Her smile widened. Reached her eyes. Lit them so they glittered like gems. "I think I'm so exhausted that I'll kick off my running shoes for the night." The smile faded. "Honestly, Stefano, thank you for rescuing me."
His gut clenched hotly. "You're very welcome. Do me a favor and next time give me the benefit of the doubt."
"So you think there will be a next time?"
"Without a doubt." His phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen to identify the caller. "If you'll excuse me for a moment . . ." He turned his back on Francesca and made for the doorway. "Tell me, Vittorio." He listened to the explanation Joanna had given to his brother and anger began to swirl like a dark, murderous shadow in his belly.
"That isn't good enough. You tell Joanna that excuse is bullshit. The minute she knew Francesca was living in that building and wouldn't listen to reason, she should have come to me. I don't give a flying fuck if I intimidate her. She could have gone to you or Giovanni," he hissed. "She could have had her uncle call us. What she did was totally unacceptable."
He glanced over his shoulder, feeling Francesca's eyes on him. She had crawled out of the sleeping bag and dragged her T-shirt over her head, tossing it aside on the couch. She pulled on his shirt hastily, giving him a glimpse of bare skin and full curves. Need slammed into him, in spite of the anger. It was urgent, hot and decidedly uncomfortable. He watched her slide the buttons closed, one by one. He didn't take his gaze from the sight and she didn't look away from him. Not once.
"I've got to go, Vittorio. Please make certain she understands that Francesca will never be allowed in that kind of danger again. I will hold her responsible, and she doesn't want that." He snapped the phone closed and shoved it in his pocket.
Francesca swallowed hard. "Are you angry with Joanna for some reason?"
"Yes." His voice was clipped. Abrupt. It was the best he could do because he still wanted to drag Joanna out of her safe bed and scare the holy hell out of her.
"Why?"
She walked closer to him on her bare feet. She had small feet and shapely legs. The tails of his shirt came just midway down her thighs. The shirt enveloped her, but she looked sexy and enticing, as if she was wrapped up like a present for his bedroom.
He allowed his gaze to drift possessively over her body before coming back to her face--that face that he found so beautiful. "Francesca, you live in Ferraro territory, and that makes you mine. You don't have to understand it, but just accept that what I'm telling you is the truth. My family looks out for the people here. We take their safety and well-being seriously. If anything had happened to you, there would have been far-reaching consequences."
She nodded slowly, the pad of her thumb slipping between her teeth. She bit down in agitation. His cock jerked in reaction.
"What has that got to do with Joanna?" She halted a few feet from him.
"Joanna has lived in our territory all of her life. She's been safe and she counts on feeling safe. She knew better than to allow you to live in that shit hole."
She winced at his language, making him aware of it. He wasn't a soft man. He never had been and he certainly didn't mince words.
"Joanna doesn't have a say in anything I do. She objected, but I didn't want to take her money. She lent me the money for the bus ticket out here. She's been nothing but kind to me. She didn't turn her back on me even when it meant she was jeopardizing herself. I couldn't take more from her."
There was a long silence and her gaze skittered away from his when she realized exactly what she'd revealed to him. So there was a problem, something big that made her other friends and possibly family turn their backs on her. Joanna hadn't. He could be grateful for that.
"What happened that others turned their backs on you?" He made a conscious effort to soften his tone.
Her chin went up. She squared her shoulders. "It's of no consequence. I asked you why you would hold Joanna responsible for my actions. She couldn't force me to do what she wanted."
"She should have come to me." His tone said it all and he knew she got the message. Joanna might not be able to force her to compliance, but he could. He kept his gaze on hers, not allowing her to look away from him again. Wanting her to see he meant business.
"You aren't responsible for me."
He shrugged. "You saying that doesn't make me feel any different."
"Stefano, I have to ask you this, and I don't want you to be angry with me. It's just that you're very scary at times and I don't understand what's going on here."
"What's going on here is that I'm attracted to you. Aside from that, you belong in my territory. That means I protect you whether or not you like it and whether or not you're always comfortable with how I go about protecting you."
