Shadow Rider (8 page)

Emilio nodded. “Will do. You all need to be away from here.”

His brothers and Emmanuelle turned toward the shadows to make their way back home. Stefano was anxious to go to Francesca, but it took a while to make his report to his parents—well, to his mother—his father never actually was there to hear a report, a necessary evil. He believed it was necessary just so Eloisa could look her child over and make certain no harm had come to him.

He drove from the main home where his parents resided to the hotel where he stayed and then walked from there to the store where Francesca worked. Each of his brothers and his sister had their own wing in the main house, but they all maintained a personal space outside of the Ferraro estate. He had a penthouse at the hotel they owned. The suite was enormous, taking up the entire top floor. He had a private elevator that went straight to his floor and another private entrance very few knew of.

He paused on the sidewalk, looking into the store. Francesca had her head down, but she nodded every now and then as she listened to the man standing at the cash register. Stefano recognized Tito Petrov. His father owned the local pizza parlor and Tito managed it and also cooked there. He was as good at making the pizzas as his father. He was also a bit of
a ladies' man. He dated often and women seemed to fall hard for him. Stefano didn't like Tito's body language at all.

*   *   *

I
gnoring Tito, who continued to flirt outrageously with her, Francesca smiled at the older couple behind him as she wrapped sandwiches for them. She knew they owned the small boutique three stores down. They had come in and introduced themselves her very first morning at work. Sweet. Genuine. Very Italian. They held hands when they could and smiled at each other often. She
loved
that. She considered Lucia and Amo Fausti the poster couple for romance, and considering she didn't believe in romance, she also thought maybe they brought a little hope with them.

She could never afford a single item they offered, all those beautiful designer dresses and silk scarves. She knew they traveled extensively to find the best designers. Joanna told her people traveled from all over the city to shop in the little boutique.

“How are you this afternoon?” Lucia asked her.

They came into Masci's every evening after work hours for their evening meal, Joanna had also informed her, but then, nearly everyone came into Masci's at one time or another. Masci's represented all twenty regions of Italy, importing cured meats, handmade cheeses, olive oil and even vinegar.

Francesca smiled at her as she took their money and put it into the cash register. “Fine, and you?”

She had walked into their boutique because the clothes in the window had really appealed to her. It was a beautiful space, open, marble, decorated mainly with huge leafy plants, lacy ferns and a few flowering plants. The clothes were from all over the world, designers from France, Italy, India and even the local area. They carried beautiful but very different items, all unique.

“It was a lovely day today,” Lucia said. “Cold, but lovely.”

“We're going to eat here tonight,” Amo said. “It's nice to visit after working all day.” He beamed at Francesca.

“I suppose it is.”

“You could visit with me,” Tito encouraged.

“Don't you have work to do?” Amo asked, winking at Francesca. He took his wife's hand and led her toward one of the small tables at the back of the shop.

“I'd have plenty of work to do, Amo, if you'd eat at my place instead of here,” Tito called to the backs of the couple.

Amo laughed. “Prettier view in here.”

“Can't argue with that,” Tito said, once more leaning on the counter, smiling at Francesca, his voice low and flirty.

Stefano pushed open the door to the deli and instantly all conversation ceased. He had his gaze on Francesca, but he scanned the room as he entered. As usual, the place was packed. He recognized most of the customers and lifted a hand toward a couple of them as he made his way toward the counter. The few people waiting in line instantly shifted to make room for him.

Francesca looked up, and he saw her face go pale. She pressed her lips together, a hint of wariness creeping into her eyes. “You're back,” she greeted. “Just a minute and I'll get your coat for you.”

“Not looking for my coat,
dolce cuore
,” he said, and then shifted his gaze to the man slowly straightening from where he'd been leaning against the counter. “Tito. How's your father? I haven't seen him for a while.”

“He's good. Great.” Tito looked from Stefano to Francesca. “She has your coat? I heard . . .”

