Shadow Rider (37 page)

He called his mother by her first name? Eloisa? Clearly there was a huge rift between mother and son. Stefano was a man who believed in protecting women. It was ingrained in him. At his very core. It shocked her that something had gone so wrong in their relationship that Stefano was disrespectful to his mother. She'd had a few clues. He hadn't included her or his father in the meeting with his cousins when they'd asked her about Barry.

“I know that you're running out of time and you saw a woman who was compatible with you and what you are. You know in another couple of years you'll have to make a match of convenience, so you took the first thing that came your way because you just
have
to be in control.” Eloisa's voice dripped with sarcasm. It also rang with honesty.

Francesca threw one hand out toward the wall to steady herself. What did that mean? A marriage of convenience? Why would Stefano
have
to marry anyone? That didn't make sense. He could have his choice of any woman. He was gorgeous, had tons of money, as well as a million other
reasons why a woman would want him. What did Eloisa mean?
Compatible with you and what you are?
What was Stefano that any woman wouldn't be compatible with him?

“What I choose to do or with whom I do it isn't your concern.”

Knots coiled tight in Francesca's belly. Stefano wasn't denying anything his mother had said. He was protesting her right to say it to him.

“This family is my business. I've given my
entire
life for it, and I won't let your sex drive or your need to prove to me or your father that you're the one in control, not us, ruin everything.”

“I've given my life to this family,” Stefano said, his voice dropping even lower.

His tone made Francesca shiver. She could actually feel the heat of his temper filling the room and drifting down the hall toward her. She wouldn't have been surprised to see the walls bulge outward in an effort to contain his temper. She never, ever wanted him that angry with her.

“My sex drive is none of your business and it never will be. I am the one in control of the family, not you and don't ever be stupid enough to test me on that, Eloisa. You didn't listen to me when I told you what would happen if you sent Ettore into the tubes. I told you he was too young and far too sensitive for this kind of work, but you just had to pull rank on me because you didn't want the family to know you didn't know the first thing about your children and they were all there. The others told you. Ricco, Giovanni, Vittorio, hell, even Taviano and Emmanuelle. All of us. But you just had to prove your point. My baby brother. I was the one who held him in my arms. I was the one who got up at night to feed and change him. Not you. I picked him up when he cried and rocked him back to sleep.”

“He was weak,” Eloisa said in a small voice. “He needed to be a man. I tried to make him a man. You coddled him too much. You always did.”

“He was different, Eloisa, but you refused to see that
because, God forbid, you and your husband couldn't possibly produce a less-than-perfect child. Now Ettore's just dead.”

Francesca's heart broke for Stefano. There was genuine sorrow in his voice. The sorrow a parent would feel for the loss of a child. She took a step toward the living room, needing to comfort him.

“I've known Barry Anthon's parents for some time, Stefano. He comes from good people,” Eloisa continued, as if they hadn't just been discussing the loss of her son. “This deranged woman you call your fiancée accused Barry of murdering her sister—did you know that? It's absolutely absurd. She's got a police record. She's a criminal as well as a mental patient. Give her money to go away. She's not the only rider in the world. They're out there. You just have to look around a little bit.
Dio
, Stefano, at least admit you wouldn't have looked at her twice if she weren't a rider. Be honest with yourself and with me.”

“That may be true, Eloisa,” Stefano said. “But I did look at her.”

Francesca closed her eyes. She'd heard enough, far more than she wanted to hear. Stefano's reason for seeking her out hadn't been compassion because she didn't have a coat. It hadn't been because he was attracted to her. Whatever being a “rider” meant was his true reason for going after her. For asking her to marry him.

She closed her eyes against the tears burning in her throat and behind her eyes. She just had to get out of there with a little dignity and then she could sort things out.

Francesca took a breath, striding down the hall. “Honey, I've got to go. I'm late. I'll text you when I get to work.” She burst out of the hall and was nearly all the way to the elevator before she allowed herself to “see” Stefano had company. “Oh. I'm sorry to interrupt you.” She flashed a fake smile at Eloisa and took the four steps to the elevator and summoned it with a stab of her finger.

