you home and fuck you all night.” He whispered the promise against her lips and it felt like he was already doing just that.

Her sex clenched and went damp. Her nipples tightened. Her breathing went ragged. He lifted his forehead from hers and turned her toward the restroom. She wasn't entirely certain she could take those last few steps to the entrance on her wobbly legs, but she managed, slipping into a stall and closing her eyes, savoring the way Stefano could make her feel with just a few words.

Perversely, she even liked him bossy when he was telling her what to do sometimes. She liked that he was decisive, confident and willing to take charge. She supposed when she was thinking about other things besides sex that might make her a little crazy, but right now, that was part of the chemistry.

To her dismay, when she emerged to wash her hands, the three blondes were there. Janice, in her venomous glory, was leaning down to sniff a line of cocaine right off the sink. Francesca raised an eyebrow but said nothing, going to the opposite end of the sink to the last basin.

Doreen nudged Stella. “Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes is giving us the shocked eye.”

Francesca swept her gaze over the three women coolly. “Not shocked, just a little horrified. That can't be too sanitary.”

“Sanitary?” Janice straightened, rubbing her nose to get the white powder clinging there off. “You're going home with
Stefano Ferraro and you want to talk sanitary? Do you really think a little virginal thing like you is going to hold a man like that for more than one night? He likes spice, honey. He likes a woman to know what she's doing in his bed. You don't look like you know your way around a cock without a diagram.”

The three women erupted into crude laughter. Francesca took the warm towel from the attendant, who met her eyes just for a moment, sympathy plain there. Maybe even a show of support. That quick, with just one brief moment taking her eyes off the other women, Doreen stepped behind her, her arms whipping around Francesca, holding her in place.

A toilet flushed in one of the stalls. Stella called out, stepping in close to Francesca. “Stay in the stall, bitch, unless you want to get hurt. You”—she indicated the attendant—“go find somewhere else to be.”

Francesca forced herself to remain calm, when her temper was rising at an alarming rate. “Are you kidding me right now? You're grown women. You have careers. This is absolutely ridiculous. Doreen, let go of me.”

“We're going to see how much Stefano likes his little virgin when he sees she's really a coke whore,” Janice snarled, her eyes so narrow they appeared to be twin bright slits.

Doreen tried to push Francesca forward toward the sink and when Francesca resisted, Stella joined forces, shoving hard. Francesca was horrified. It had never occurred to her that three successful women, all grown and supposedly sophisticated and elegant, would resort to such childish and criminal assault. She realized they really meant it; they were going to push her face into the cocaine Janice had smeared on the sink. She slammed her heel hard into Doreen's shin, scraped down it so that she tore Doreen's stockings and stomped hard on her foot.

Doreen screamed out a string of ugly curses and flung Francesca forward into the sink. Francesca hit hard against the marble, but she spun around before Stella could push
her face into the white powder. Janice shoved her open hand into Francesca's face in an attempt to coat Francesca's nose and mouth with the drug.

Suddenly Janice was dragged backward and Emmanuelle was there, moving so fast she seemed a blur of motion, barely discernible as she smoothly and efficiently dispatched all three women, using her hands and feet. One moment they were all standing and the next they were on the floor, faces swelling and bloody. All three cried, makeup running down their faces. Emmanuelle stood over them, contempt on her face, her body posture threatening. She looked every inch a Ferraro—a woman no one would ever want to mess with.

“Are you okay, Francesca?” In spite of her clear threat toward the three women trying to push themselves up onto their hands and knees, she appeared as calm and relaxed as ever.

“Yes. They didn't hurt me.”

“Stay still,” Emmanuelle hissed, nudging Janice with her foot. “You just tried to drug my future sister-in-law. She's Stefano's fiancée. What do you think he's going to do when he finds out what you've done?”

The faces turned up toward them went very pale. Doreen began to cry. The three of them made no move to get off the floor, obeying Emmanuelle's directive.

Francesca checked her face in the mirror to make certain there was no trace of the white powder. “I'm fine. We don't need to share this with Stefano.”

“Yes, we do,” Emmanuelle said firmly. “You can never keep anything from Stefano.
Never
, Francesca. Especially when you've received threats. The slightest threat needs to be shared with the family.”

