Shadow Rider (9 page)

Francesca slipped into the inside of the booth because he didn't give her much choice. He kept his attention on Berta even as his body crowded Francesca's until she gave in and slid onto the cool leather bench seat. Stefano slid in right beside her. Close. His thigh pressed tight against hers. He inhaled her scent. She was beautiful, there in the shadows where he lived his life. So beautiful and innocent looking. He was going to take that innocence away and the thought made him sad. He resisted reaching for her hand, but he knew he would have to touch her soon.

“What would you like,
bella
? Wine? Beer? Something else?”

Francesca hesitated but then relaxed, some of the tension draining out of her. “Water is fine.”

“You don't drink wine?” He raised an eyebrow.

She nodded. “It's been a while since I've had any alcohol. I don't know how I'd react.”

He liked her honesty. “I'll make certain you get home safe. One glass can't hurt.” Before she could protest he turned to Berta. “Red wine. You know my preference. Bring the bottle
and two glasses.” When Berta left he turned his attention to Francesca. “My family owns a few vineyards and a winery in Italy. It's beginning to make a name, and fortunately I enjoy the wine our family produces. I hope you do as well.”

She nodded, a little shyly. “Thank you. I'm sure I will. Tell me about Agnese Moretti. Did she really box your ears?”

He had never been more grateful for the older woman's difficult and very feisty personality. His story had piqued Francesca's interest enough that she was much more relaxed with him. She seemed to like the stories of the people around her. Good people. He liked his neighborhood and wanted her to see it through his eyes. It was where she would spend the majority of her life. Accepting their way. Accepting their rules. Living with a yoke of violence around their necks for the good of those around them. A part of him detested himself for doing that to her, but there was no way he could give her up.

“Oh, yes. She not only boxed my ears, but twice she grabbed me by the earlobe and marched me out of a room. Of course, I was a lot younger when the earlobe thing happened.” Deliberately he rubbed his earlobe as if he could still feel the pinch.

Francesca laughed. She had a beautiful laugh. Melodic. Low. Almost as if the laugh was intimate, just between the two of them. His heart beat in tune to her low laughter. He wanted to hear it for the rest of his life. The sound drowned out the voices in his head that refused to die when those who owned them did.

“How old were you when she boxed your ears?”

“That was last year when I made the big mistake of getting ‘fresh' with her by calling her by her first name. Apparently I'm not old enough yet to do that. She taught school and has never let me or any other student of hers forget it.”

“She sounds like a character.”

“She is,” Stefano said. “She's wonderful. I can't tell you how many students she tutored outside the classroom to help them when they had difficulties with a subject. She never
charged their parents. There were some kids who didn't have much and she would buy them the supplies they needed. Lunches. Jackets. She never let on that she did it, or made a big deal out of it, but they'd just find the supplies in their desk, or their jacket or lunch box.”

“Wow.” Francesca leaned her chin onto her hand, her gaze fixed on him. That sea-blue gaze that made him want to fall right into it. “She sounds incredible.”

“She's a character. She forgets her purse anyplace she eats and her glasses in most stores. Tonio always rushes after her if she's anywhere around. If not Tonio, then one of the other children. He's the youngest and the most enthusiastic, which means he's a little tornado and you have to get out of his way when he's making his run.”

Berta was back with the antipasto, small plates, warm, fresh breadsticks and the wine. She expertly juggled each dish and poured a small amount of wine in a glass for Stefano to taste.

He liked that Francesca watched him so closely, that she seemed fascinated by the conversation and by him. He nodded his approval of the wine, waited until Berta poured both glasses and left before he picked up Francesca's glass and handed it to her. Her fingers brushed his. Instantly a spark of electricity leapt from her to him. He felt their shadows connect. Merge. The pull was strong, just like the narrow slider tubes that nearly pulled apart his body when he stood in front of them—a powerful magnet drawing him close.

He heard her swift inhale. Her eyes darkened. Lashes lowered. Her breasts rose and fell. She pulled her hand away, bringing the wineglass to her mouth. She definitely felt the chemistry between them just as strongly as he did. It was explosive. His body reacted, going as hard as a rock, something that just didn't happen to a man with his kind of discipline. He knew if he leaned into her and took her mouth, he'd ignite a firestorm—they both would.

She was dangerous to both of them. He had to stay in
control around her and just being this close to her threatened that. He was the one shifting slightly to put distance between them, a mere inch, but even that little inch gave him a reprieve.

Tonio ran up, his thick, curly hair wild. Eyes shining. “I caught her, Signore Ferraro. Just as she was getting into her car.”

“Good man, Tonio.” He slipped his wallet out and handed the boy a bill. “I'm proud of you for looking after her. What do we do?”