“Francesca,” Stefano called out, and took a step toward her.

Fortunately the doors opened and she stepped into the
lift and hurriedly closed the doors on his face. He knew. He knew she'd heard everything. It was written on his face. She didn't care. She practically ran out of the hotel. To her dismay Emilio and Enzo were waiting for her. Emilio opened the door of the car and she slipped inside, praying Stefano wouldn't call him until after he'd gotten her to work. Her fiancé still had his mother to deal with, and she hoped that took a very long time.

F
rancesca resolved not to do anything rash. Stefano had been good to her. There was always honesty in his touch. In his voice. She stuck her thumbnail between her teeth and chewed at it, trying to get past the hurt. She had never felt good enough for Stefano. That wasn't on him—it was on her. Tears burned so close, but she didn't dare shed them. Any moment Emilio's or Enzo's phone would ring and Stefano would order them to turn around and bring her back. A little hysterically she made up her mind to jump out of the car if that happened. She wasn't going back . . . not until she'd had time to think this through.

She could go to Joanna's for the night. Just sit quietly where Stefano's overwhelming, intimidating presence wouldn't color her judgment. Her finger dropped down to the ring he'd given her. So beautiful, like him.

The car pulled up to the curb and she was out before either of her bodyguards could exit. She didn't look at either of them, but rushed into the safety of the deli. Pietro waited behind the counter. He looked up when she entered, a strange look on his face. He was already filling the cases.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” she apologized hastily, rounding the counter, more to keep Emilio and Enzo from being able to herd her back out to the car. She glanced out the window. Sure enough, Emilio was on his cell, his eyes on her through the glass. Her heart began to pound. She clenched her teeth. She wasn't going to be pushed around.

“You have the day off today, Francesca,” Pietro announced unexpectedly. “I won't need you.”

She froze, her hand going to her throat in a defensive gesture. Barry Anthon had made his move. “Pietro,” she began. “Whatever he told you, it's just not true. You've gotten to know me . . .” She wouldn't beg. She just didn't expect Joanna's uncle to take Barry at his word without at least giving her a chance to defend herself.

“Girl, what are you talking about? Your man called, and he needs you today. I have no problem calling in Aria or anyone else if Stefano needs you. You work hard, Francesca. I didn't expect you to stay on after you got engaged and I really appreciate that you did, so a day or two off here or there isn't a problem.”

Stefano had called him. The relief that it hadn't been Barry was enormous, but she still wasn't going to let Stefano push her around. The door opened and Emilio and Enzo entered, both standing just inside, arms crossed over their chests.

“Let's go, Francesca,” Emilio said. “Stefano wants you home.”

Her chin went up. How
dared
he order her home. “I don't particularly care what Stefano wants right now, Emilio. I'm working.” She turned to Pietro. “If you don't want me working right now, that's fine. I've got other things to do.” She had no idea what those other things were, but she'd think of something.

“Francesca.” Emilio straightened, looking every inch a true Ferraro. He might not have the same last name, but he could be intimidating when he chose. There was a warning in his voice.

“No.” She was adamant. “I'm not going back there. Pietro? Do you need me today or not?”

Pietro hesitated, glancing uneasily at Emilio and Enzo. She immediately wished she hadn't put him in such a position. She put a conciliatory hand on his arm. “I forgot you said you already called Aria. That's great. I had some things I wanted to do anyway. It will give me time to get them done.”

Pietro looked relieved and he patted her. “Talk to Stefano first, Francesca. Whatever is happening between you, trust him to clear it up.”

Trust. It really boiled down to trust. That—and her insecurities. Still, she wanted to take some time to think things all the way through. That shouldn't be asking too much, even from a very decisive man like Stefano.

She nodded at Pietro, gave him a cheerful little wave and marched right between Emilio and Enzo. Enzo got the door for her and she turned away from the car, toward Lucia's Treasures. She really liked Lucia and Amo. She loved the clothing they sold. It was far beyond her pocketbook, but looking was always fun.

Enzo stepped in front of her and Emilio came up behind her, boxing her in, close to the side of the building.

