Shadow Rider (34 page)

Ricco sent him a small smile. “Good. You need anything, you call. Stefano gave you the number, right?”

Bruno winced at Stefano's name, but continued bobbing his head. “Yeah. I mean, yes, Mr. Ferraro.”

Ricco dismissed him by turning to Francesca and leaning close to her. The boy stood awkwardly for a moment before giving his order to Pietro.

“He's afraid of you,” Francesca observed.

Ricco shrugged. “Don't know why. I'm just sitting here with my brother's woman, giving her a little advice.”

“Thank you for that, Ricco. I appreciate it. You made me see things in a different light. I probably would have been stupid and made a run for it.”

His eyes darkened and another shiver went through her. Ricco Ferraro was every bit as scary as his brother, maybe more. There were demons in his eyes that Stefano didn't have. She had the feeling something terrible had happened to him, something he'd buried deep, but that still drove him hard. “Don't ever do that, Francesca,” he warned. “Stefano would come after you and he wouldn't be alone. All of us would help him find you. You're ours, part of our family and just like I was trying to say to Bruno, that means something. You don't walk away from that because it gets hard.”

She nodded, took a breath and took the plunge. “You can talk to me, Ricco. I know you aren't going to talk to your siblings, but I want you to know, you can talk to me. Whatever happened, however terrible, I would understand.”

He shut down. Instantly. She knew she was right about Ricco and his past, but he wasn't going to share. Instead, he gave her the famous Ferraro smile, the one reserved for
cameras, interviews and strangers. “Thanks,
cara
, but I'm just fine.” He stood up abruptly and pushed back his chair. “I appreciate the offer though.”

She forced a small nod and stood up, too. It was time to go back to work. The next wave of customers would be arriving very soon. The afternoon shift was always the most difficult to keep up with. The deli would be totally packed with lines outside and every table inside filled. She liked that shift because time flew by and it was a challenge to keep up with all the orders, but it was also exhausting.

Francesca was able to chat with the first wave of customers, laughing a little with them, watching closely to see if she could spot anyone who had already read the stories about her, but so far, Pietro's customers didn't seem to read many of the gossip magazines. By later afternoon, she was beginning to relax. The crush was nearly over and nothing had been said, no whispers had invaded the shop, no strange, telling glances. She was beginning to think she would escape completely today and have time to prepare a defense.

Enzo suddenly burst through the shop door and pointed at her. “Get in the back, Francesca.
Now.
”

Pietro caught her by the shoulders, turning her body and all but throwing her away from the counter. There was no mistaking the urgency in Enzo's voice or Pietro's hands. Tugging at her apron, she glanced out the large windows at the front of the store. In the street she could see a frenzy of paparazzi descending on the deli. Someone had finally sold her out. She turned and hurried down the hall to the employee break room. There was a screen where she could see what was happening. Standing just inside the door, she stared at the chaos already reigning in the front of the store.

Paparazzi pushed their way in and were asking everyone questions. Emilio came up behind her. “Stay right here. I'm going to help Enzo throw their asses out. Don't you move.”

“I won't.” She had no intention of being that stupid. She'd dealt with all this before and it had been one of the worst times of her life.

Her phone vibrated and she pulled it out, still staring at the screen. Emilio had waded into the crowd, trying to keep the customers defending Pietro and her from getting into fistfights with the photographers desperate to get photographs that would make them money.

“Bambina.”
Stefano's voice was a lifeline. “Emilio said you're under siege.” So calm. His voice strong. A low, sexy tone that soothed even as it took charge.

“You could say that. I don't think Pietro will want me working here anymore. What a mess.”

“It isn't that he won't want you there, Francesca—it's a matter of your safety. He's already grown fond of you and he doesn't want anything to happen to you.”

“I hope I'm not hearing smug satisfaction in your voice. I happen to know you don't want me working. You didn't somehow manage to engineer the raid on the store, did you?” She tried to make a joke of it when she really wanted to cry.