Tonio puffed out his chest. “We always look after our women.”

“That's right. Run along now and say hello to your parents for me.”

The boy took the money and slipped it into his pocket.
“Grazie. Grazie.”
He grinned at Stefano. “Is
she
one of our women?” He indicated Francesca.

Stefano nodded solemnly. “Tonio, this is Francesca. Francesca, Tonio. If you should ever need assistance, he is a good man and will come to your aid. Yes, Tonio, she's very special to me. She's one of ours.” He glanced at his woman. She didn't know he was claiming her publicly, but that innocent question was welcome. Tonio would tell his parents exactly what Stefano had said to him. The boy always did.

Francesca looked pleased. He knew she would. She wouldn't be thinking about the underlying implication, only that the boy was cute.

“Pleased to meet you, Tonio,” she said.

He nodded shyly. “Don't worry. I'll look out for you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Tonio turned with a saucy grin and raced through the restaurant back to his parents' table. Stefano watched him go just to make certain he didn't knock over any of Tito's customers.

“He's adorable.” Francesca dipped a breadstick into the marinara sauce and took a bite. Her eyes closed. “Wow. This is delicious.”

“No one makes pizza, antipasto or marinara like Tito's family. They've been in the business for a couple of generations and they make the best. People come from all over to eat here.”

“You sound proud.”

“I am. They're a good family and they deserve success.”

“You aren't anything like I thought you'd be,” she ventured, and took another sip of wine.

“What did you think I'd be like?”

“I don't know. You seemed so scary when I first met you. I thought you were . . .” She trailed off and shook her head, color creeping under her skin.

“Tell me.”

“I don't want you to be upset. It was silly of me. I was so nervous about the interview and it seemed as if everyone in the store was a little afraid of you when you came in. You also were abrupt and a little rude, dropping F-bombs all over the place.”

He nodded. “I do that a lot, I'm afraid. More than once, Signora Moretti told me she was going to wash out my mouth, and that was this year.”

She laughed. He loved the way she laughed. Just in the two days he'd been away from her, she seemed much more relaxed. “Her warning didn't do any good, did it?”

“No, I suppose it didn't,” he admitted ruefully. “So tell me, Francesca, what did you think I was when we met?”

F
rancesca studied Stefano's face. He was intimidating, no question about it. Even with the way he interacted with little Tonio, he had a look about him that demanded respect. More, he commanded the room. She was acutely aware that every single person in the restaurant had turned to watch them as they made their way to their booth. Even now, people were watching. They were trying to pretend that they weren't, but she knew better. It was fairly clear that Stefano Ferrero was a well-known man. Liked by some, feared by others.

Still, there was an underlying sadness about him that she caught glimpses of, and everything in her rose to soothe him. Needed to do that. She wasn't altogether certain how or why she came to be sitting beside him, but she was fascinated by his take on the people in the neighborhood. There was genuine affection in his voice when he spoke of them. She liked that he knew so much about them and seemed to care.

Up close, he was hot, hot, hot. A gorgeous man. She couldn't believe how handsome he was. Tough looking. Confident. Even a bit arrogant, but one could forgive that when his face was so perfect. The angles and planes, the strong jaw and straight nose. His mouth fascinated her and she had to work not to stare at it. Twice she found herself doing just that and wondering what it would be like to feel his mouth on hers. A really stupid fantasy to have about a man she thought was mafia two days earlier.

Francesca was a little ashamed of herself that she'd thought
that of him, even when he'd had a foul mouth and was so abrupt. Clearly she'd read the silence in the deli as something it wasn't. It felt like fear, but looking back, she had been terrified of everything that day and probably had just projected what she was feeling onto the crowd in Masci's.

She couldn't decide if she liked his eyes the best, or his voice. His eyes were a beautiful blue, dark and mysterious, with long black lashes that matched his thick, wavy hair. His voice was soft, pitched low, a warm honey that moved over her, promising all sorts of sinful things.

“Francesca.”

His voice startled her right out of her fantasy. She blinked rapidly and brought him into focus. She hadn't had time to go over the things about his body that appealed to her, but it was probably just as well. She lifted her gaze to his, and everything in her stilled. Stefano stared straight into her eyes, capturing her without even trying. He held her there—she was unable to look away. She was totally mesmerized by him.

Francesca felt his power. Felt a connection between them. Her heart stuttered and then began to pound. He leaned toward her, frowning. His finger slid along her skin, right at her throat, skimming lightly over the shallow laceration where the knife had burned as it went into her flesh. She shivered at the way the blue of his eyes darkened so intimately.

