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  The two cousins leaned forward, almost in unison, instantly drawing her attention. She had forgotten they were there. For some reason, she didn't mind Stefano's brothers hearing her story, but the cousins didn't seem as sympathetic. They were much more unemotional, although, she had to admit, not unkind.

  The moment the cousins shifted forward in their chairs, their gazes fixed steadily on her face, every one of Stefano's brothers reacted, hitching forward as well, but protectively. She felt that instant shield go around her. She looked around and saw that every shadow was connected. She was feeling the emotions the brothers were, and they were definitely protective of her. Stefano's hand on her shoulder was suddenly different as well. His fingers dug into her arm, and she knew he was fighting anger.

  His brothers hadn't come here to hear her story; they had come to show solidarity. The knowledge hit her instantly and made her want to cry. They believed her on her word alone; it was the cousins she had to convince. She didn't know why Stefano and his family had rallied around her, or had chosen to side with her against Barry Anthon, but she was grateful they had. Surprisingly, it was Stefano's anger that settled her churning stomach. She didn't want him upset at his cousins when clearly he had asked them there to listen to her story.

  "He didn't find her phone then," Lanz said, making it a statement.

  She shook her head. "But at the time, I had no idea what he was talking about. I didn't for a while."

  "Continue," Deangelo encouraged.

  Her heart began to beat harder and a little faster. She turned her hand, the one on Stefano's thigh, threading her fingers through his, needing his reassurance. He instantly bent his head, his lips pressed to her ear, right through the thick mass of hair tumbling around her.

  "Francesca, if you need a break or this is too upsetting, we can continue later. We don't have to do this now."

  She wanted to take that out. The rest of her story was a roller coaster of emotions. She had managed to tamp down the horror of her sister's murder, the terror of the man she knew had savagely killed her. She was tempted to take the out he gave her, but looking around the room at his brothers waiting so patiently for her decision, knowing all of them would back her up, gave her the necessary courage to continue.

  Francesca shook her head. "It's better to do this all at once. If you want to know, I'll tell you now. Barry Anthon is a monster and he does all kinds of horrible things and gets away with it. You have to know what he's like, because if I stay here, and I think he's already found me, he'll come after anyone who helps me."

  "I believe you're correct on that," Lanz said, sitting back in his chair.

  At once she felt the difference in Stefano and his brothers. The tension in the room eased and several of them lifted their glasses to their mouths, where before they had just held them without moving. They wanted Lanz and Deangelo to believe her. That meant the two cousins had the same gift of hearing truth when others spoke. They believed her. She hoped they would continue to believe her because no one else had.

  "An older man was arrested for the crime. He walked into the police department and turned himself in. He had the knife and his fingerprints were all over it. He said he'd been drinking and followed her home. He had brain cancer and sometimes he would fly into a rage. He was remorseful. Crying. He pleaded guilty and died before he ever served time. I believe he did it in order to get money for his family before he died. He couldn't even look me in the eye."

  "His name," Deangelo said abruptly.

  "Harold Benson. His daughter, Carla O'Brian, was with him. She works for Barry Anthon and has, apparently, for several years."

  Deangelo nodded. "That's easy enough. It does seem like everything leads back to him. But there's more, isn't there?"

  Francesca nodded, tightening her fingers around Stefano's. "Barry came by about a dozen times. He'd just show up in my house. It didn't seem to matter what locks I used--he'd be in there with a couple of his men. They pushed me around a lot and threatened to . . ." She swallowed and lowered her voice, unable to look at any of them, the humiliation and fear crowding too close. "Rape me," she finished. "They would shove me down and rip my clothes, always demanding I give them what Barry wanted. They never said what it was, but I knew they hadn't found her cell phone."

  The tension in the room was back and with it, oppressive, scary heat. The room vibrated with rage. Not just Stefano's but all of his brothers' collectively. That was a lot of anger to fill even that large space. Only their two cousins seemed unaffected.

  "But you didn't have it," Ricco prompted.