“Francesca, get in the car,” Emilio said.

“It's not going to happen.” She found herself seething, grateful for a target. “Stefano Ferraro doesn't tell me what to do. He doesn't own me.”

Enzo shook his head. “Babe, don't fight battles you can't win. Pick them with him. Whatever happened this morning to upset you both needs to be worked out.”

She glared at him. “First of all, it's no one's business what happened this morning. Second, I have every right to work things out in my own way. And I'm going to do just that.” She took a step to get around him and he blocked her with his much larger body, cutting her off so she was pushed almost entirely up against the wall. “Step back. You can't force me to go with you.”

Enzo glanced at Emilio and then to the street. Francesca followed his gaze and her heart sank. Of course they were just buying time, arguing with her, and she fell right into their trap. Stefano stalked toward them, looking every inch a dangerous, prowling predator. He walked right up to Francesca, up close, crowding her body, one arm wrapping possessively around her waist and pulling her in tight to his side. Locking her with enormous strength to him so there
wasn't a doubt in her mind that if she struggled, he'd subdue her immediately and easily.

“Thanks Emilio, Enzo.” Stefano nodded to them and turned her away from the car and began walking in the direction she'd chosen to go, taking her with him. “You didn't stick around to let me explain. Were you running from me?”

She couldn't tell if there was a note of hurt in his voice or not. His tone troubled her, and she glanced up at his face. His mask was in place. The scary one.

“No. I was trying to sort things out in my head.”

He stopped abruptly and caught her chin in his hand. “You want to sort out a problem with me,
dolce cuore
, you do it
with
me.”

“I had to go to work,” she muttered, because he might have a point.

“Bullshit, Francesca. You heard the crap my fucking mother spouted, you were hurt and didn't understand half of what she said and you ran like a rabbit.”

She glared at him. “I did not. I was hurt, yes. And you're right. I had no idea what she was talking about when she said I was a ‘rider' and that you took the first one to come along. Or that you'd have to settle for a marriage of convenience if you didn't marry me. None of that made sense.” The only thing that she'd really understood was that Stefano had lost a sibling—one he loved—and he blamed his mother.

“Tell me about your brother,” she prompted.

He took a breath, his face darkening. His jaw set. His eyes were alive with pain, but his features remained an expressionless mask. He began walking again, Francesca tucked tightly to his side. For a long while she was certain he wouldn't respond. They'd walked an entire block, past Lucia's Treasures and Petrov's Pizzeria, and then halfway down another block before he cleared his throat.

Stefano's arm tightened until she almost couldn't breathe, but she didn't protest. Instead, she rested her palm on his very ripped stomach. Beneath his three-piece pin-striped suit, she felt his muscles ripple. Emilio and Enzo trailed
them, close enough to help if trouble presented itself, and a discreet enough distance away that Stefano and Francesca could talk in private. They also were able to discourage others from going up to Stefano and Francesca just by shaking their heads. She was vaguely aware of them and what they were doing, but mostly, she concentrated on Stefano, willing him to talk to her.

“Ettore was born eleven months after Emmanuelle. In our family it is necessary to have several children. My mother wasn't—isn't—the mothering type. She didn't want children, and she certainly didn't want to be married to a man she didn't love. Their marriage was arranged. My father is a man who is very difficult to explain. He has a very large ego. He's good-looking and he knows it. Eventually he began to have affairs. He was discreet, but he had them. He paid no attention to any of us. I think having children cramped his style. If a woman got too clingy, my mother would have a chat with her. Their strange lifestyle didn't leave a lot of room for any of us.”

She didn't make the mistake of giving him sympathy. She couldn't imagine growing up that way. Her parents had loved her sister and her. When they died, Cella had stepped up and given her that same unconditional love.

“I saw what my cousins had. Aunts and uncles loving one another and their children. They tried to make it better for me—for us—but they couldn't be in our home 24-7. So I decided that I'd make a home for us.”

She knew he had. It showed in the way his brothers and sister reacted to him. Loved him and one another. They were a tight-knit family with Stefano at the helm.