“This is obscene. Someone putting hands on you. A knife to your throat. I'm sorry this happened, Francesca. This is normally a safe neighborhood. We have small things, petty, teenagers drinking too much and getting a little out of hand, but this . . .” He broke off, shaking his head.

Without warning he leaned into her and brushed her throat with his mouth. Her heart stopped beating. She was certain it had. She froze, unable to move. Unable to think because her brain had short-circuited. His hair brushed her chin and along her shoulder. She'd never felt anything so sensual in her life.

Her breasts ached.
Needed.
Her nipples pushed into the lace of her bra and suddenly the little lace panties she wore
were damp. Her sex clenched hard. Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn't move even to save herself—and she had a feeling she needed to save herself. She wanted desperately to run her fingers in his thick dark hair. She knew it was soft because the thick strands moved against her chin and throat. She blinked and he lifted his head.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated. “You must have been so scared.” His voice whispered over her like the intimate brush of fingers.

She touched her tongue to her lips, trying not to imagine his mouth on hers. “I'll admit, I was afraid, but mostly because I didn't want them to get blood on your coat.”

His eyebrow shot up. “You what?”

Her mouth curved in a rueful smile, although her heart hammered hard in her chest. “I didn't want to get any blood on your coat. I was wearing it and when he cut me, all I could think about was that the blood might run down my neck into your coat.”

His eyes went scary dark. His face stilled. His fingers curled around the nape of her neck and he pulled her head toward his. “Are you telling me that you were so afraid of me that when a mugger put a knife to your throat, the thing you feared most was getting blood on my fucking coat?”

His voice had gone scary soft to match the devil shining in his eyes. Her heart jumped and then thudded hard. She was acutely aware of his fingers curled around her neck—of every detail of him. His warmth. His broad shoulders. His enormous strength. The way the pads of his fingers felt possessive on her skin. His scent enveloped her, surrounded her, until there was only him and the other people in the restaurant faded away. He was too close to her to breathe, the shadows in the booth enfolding them in an unexpected intimacy.

“Dolce cuore.”
He breathed it.

She shouldn't like that he called her sweetheart. She shouldn't be sitting there with his hand curled around her neck. She was drowning, hypnotized by him. She'd never experienced such intense chemistry. She didn't even know
physical attraction could be so strong. He was like a magnet and she couldn't seem to find the resistance necessary to break free.

“You're far more important than a fucking coat.”

“It's your favorite,” she whispered, shocking herself at what that admission implied. She'd been afraid of him, hadn't she? Not attracted. Not worried that he'd be upset over his coat and she didn't want that. Or that she'd come to love that coat and the way it made her feel.

“It's a coat, Francesca.” His hand slid from her neck and he straightened, turning his head toward the interior of the restaurant.

She hadn't heard anything at all, yet he'd been aware of movement in the pizzeria. She blinked several times, trying to come out from under his spell, out from under the web of sexual attraction.

“Your pie,” Tito said with a flourish, placing the pizza between them. “The house specialty. Enjoy.” He winked at Francesca. “You'll think you're in heaven.”

“
Grazie
, Tito,” Stefano said, shifting his body subtly to put himself once more very close to Francesca, his posture possessive.

Even Francesca saw the blatant warning. She smiled at Tito. “Thanks, it looks fantastic.”

Tito nodded, gave them both a small salute and slipped away, leaving her once more alone with Stefano.

Francesca knew she had to protest Stefano's proprietorial behavior. She wasn't in a position to have any kind of a relationship and in any case, she didn't do casual. Stefano was way out of her league. She couldn't imagine that a man like him would want to date someone like her. She shopped at the thrift store. He'd be appalled if he saw where she lived. She was appalled whenever she went to her little apartment, but still, it was hers. She knew she'd faint if she ever saw where he lived. His coat cost more than three months' rent, maybe four.

Stefano put a slice of pizza on her plate. “No one makes
pizza like Tito or his father. Benito Petrov is impressive. Big, like Tito, but that's where the similarity ends. Tito smiles all the time. Benito is very sober. Tito's sweet, and Benito is gruff.”

“How did Tito get to be so different?”

“He takes after his mother. She was the sweetest woman alive. They lost her about seven years ago to breast cancer. Benito had a difficult time getting over it. That's when Tito stepped up and really took over the restaurant.”

“What else is different about them?” Francesca was curious, but more, she loved to hear Stefano's voice. It was beautiful, perfectly pitched. Low. Sensual. She could listen to him talk all night.

“Benito is covered in tattoos, has one earring, is bald and looks like he would rip your throat out for a buck.” He laughed softly. “He's a regular volunteer at the food bank and heads up the committee for fund-raising to help supplement it. He started a community garden with the idea that anyone could eat when they were hungry. He's been working on plans for a greenhouse so the food can be grown all year-round.”