  "I had no idea where it was. I couldn't have given it to them if I wanted to, which I didn't. I knew they'd kill me if I handed it over to them.

  "I moved and they tore up my place one night. Acted like a party had been held there. It looked like it. Holes in the wall, burns in the carpets, mirrors broken. I was at the library, but my landlord didn't believe me. The more I went to the cops, the more insane I appeared to them. Two apartments later, the judge gave me jail time for vandalism and hefty fines. Along with that, I had to pay the damages for both apartments Barry and his men had destroyed. What little money I had was gone. Then my job. At that point, another arrest and a judge ordered me put in lockup for seventy-two hours in a hospital."

  "That fucking bastard," Taviano burst out. "Was he there? In the courtroom?"

  She nodded, the terrible knots in her belly unraveling at the reaction of the brothers and Stefano. They believed her. When no one else would, they believed her. Not her neighbors, not her boss, fellow students, teachers, all the people she'd known for most of her life. Not one had believed her. Until Joanna. Until the Ferraros.

  Tears burned and she had to look away from the rage on their faces none of them bothered to hide. Rage on her behalf. For her. She didn't deserve it, not after thinking they were an organized-crime family. They were standing up for her. All of them. She turned toward Stefano and buried her face against his jacket. Immediately his arms enclosed her, hiding her tear-wet face from the others.

  "Are we about done here?" he growled. His voice actually rumbled, a deep, disturbing and definite warning. It was an order more than a question.

  "She hasn't told us what happened to the cell phone," Lanz pointed out, not in the least intimidated by Stefano, although Francesca thought he should have been.

  She was intimidated. Stefano could sound very scary when he chose to. The moment the words were out of Lanz's mouth, the hostility in the room rose by volumes. Again, the Ferraro brothers' reaction was what enabled her to answer without falling apart.

  "She must have packaged it up and mailed her phone to our post office box on her way home. I didn't check the box for a long time after because of everything that was going on. Most of our mail came to our house. We didn't use that box for anything but packages and that was because our parents had done it that way. We kept the box for sentimental reasons."

  Deangelo nodded. "Some of the older generations still keep that tradition. I think it had something to do with bombs being sent when they were feuding."

  Francesca sucked in her breath. Cella and she had joked about that, teasing their parents that they were in trouble with the Sicilian mobsters. Both sets of her grandparents had resided in Sicily, as had every generation preceding them. It was her father and mother who had immigrated to the United States.

  "I found the phone and knew I couldn't keep it anywhere near me. By that time I was living on the street, but Barry's men were always watching me. So I sent the phone to the only person I knew I could trust. I put it inside our mother's jewelry box and wrapped that, put it in a box and sent it out of town. I knew if Barry killed me, at least there would be some evidence that I was telling the truth."

  "Why didn't you take the phone to the police?" Lanz asked, his voice very, very gentle.

  She swallowed the terrible lump that had been forming in her throat, one she'd barely recognized was there. But Lanz and probably everyone else in the room ha
d heard the way it strangled her voice. "They believed I was insane, or they were on his payroll. It didn't matter which it was. I knew they would find a way to throw out the evidence and he would get away with his crimes like always."

  "We could take it to the police," Deangelo suggested.

  She shook her head. "No. Now, it's the only reason I'm still alive. The moment that phone surfaces, he's going to have his men kill me. He can get away with murder. I doubt if a little thing like a police station would keep him from destroying any evidence against him."

  "So you'd prefer him to walk?" Lanz persisted.

  "No. I'd prefer him in hell," she answered adamantly, "but men with the kind of money and power Barry Anthon has are untouchable. I've tried to tell Stefano that he's dangerous and everyone around me will be in danger, but he isn't listening." She looked around the room. "All of you could get hurt. It really is best if I just leave . . ."

  Stefano tipped up her face and slammed his mouth down over hers, effectively cutting off what she would have said to him. The moment he took possession and his tongue demanded entrance she was lost, the way she seemed to be always when he touched her. She felt him. His urgency. His hunger rising stark and brutal. Edging the kiss with danger. It was hot. Wet. Deliberately dominant.