"Are you mafia? A part of organized crime?"
He kept his eyes on hers, refusing to allow her to look away. If she had the audacity to ask such a question, she should have the courage to look him in the eye while she did it.
"Does it matter to you what I do?"
"Of course it does. I don't like the idea of anyone selling drugs or running guns, doing anything so deplorable, protecting me."
"I can assure you I don't sell drugs, nor does any member of my family. We don't run guns, either."
He saw the relief on her face. She pushed at her hair and sent him a tentative smile. "I think you're right about going to bed. It's been a long day and I need to sleep before I figure out what I'm going to do next."
He indicated for her to follow him. He hadn't lied to her. No member of his family would even consider selling drugs or running guns. That didn't mean they never worked with the scum who did do those things. He pushed open the door to one of his guest bedrooms. "This room has a private bath. I'm close if you need anything. Otherwise, sweet dreams, baby. Don't forget the chair under the doorknob."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Francesca drew the covers to her chin, snuggling down between the luxurious sheets. The mattress was pure heaven. The sheets felt even better. Sleeping in the street, in a shelter, or on the floor in a sleeping bag wasn't conducive to a great night's sleep. Worse, as a rule, she was afraid to close her eyes, but the bed was sheer bliss. The room was huge, much larger than the entire apartment she'd rented. She shivered, trying not to think about Bart Tidwell staring at her as she showered. It was such a violation.
She looked around the tastefully decorated room and wished she could stay. For the first time in three years she felt safe. She knew it was because of Stefano Ferraro. She had no idea why he made her feel safe, when she knew absolutely that he was a dangerous man, but he did. She wished she could stay right there in that wonderful room, in the even better bed, and just feel protected and cared for.
She crammed her fist into her mouth, closing her eyes, deeply embarrassed that she'd asked him if he was a member of organized crime. He'd been good to her--she couldn't deny that. He might have used crude language, but he'd been decent, and she'd rewarded him with false accusations. She'd lost faith in everybody. In everything. The justice system. Her former friends. Her former boss.
There had only been Joanna, and now she'd gotten her in trouble through her own stubbornness and pride. If she was being entirely honest, she didn't want to owe Joanna anything more because she couldn't bear to be hurt again. She didn't want to trust her more than she had to, and that was a very sorry thing to have to admit about herself. Joanna had proven to be a good friend. A better friend to her than she was to Joanna.
She felt herself drifting. Trying not to think about Stefano or his gorgeous, very hot, over-the-top masculine looks. She secretly liked that he was bossy. It made her feel as if he could really protect her from anything, although she knew better. Reality was far different from daydreams.
What woman in her right mind wouldn't fantasize about Stefano? She could give herself that. He was wealthy, handsome, confident, everything a woman could possibly want in a man. She knew he wasn't for her, so it wasn't a good idea to think about him while falling asleep
, especially when she was in his home, in his bed.
She allowed her eyes to close and conjured up an image of her beloved sister, Cella. She was older by nine years and in Francesca's mind, absolutely stunningly beautiful. That had been the trouble. Cella was so beautiful she could stop traffic. It was impossible for anyone not to notice her. Noticing led to temptation. Temptation led to murder.
Cella's smile, as she stared back at Francesca, faltered. She opened her mouth to say something. To call out. To scream. She reached a hand toward Francesca, looking scared. Terrified. Pleading. Francesca reached for her, trying to connect, trying to hold on, to keep her sister with her. Blood spattered across Cella's face. Down her body. She was naked, her clothes ripped from her. There were bruises marring her skin, and five puncture wounds on her body. Each wound had blood dripping from it. One spouted like a fountain.
Francesca dropped to her knees beside her sister and covered the spray with both hands, pressing deep, sobbing, calling her sister's name, imploring her to stay. To not leave her alone. Her phone felt slippery as she called 911, and she dropped it twice, trying to punch in the numbers, Cella's blood all over it. Cella coughed, bringing up blood. It bubbled all around her mouth. Her eyes widened as she stared at Francesca. One hand reached for her. She coughed. Gurgled. Then her head turned and only her eyes stared. Lifeless. Gone.