“It's true,” Stefano said, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence. The last thing he wanted was for Francesca to deny his claim on her in front of the neighborhood, especially Tito Petrov.

Pietro hurried out of his office. “Mr. Ferraro, good to see you. What can we do for you?”

“Drop the ‘Mr. Ferraro,' and just call me Stefano.”

“Yes. Of course. Stefano.” Pietro nodded several times. He'd been invited more than once to be on a first-name basis
with all of the brothers, but he never actually did it for long. “What can we do for you?” he repeated.

“Lend me Francesca. I'm starving and after seeing Tito, I'm hungry for one of his pies. I need a chance to talk to her, so I thought we could do both.” He ignored Francesca's reaction. The quick, shocked deep breath. The shaking of her head. Stepping back from the counter. Away from him.

Pietro ignored it as well. “Of course. No problem. She worked extra hours yesterday.”

“I'll get back to the restaurant and get busy on your pie,” Tito said.

Stefano sent him a quick smile. “Thanks, Tito. I appreciate it. We'll be there in a few minutes. I have to talk to a couple of people first.” He glanced at Francesca, who hadn't moved. “We won't need the coat. It's just down the block.” Again, before she could protest, he walked away from the counter, to the back of the room where the Faustis were seated.

“Lucia, you're looking beautiful this evening.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss at her temple. She immediately caught his head in her hands and kissed both sides of his jaw before letting him go. “Is Amo still treating you right? I'd run away with you if I thought I could get away with it.”

She laughed softly. “Amo is the best, but if he ever messes up, Stefano, you are the front-runner.”

His eyebrow shot up. “‘The front-runner'?” he repeated. Switching his attention to Amo, he shook the man's hand. “How many men does she have waiting in line?”

“Too many to count,” Amo said with a heavy sigh. “Such is the life when a man marries a beautiful woman. You would do well to remember that.”

Lucia laughed again and leaned into her husband. “You two. You always make me feel so special.”

“Because you are,” Stefano said, meaning it.

“She's very beautiful,” Amo said, indicating Francesca, keeping his voice low. “Very sweet to all the customers.
Works hard, that one. She doesn't talk much and she seems sad. Is she all right?”

“She will be.”

“Anything we can do, Stefano. You're a good boy. You've always been good to us,” Lucia said. “Ever since . . .” She choked, her eyes filling with tears, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, forcing a smile behind her palm.

“Don't, Lucia,” Stefano said, crouching down beside their table, sweeping his arm around the older woman. “You're here with the love of your life . . .” He glanced at Amo. “Oh, and Amo, too.”

She laughed. It was a little forced, but still, she managed to make the sound merry. Her husband reached across the table and took her hand in his. “This man is always trying to steal you from me,
bella
.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “This happens too often, woman.”

“You should be used to it by now, Amo,” Stefano said, rising, brushing another kiss on top of Lucia's head. “I think my woman is ready to go.”

Clearly she wasn't, but Pietro had pushed her out from behind the counter. Francesca looked nervous and as if she might be working herself up to telling him to go to hell. He grabbed her hand as he came up beside her, tugging until she was next to him and he could wrap one arm around her waist, drawing her into his side.

“Later, Pietro,” he said, and walked her right out the door while she was too shocked at finding her body locked tightly against his side.

“Later, Mr. Ferraro,” Pietro answered, laughter in his voice.

Francesca placed a protesting palm flat against his chest and then pulled it off of him as if his heat had burned her. “I'm not having a pizza with you.”

“You don't have to eat if you're not hungry,” he said, covering the pavement in long strides, his arm sweeping her along, forcing her to keep up with him.

He kept her moving, not wanting to give her the chance
to protest. “Have you met Lucia and Amo Fausti? The couple sitting in the back? They own Lucia's Treasures
.
It's a little boutique a few stores down from the deli.”