She forgot all about her protests and leaned on the heel of her hand, her eyes on his face. It was fascinating to see the way his expression softened when he talked about the neighborhood and its residents. “Where did they get the land for the gardens and greenhouse? I imagine that land here would be very expensive.”

“Take a bite. You don't want to hurt Tito's feelings. The land was donated.”

She knew his family had donated the land. She knew it instantly. She took a bite of the pizza and nearly moaned, it was so good.

He grinned knowingly at her, nodding. “Right? Superb.”

“I had no idea anything could taste this good, let alone a pizza. I might be spending my paycheck here.”

“On weekends, there's a line to get in. Petrov and Tito cater to the locals so there's an entrance around the side they open
when the line's long. They slip the locals in. A few tables are held in reserve so they can seat them as soon as possible.”

“This is a very tight-knit community, isn't it?”

He nodded. “Good people.” He touched the scratch along her throat with a gentle finger. “I hate that this happened to you. I'm very sorry, Francesca.”

She frowned at him. “Stefano.” His name slipped out easier than it should have. She didn't care. She leaned close. “This wasn't your fault.” That's why he had brought her to Tito's restaurant. He felt guilty. She felt such an overwhelming sense of physical attraction she'd nearly made the mistake of thinking it had to be mutual. He felt responsible. He watched out for the residents and someone had tried to mug her. “Please stop worrying about it. I'm perfectly fine.”

“I had my cousins watching over you, but I told them to hang back so you wouldn't feel crowded. That was my mistake. Most residents are known. You're new. Criminals stay away, but . . .”

“Technically, we left the neighborhood,” Francesca pointed out. Without thinking she laid her hand over Stefano's. “You had no responsibility in what happened to me.”

The moment her palm curved over the back of his hand, she knew she had made a mistake. His heat seemed to fuse them together. Little sparks of electricity crackled along her nerve endings. She jerked her hand away, feeling as if she'd just gotten burned. Not burned. Branded. She'd laid her hand over his, yet she felt as if he'd captured her. Connected them. That connection seemed to grow stronger each time they physically touched.

“Any resident of our neighborhood should be safe anywhere they go in the city,” he said, his voice suddenly scary. “They blew half of Cencio's face off. His own mother couldn't even see him in the coffin one last time.” He sounded fierce. Guilty. As if somehow he was responsible for Cencio's death. He sounded grief-stricken.

That was the worst. That a man like Stefano, so arrogant,
so confident, strong and absolutely a rock could be so shaken. She couldn't help herself. She shook her head, her eyes meeting his. She had to take that pain from him, she didn't know why, but she had no choice. “I know what grief is, Stefano. To suffer the loss of a loved one through murder. To feel responsible when really, there was nothing I could have done. You can't look out for every single person in your neighborhood. It's impossible. You aren't responsible for me or the attack on me.” Her voice was soft, persuasive.

She couldn't believe she'd given away what she had. She didn't talk about her past; she didn't dare. Still, she had to take the pain from his eyes. Her heart hurt just looking at the pain.

His eyes changed. Focused completely on her. Saw too much. Took her breath. Made her heart flutter and her stomach do a slow roll.

“Someone you loved was murdered?”

She nodded. “I shouldn't have said anything. I just don't want you to think that you have to protect the entire world because your friend died. You can't, Stefano.”

“Not the entire world, Francesca.” He picked up her hand and idly played with her fingers.

She should have pulled her hand away, but she couldn't make herself be that mean, not when she was trying to make him see reason. It was just that, with his fingers moving through hers, brushing along and between them, her body reacted, making her all too aware of secret places and a growing hunger—for him.

“Just my neighborhood. Just the people in my world. Someone has to look after them, and that's my job.”

She wanted to cry for him. It was no wonder that that first time he'd walked into Masci's he'd seemed so alone. So remote. He had taken on an impossible task, even to the point of looking out for a total stranger. She shook her head and reached for the wineglass, needing to do something to counteract the empathy and awareness of him.

“Where is your family?” he asked.

She knew sooner or later he'd ask. It was a natural enough
question. “I don't have any family. My parents died in a car wreck when I was fourteen. I didn't have any aunts or uncles or grandparents. You have a big family, but it was just my sister, Cella, and me. She was older by nine years so she raised me.”

There was a silence. He leaned back in the booth, his arm sliding along the back of the seat. “Are you telling me Cella was the one murdered?” There was an edge to his voice.

“I don't like to talk about it.” She took another sip of wine. “I shouldn't have brought it up.”

“You were trying to make me feel better. That just pisses me off. Someone fucking murders my best friend, Cencio, as he walks out of a theater, and someone murders your only sister.”