Francesca took a breath. Emmanuelle was saying much more than what appeared on the surface of her admonishment, but what it was, Francesca had no idea. Still, in spite of the fact that Emmanuelle was very small, even shorter than Francesca, she appeared a woman of sheer steel.

Slowly, Francesca nodded. “Let me tell him.”

Emmanuelle gave her a look. “You'll give him a lame
version, and that's not going to fly, Francesca. What they tried to do to you was criminal. You could have been seriously hurt. All because they were jealous.” She toed Janice with her Jimmy Choo sandal. “You're going to lose everything, you skank. Your money, your career, your friends,
everything
. He would never have dated you, any of you, not in a million years.” She poured contempt into her voice. “Trying to harm Francesca because she's everything you're not is just plain stupid.”

“Emmanuelle,” Francesca intervened softly. Emmanuelle had the Ferraro trait of being intimidating. “Let's go.”

Emmanuelle looked as if she wanted to start with physical violence all over again, but she stalked to the sink and washed her hands, smiling sweetly at the attendant and then pushing a large tip into her hands. She caught Francesca's arm and they left the restroom, the three women still on the floor, afraid to move, afraid of going against Emmanuelle's orders before she left the room.

Uneasiness crept into Francesca's mind. The three women were terrified of Emmanuelle—or at least of the threats she made.

“Stefano can't really wreck their careers, can he?” she asked, already afraid she knew the answer.

Emmanuelle just leveled a look at her. Francesca's heart lurched and then began to pound. The moment they had taken four steps out of the restroom and Stefano got a look at her, he claimed her, taking her hand and pulling her into the shelter of his body. His hand swept over her hair in a little caress.

“What happened?”

He chose to look to his sister for an explanation rather than to Francesca. Her temper flared. “Seriously, Stefano? Your skanky women tried to assault me—that's what happened.”

She was rather shocked at the instant reaction. The crowd of his brothers and cousins went silent. Ricco in particular looked horrified. His gaze met Stefano's over her head.

All of them reflected the same emotions.
All
of them.
The brothers and cousins. Shock. Anger. The collective rage was so strong it was difficult to breathe with the violent tension filling the air. Stefano looked like thunder, a dark storm gathering in his vivid blue eyes. Stefano actually made to move past her, heading toward the restrooms, his face reflecting his rage.

“I'm all right.” Francesca caught his arm, halting him, hastening to reiterate. “Emmanuelle came along and went all superwoman on them.”

“What
exactly
did these women try to do to you?” He bit out each word between clenched white teeth, all the while smoldering with fury.

She swallowed down the truth and went for a less dramatic version. “They had the idea that if I had a little of their cocaine on my face you'd not find me so attractive.”

Emmanuelle coughed delicately behind her hand. Francesca glared at Stefano's sister, giving her a wide-eyed plea after. Francesca couldn't believe how angry the Ferraro clan was over the incident, and she feared for the three women when they emerged from the restrooms. Emmanuelle had already beaten them up. Aside from pressing criminal charges, which Francesca wouldn't do—she was never going to the police again—there wasn't much else to be done.

“I said
exactly
.” Stefano caught her chin and tilted her face up toward his, his blue gaze inspecting every inch of her, looking for damage.
“Exactly.”

There was no getting around Stefano in this mood, or the others for that matter. They had sucked all the breathable air available and left behind a heavy layer of oppressive anger. “The three of them, Janice, Doreen and Stella, seem very upset that you aren't continuing your relationship with them. They were in the restroom doing a little pick-me-up cocaine right off the bathroom sink, which has to be totally unsanitary . . .”

“
Francesca.
Dios
, woman, you are making me crazy. Just tell me.”

Someone snickered. She thought it was Vittorio and she
was grateful to him for lightening the mood because the air became a bit less oppressive and she felt like she could actually breathe.

“Their idea was to smash my face in the powder. Doreen grabbed me from behind and Stella helped her. Janice tried to rub the coke into my nose and mouth.” She rushed the story, hoping by telling it really fast, no one would actually hear the panic in her voice—the panic she had refused to feel when the three women had attempted to assault her.

Stefano cursed loud and long, first in Italian—and he was very inventive—and then in English—and he was very expressive.

“I believe these women reside in New York,” Salvatore stated, his voice implying all sorts of things that scared Francesca.

Her gaze jumped to his face. “Emmanuelle took care of it,” she reminded softly. “She beat the crap out of them.”