“
Dolce cuore
, I would never send a hoard of paparazzi after you even to get my way, and I'm pretty ruthless.” His voice turned grim. “However, I will find out who did. And did you use the word
smug
? I can't imagine anyone ever thinking I'm smug.”

She laughed softly and winced a little when Emilio, Enzo and Tito from the pizzeria forcibly ejected a burly man. As he staggered backward on the sidewalk, Agnese Moretti knocked him in the head and about the shoulders with her purse. She appeared to be giving him a lecture as she attacked him.

A hand fell on her shoulder hard, fingers digging deep and she was yanked backward, right out of the employee break room. She emitted a startled, frightened yelp before the hand went from her shoulder to clamp hard over her mouth.

“Shut the fuck up, you bitch. You're coming with me.” A knife cut into her skin just below her throat, right over the spot where the necklace Stefano had given her had nearly faded away.

She had no choice but to move backward, off balance as the intruder dragged her down the short hallway to the back
exit. She kept her phone clutched in her hand, hoping Stefano could hear every word.

“Who are you? What do you want?” She asked him the questions more for Stefano's sake than her own. She didn't care who he was or what he wanted. The knife blade cut into her again, a second shallow laceration. She felt blood trickle down her skin to the curve of her breasts.

“I'm the man clever enough to get you right out from under the noses of the fucking Ferraros. A few paparazzi figure out where you are and your idiot bodyguards rush to get them out of the store and leave you unprotected.”

“Tell me what you want.” He'd dragged her out into the alley now. Francesca shivered and then let out a little scream when he sliced into her skin again. “Stop cutting me with the knife. Tell me what you want.”

“I want to know where my friends are—that's what I want, you bitch. You go running to your boyfriend, whining about a little scratch they put on your neck, and they disappear. Where the fuck are they?”

He shook her, and this time the cut was deeper and a little lower, right on the upper curve of her left breast. She could tell it was shallow and probably an accident but it burned like hell.

“I don't know who you're talking about.” But she had a sinking feeling she did.

“They mugged you, and Emilio and Enzo took them away. No one's seen them since and the Ferraros are looking for me.” He slid open the door to an old van and tried to shove her inside. In order to push her, he had to remove the knife.

Francesca was not getting into the van. She was certain he'd kill her just to make a point to Stefano. She turned on him, swinging her fist. He grunted, took two steps back and kicked her in the stomach. Francesca folded in half and found herself sitting on the ground. She tried to roll over, to get to her feet before he could come at her again, but he was enraged and he reached down to grab her hair in his fist.

“I'll fucking cut your throat,” he snarled, and the knife
came right at her exposed throat as he jerked her head backward.

Stefano loomed up behind him, a dark, shadowy figure she almost couldn't make out. He seemed to emerge from thin air, from the darkest of the shadows, coming up right behind her assailant and catching his head in the vee of his arm, one hand to the back of the skull, forcing the head forward.

The man dropped the knife from nerveless fingers and sagged in Stefano's arms. Stefano dropped him like a piece of garbage on the ground, not even bothering to kick the knife out of reach. He caught Francesca in his arms just as his brothers and Emmanuelle emerged from the shadows.

“She's bleeding,” Emmanuelle announced unnecessarily. “How bad, Stefano? Does she need an ambulance? A doctor?”

Francesca shook her head. “I'm fine. Really. Just scared.”

Emmanuelle ignored her proclamation, clearly looking to Stefano to give her the word one way or the other. The brothers formed a protective ring around her while Stefano inspected her for damage.

“She has several cuts, shallow, shouldn't need stitches, but I saw him kick her. She'll have a bad bruise.”

“Who is he?” Francesca asked.

“Later,
amore
,” he said, his voice clipped. “We have to do damage control.”

“Get her home,” Ricco advised. “We'll do cleanup and call you when it's done.”

Francesca didn't like the sound of that, all too aware that the man had said his friends had been the ones to try to rob her and they'd disappeared. The last she'd seen of them, Emilio and Enzo were putting them into a car and taking them off somewhere.