“Ettore had respiratory problems from the moment he was born. He was small and his lungs weren't developed. He was in the hospital for two weeks. My parents went to see him twice. Aunt Rachele and Aunt Perla—you haven't met them yet, only their children—took me every single day to see him. The nurses let me put my hands in the gloves and touch him. Eventually I could hold him.” He swallowed hard and looked away from her.

Francesca pressed her hand tighter against his abdomen, matching her steps to his because he'd begun to walk faster. She could see they were headed for a small park in the middle of the neighborhood.

“He just never got strong. My parents were extra hard on him. I told you, we were required to train from age two. They refused to give him more time. Neither spent any time with him, and if they came into contact with him, they were irritated by him. He learned very fast to keep out of their way and my brothers and Emmanuelle took to deflecting their attention immediately if they spotted him.”

“I don't understand.” Francesca couldn't help but break her silence. “Why would they be irritated by a child?” There was genuine confusion in her voice because it didn't make sense to her. The boy obviously needed love and attention, not annoyance or anger.

“He wasn't perfect, Francesca. In my home, growing up, nothing but perfection was allowed. Our training. Our education. Our ability to speak languages. We had to be not good at everything, but
great
. Ettore tried, but he couldn't keep up. We all tried to help him, tutor him, work with him on physical training, but he was always behind. And the martial arts and boxing took a toll on his body.”

“How? Wouldn't that strengthen him?”

He shook his head. “He didn't heal from the inevitable bruises and injuries we got. He was slow at other things, too, things that were necessary in our work. I tried to talk to the parents about him, but they wouldn't listen to me. He was far too sensitive for our kind of work.”

She still didn't know what his kind of work was, but if helping out a seventeen-year-old girl who was being horribly abused was anything to go by, she was fairly certain she knew Stefano meant even reading the reports on such things hurt Ettore's heart.

“That's so terrible, Stefano. He should have been protected.” She wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him tight. She knew what it was like to experience loss.
Stefano obviously loved his brother very much. More like a parent with a child than a sibling.

“He should have been, but when he was sixteen, the parents insisted he become active. We got into a terrible fight, but they pulled rank on me. Ettore died. I went to get his body and I carried him home myself. I never allowed them to make a decision regarding any of my siblings after that.” There was steel in his voice.

The parents. That was how he referred to the man and woman who had given him life. Stefano loved family. Her fingers curled in his vest, and she turned her head to press a kiss into his side, regardless of the fact that they had a lot more things to work out. Her heart ached for him. She had to blink away tears of sympathy and swallow the terrible lump that had formed in her throat.

He looked down at her bent head. “
Amore mio
, you are far too soft to be without my protection. When you're upset or hurt, or you don't understand, trust me. Talk to me. We're going to be together a lifetime, and I don't ever want you to be afraid or hurt and not come to me. You'll hear a lot of ugly things.”

They had entered the park and he guided her toward a bench. The rain had left everything looking brand-new and shiny. He halted, stepping in front of her, tipping her face up to his. “We live our lives in the spotlight quite a bit of the time and it's necessary. People can be very ugly. You have to trust me to look after you and protect you. You have to let us.” His thumb slid over her lower lip and then brushed back and forth over her chin.

“I didn't run away, Stefano,” she denied softly. “I just needed time to process.”

He nodded as if in understanding. “You can't possibly process without having the facts, Francesca.” His fingers curled around the nape of her neck, his thumb sweeping her cheek as if he couldn't get enough of her skin.

“It was a shock to hear the things she said.”

“I'm certain that's true,
bambina
—she is very judgmental
and demanding. Above all, she wants the Ferraro name pure.”

Her heart clenched hard in her chest. So hard it was painful. She had enough scandal tied to her name to sink an entire continent of Ferraros.

Stefano cupped her face gently in his palms, bending so that his forehead touched hers, breathing her in. Breathing for both of them. “We manage to create enough scandal ourselves without our women worrying that they might not be good enough. I love you. I love everything about you. You make me happy. It isn't because you're a rider—it's because you're you.”