Francesca screamed, "No! No, Cella, don't leave me. You can't leave me." Anguish was raw and terrible, ripping at her heart. Her screams tore at her throat. She lifted her horrified, grief-stricken gaze to stare up at the man framed in the doorway.
He sneered at her. "No one will believe you, Francesca. You'd better do what I say or you'll find yourself in trouble. You can end this anytime."
She launched herself at him, trying to take him to the ground, thinking she could hold him there until the police arrived. She was crying and her tears nearly blinded her. She couldn't see him clearly.
"Wake up, bambina," a male voice commanded. It was a command. Nothing less. "Open your eyes. Look at me."
She fought hard, trying to punch and kick. Her eyes were open. He was there. Watching her. He was always watching her. Laughing when the police dismissed her claims, ignored all of the evidence because it was him. He'd warned Cella. And then he'd killed her. Now he was warning her.
"Francesca. Open. Your. Eyes. Look at me."
Her wrists were pinned to the mattress on either side of her head. He was strong. Enormously strong. There was no way to break free. A sob escaped. Panic choked her. If she did, if she opened her eyes and it was him . . .
"Dolce cuore. You're killing me here. Look at me."
This time the voice was soft. Gentle. The tone found a path through the fear lodged so deep in her throat. In her belly. He held her wrists together with one hand, but he brought her body tight against his, holding her. His other hand pressed her face into his solid chest. She inhaled and brought a familiar scent into her lungs. Her body recognized it before she did. Stefano. She loved the spicy, masculine scent that seemed to seep into her body through her pores.
She pressed deeper into him, and he let go of her wrists to slide his arm around her back, locking her to him. "That's my girl. Relax. You're safe." His fingers delved deep into her hair, massaging her scalp. She'd never felt so safe and the panic began to slowly subside.
Francesca became aware that she was crying. She heard the soft sobs first. Muffled. A little wild. Stefano murmured to her in Italian. She understood a few of the words. Not many, because her parents had spoken the language in her home and she'd lost them. Once they were gone, Cella spoke mostly English. Sometimes it was . . . Bella. Cara. Carissima. She could have sworn he brushed kisses in her hair.
"Bambina, you have to stop crying. Take a breath and talk to me. It was a nightmare. You're here with me. Safe. Nothing can get to you here."
"He can," she said, the panic welling up again. Smothering her. "He'll hurt you. Joanna. He'll say terrible things and I'll lose my job. I have to . . ."
His hand found her chin, prying her face from his chest. He tipped her face up and brought his down. Close. "Look at me, bella. I am not a man others fuck with. Not ever. You're here. With me. That means you're safe." There was an edge to his voice.
She wanted to smile and the choking fear and panic slipped further away. She forced her lashes to cooperate. The moment she opened her eyes, he was there. Stefano. His face was close. That hard jaw. The masculine beauty. His eyes. The arrogant confidence and the aura of danger clinging to him. It was all there. She felt more protected than she'd felt for years. She wanted to stay right where she was, close to him. Feeling how solid he was. All muscle. He had a steel core. Truthfully, he was the first and only man she believed might be able to keep her safe.
It wasn't fair to him. To stay with him, knowing he felt he had to defend everyone around him, was wrong. She should find the strength to leave so she wouldn't endanger him, but there was nowhere to go. She had no money. She had nothing at all.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Hating herself. Knowing she was going to give him that burden. That danger. Because she could no longer do this alone. She wasn't living. She was existing. Every second of every day, she was terrified. One could only live with terror for so long. Not just terror. Anger. Guilt.
Stefano Ferraro was an unexpected complication. Or savior. She had chemistry with him, intense and scary, but it was there and she'd never felt it before. Not like that. He'd said he was attracted to her. It was obvious that physically, he was. She knew if she let anything happen between them, he would be bossy and controlling. She didn't believe in relationships where one person was needy, and yet she was. She was exactly that person, but that wasn't the real her. It was circumstances.