“Stefano,” she tried again.

He simply pulled her into his arms, swinging her up to cradle her close, snapping orders. A car pulled up, a man driving she'd seen, but didn't recognize. Clearly he was family
to the Ferraros; another cousin she was certain. He had to be one of the bodyguards who had taken Emilio's place.

Stefano carried her to the car, Ricco stepped forward and opened the door to the backseat and Stefano slid inside, keeping Francesca in his arms. The door slammed shut and the car was in motion. Stefano dropped his chin on top of her head. “That scared the hell out of me. Hearing him threatening you. Your scream. I think it took thirty years off my life.”

She closed her eyes and sagged against his chest. “He seemed to think you had something to do with the disappearance of his friends. You didn't, did you, Stefano?” She didn't open her eyes, but she listened, because it was very important to her to hear his voice, to hear the truth or a lie.

“I know they are no longer alive,” he admitted carefully. “But I didn't kill them.”

That was strictly the truth, but even that admission was enough to start her heart pounding. She tried to push the thought away that Stefano and his family were part of organized crime, but no matter what she did, she couldn't get around it. There were too many coincidences as far as she was concerned. She tried to get off his lap, but Stefano's arms tightened around her.

“Settle,
dolce cuore
. We'll talk about this once we're home.”

“Stefano . . .” What was she going to say? She couldn't leave him. The thought of being without him made her ill. She wouldn't survive it. Somehow, and she wasn't even certain when it had happened, she'd fallen hard and fast. She was in so deep, even knowing he was a criminal, she might not be strong enough to walk away from him.

He nuzzled her neck. “Let's get you home, clean you up and I'll make dinner for us while you rest. After, when you're feeling better, we'll clear everything up.”

She heard the ring of truth in that as well. He wasn't avoiding talking to her. He just wanted her warm, safe and comfortable. That helped to ease her mind. Surely if he was a criminal he would be far more hesitant to talk about the muggers and why he knew they were dead.

“What's going to happen to that man? The one who attacked me?”

Silence filled the car. The air went very heavy with his anger. Heat vibrated in the air, and all over again, dread filled her. Stefano didn't answer and she didn't ask again. The car pulled up to the private entrance around the side of the hotel, the one that looked like an employees-only door, but only family had the code. The bodyguard got out first, took a careful look around, opened the door and signaled to Stefano.

Stefano refused to put her down, even in the private elevator or when they reached the apartment. He carried her on through to the master bedroom and put her on the bed before collecting warm washcloths and a first-aid kit. Francesca detested how safe she felt with him. The soft, loving look on his face. His touch as he cleaned the shallow lacerations. There was no doubt in her mind that he cared about her. She was important to him—maybe too important.

“Are you going to kill him, Stefano?” Francesca had to ask. She already knew the answer, but she had to ask. She had looked at his face, right there, when he'd had his arm around her assailant's neck and she knew he was capable of killing that man. His eyes had been flat and cold. Like ice.

“He's going to die, but I won't be the one to kill him.” There was no inflection in his voice. None. “I'm not ever going to lie to you, Francesca. You're going to be my wife. I won't do that to you, but if you're going to ask me questions, you be absolutely certain you want and can live with the answers.”

“What if I can't live with the answers?” she asked in a small voice. She heard the tremble. She was scared. Not of Stefano, but of what he was. Of what he might tell her and she'd lose him. She couldn't lose him.

“Then don't ask until you can.” His hands dropped to her blouse. He pulled it over her head and tossed it away from him. It was covered in blood and he obviously didn't feel the need to try to save it. Her bra was next and then he was examining the angry cut across the swell of her left breast.

“Fucker,” he whispered, and leaned down to brush the
lightest of kisses across the laceration. “I don't get how a man can do this kind of thing to a woman or to children. What's wrong with them, Francesca?”

She couldn't stop herself from cradling his head to her. He sounded tired. Sad. “This isn't just about me, Stefano. Tell me what's wrong.”