She snuck a little peek at him from under her ridiculously long lashes. She didn't have mascara on, and still her lashes were thick and long and curled upward on the end. He was fascinated even with that little detail. Her eyes were beautiful. The thought came to him unbidden that he wanted to be looking into her eyes when he took her, when he made her come apart in his arms. When they were locked together, and he was moving in her, bringing her what no other man would ever give her again.

“Yes, they're a lovely couple. You seem to be friends with them.”

She sounded a little shocked that he could have friends. That made him want to smile, but he resisted, continuing to walk, nodding toward a couple of people who stepped out of their shops to greet him. He kept moving because he didn't want them to engage him in conversation and give her the opportunity to break away.

“They lost their only son. Cencio was murdered coming out of a theater across town with his fiancée. Lucia was so devastated she nearly died. Amo wasn't himself for a couple of years, either. I grew up with Cencio. He was a good man. Always laughing. Sweet, like his parents. We served together in Marine Recon. He was someone you could count on. We'd only been out two months before he was murdered.”

Her face softened. The lashes swept down and back up, but the softness didn't leave her eyes. “I'm so sorry. That must have been terrible for all of you. He was their only child?”

Stefano shook his head. “They had a little girl. She died of cancer when she was three.”

Francesca stopped right there in the middle of the sidewalk, her free hand covering her mouth. She looked as if she might cry. “Those poor people. To lose both children like that. I can't imagine anything worse.”

He nodded, pulling her a little closer to him, keeping her
under his shoulder. “They're both very brave. Sometimes tragedy tears people apart, but they seemed to grow stronger together.” He started them moving again. The entrance to the pizza parlor was only a few feet away.

“They're actually my favorite customers,” she admitted. “Not that I've met all that many people yet, although the store is very busy all the time. Was the murderer ever caught?”

He glanced at her sharply. There was something in her voice that caught at him. She was looking at the ground, not at him and not trying to see where they were going. She sounded skeptical, as if she didn't believe Cencio's killer would ever be brought to justice. She also sounded very, very sad. That tore him up inside. He didn't want her ever to be sad.

He reached around her to open the door of the pizza parlor, automatically stepping back to allow her to precede him. At the last moment, he pulled her out of harm's way, and then pushed her behind him as a little boy with dark wavy hair barreled right into him with full force. His body rocked back, but he caught the child in his arms, preventing the boy from falling. He heard Francesca's breath catch in her throat as if she feared for the child.

He set the boy back on his feet and ruffled his hair. “Tonio, are you chasing after Signora Moretti again?”

The boy nodded, holding up a pink handbag.

“Good man. Get to it then, but don't run into the street. Come by my table when you get back.”

Tonio grinned at him and took off running. Stefano held the door open for Francesca and waved her inside.

“He's a good boy, that one,” he observed. “Signora Moretti will eventually come into the deli. She'll give you a very hard time. She'll insist on watching you make her sandwich and everything you do will be wrong because she'll change it as she goes along.” There was humor in his voice. Affection. He couldn't help it. “Agnese Moretti is a holy terror. Never call her anything but Signora Moretti or you'll get your ears boxed.” He rubbed his right ear, remembering the woman clobbering him when he'd called her by her first name.

“She
hit
you?” Francesca's blue eyes went wide with shock—and humor.

“Signore Ferraro, we have your table,” the girl at the desk said, menus in her hand. She sounded breathless, gazing up at him with a dazed, flirty look.

He smiled at her. “
Grazie
, Berta.” He put his hand on Francesca's lower back to guide her. To make certain everyone in the restaurant knew just who she belonged to. “How are your parents?” He had to acknowledge Berta before she tripped over her own feet. She wasn't watching where she was going, only watching him.

“They're both good, Signore Ferraro. Tito said to put you at this table.” Still staring at him, she indicated a booth at the back, in the corner where the low lights cast shadows and allowed for privacy. His family always requested that booth, and he was grateful that Tito remembered. “The antipasto and breadsticks will be right up. Wine? Beer?” she asked.