"You're back with me." Relief tinged his voice. His arms slid around her again and he held her close, her ear over the steady beat of his heart. One hand stroked caresses in her hair. "Do you have nightmares often?"
She had to give him the truth if she was going to give him the worst of her. "Yes. All the time. I don't sleep more than a few hours a night because they come often. Every time I close my eyes."
She didn't lift her head. She couldn't tell him while she looked at him because the guilt would overwhelm her. She knew how a man like Stefano would react to her disclosure. He'd asked, but still, she knew he was off-the-charts protective. If he were really interested in her as a woman, he'd be even more so.
"I dream about Cella and the murder. Nearly every night. Again and again."
There was silence while his hand moved in her hair. She wanted to look up at him, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Not yet. Not when she was throwing him into the pit where demons lived. She didn't know when it had happened. Maybe when he'd been so angry over the DVDs he'd handed her. The tone in his voice, his abhorrence that any man could act that way toward a woman, for one brief moment she'd let down her guard and he'd slipped in.
His coat. The bane of her life. The money. The way he'd talked to the little boy. Ruffled his hair. So sweet. The older woman, Theresa Vitale, who had cried and moved him to help her. The way he talked about the people in his neighborhood. There was genuine caring there. Unreal to her when she'd never seen it or known it until him. He'd found a crack in her armor and he'd slipped right in so that she trusted him when she barely knew him. When she didn't trust anyone.
"I'm sorry, dolce cuore. When did this happen?"
She couldn't believe he could sound so gentle. Stefano didn't strike her as a gentle man, yet he had been with Tonio, the little boy, and Theresa Vitale, the older woman. Even with Lucia and Amo Fausti. She moistened her lips and forced herself to look up, into his piercing blue eyes.
"A year ago. Almost eighteen months."
"Like yesterday," he murmured, still stroking her hair. "I'm so sorry."
She nodded, blinking back more tears. The aftermath of a nightmare always left her wrung out and exhausted emotionally, yet wide awake, afraid to go back to sleep.
>
"Did they catch him?"
She stiffened. She couldn't help herself. Her gaze started to slide from his but he caught her chin in an unbreakable grip.
"Answer me, Francesca. The truth."
"Someone confessed." That was strictly the truth. "He didn't go to prison because he was terminally ill. He died six months ago."
"But," he coaxed gently, "you don't believe he was guilty."
She took a breath, wishing she could pull her gaze from his, but it was like being held captive. She was chained to him, body and soul, and she had no idea how, in the faint light from the open window, that had happened. There were shadows all over the room. Her shadow merged with his on the wall. That was how she felt when she was close to him like this. Merged. Connected. One skin instead of two. Wrapped in chains, so that they both were irrevocably tied together.
"No. It wasn't him. I came in after and I saw him. I knew him. He spoke to me. Taunted me."
His blue eyes darkened to pure steel. "He threatened you?"
She nodded slowly. "I told the police, but they didn't believe me. He took away my job and my home and everything I had. Twice in the middle of the night he came with some others and tore up my apartment. Damaged the walls, ripped out the toilet, broke things, put horrible scratches in the floor . . ." She broke off, her hand going to her throat because she feared she'd choke to death on the large lump blocking her airway. "He could do that here," she added in a small, gasping voice.
"Take a breath, Francesca. Look around you. I own this hotel. There's security here. I'm here. He can't get to you and neither can his friends."
She drew in air and took the scent of him deep into her lungs. The nightmare was beginning to fade. and with clarity came horror at what she was doing. She wasn't the type of woman to manipulate anyone into doing something dangerous, such as standing in front of her--as she knew Stefano would--to protect her from the likes of the man who had murdered her sister. It was a despicable thing to do, and no matter how terrible her circumstances, she had no right to drag anyone else into her personal nightmare.
She tried to shift subtly, to pull back, give herself a chance to rethink what she was doing. His arm, locked across her back, held her in place.
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