  She loved his kisses and gave herself up to him, pouring herself back into him, into his mouth, her arms creeping up to shyly circle his neck. She forgot about their audience. She even forgot who and what they were asking about because the world around her dropped away until there was only Stefano. His arms. His body. His awesome, perfect mouth. The taste of him she knew she'd never get enough of.

  When he kissed her, her body heated, blood rushed hot, need pounded in her sex and thundered in her ears. There was no one like him and there never would be. Again, it was Stefano who slowly, reluctantly, broke the kiss. She was grateful he was reluctant, but she clung to him, wanting more. She stared up at him for a long time, lost in the vibrant blue of his eyes.

  "You aren't going anywhere, Francesca," he stated, his voice low, but absolutely firm. "Not ever. You're going to stay with me. Do you understand?"

  She was mesmerized, completely under his spell in that moment, and it was impossible to do anything but nod. She didn't understand at all. Not why or how Stefano would want her, but he did. There was no question about that now.

  When she managed to look around her, Stefano's brothers were grinning at her, not in the least giving them privacy or pretending to look the other way. Even the cousins were smirking, the tension gone, replaced by their smiles.

  Ricco's eyebrow shot up. "I'd say, little sister, you're staying right here with us, where you belong."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Francesca stared at herself in the mirror, feeling a little as if she was a princess in a fairy tale. She smoothed her hand down her dress--the dress Stefano had bought her for tonight. He was casual about it, coming to her room, knocking once and opening the door. He walked straight to her, a large box in his hand, bent his head and brushed a kiss across her mouth.

  His touch was all too fleeting. Barely there. But it was a brand and it burned right through her. He pushed the box into her hands. "Gotta go, bambina, things to do, but Emmanuelle and my cousins will be here to escort you to the club. You stick close to them until I get there. Understand?" The pad of his finger traced her lips. "I don't want you dancing with other men. Stay with Emme."

  Stefano never got close to her without touching her. His arm snaked around her waist to pull her tightly to his side. His lips brushed her temple or her mouth. He liked being close, but he hadn't made a move on her, not a real one. She found herself at night, lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, waiting. Just waiting.

  She'd seen him leave tonight. As always he wore an impeccable suit. This one was charcoal gray with ultrathin lighter stripes. It was one of his inevitable three-piece suits and he looked amazing in it. He was so sweet to her. Making certain she ate meals. Insisting she text him from the deli several times throughout the day. Always, if she stepped outside, one of his cousins was close.

  Stefano made her feel as if she mattered. As if she was his entire focus, even when he was at work, or wherever it was he went. Her eyes went back to the mirror and she raised her hand to her throat. She never asked him what he did. She thought about it and prepared herself to ask him, but he always distracted her before she did. He was just so intimidating and darkly sensual, filling the room with his presence until she could barely think straight.

  She inspected herself very carefully. The dress was beautiful--the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, let alone worn. It was also the sexiest, most flattering dress she'd ever put on. The material clung to her like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination, and yet revealing only hints of actual skin. The dress followed every curve to her small waist before dropping away over her hips. It was short, but elegant. Sexy, but not cheap.

  She stared at herself, unable to believe that it was actually Francesca Capello looking back at her in the mirror. She didn't look like that. Hot. Beautiful even, with her hair left loose to tumble around her face and down her back. She couldn't wear a bra with the dress, but it had a lining that gave some support because the material hugged her so tightly. In the box along with the dress was a tiny black lace thong. There was a bow on the back of the waistband, if you could call it a band; mostly it was tiny black strips of material. The thong rode low on her hips, barely there, so no lines showed beneath the clinging material of her dress.

  She'd put on her makeup with an edge toward drama, but still barely there. She liked the color of her lipstick, a nice deep red that showed off her full lips and good skin tone. Her shoes were perfect black heels with complicated straps that edged up her ankles and looked superhot. The shoes had to have cost as much or more than the dress. She loved the entire look.

  The elevator pinged, warning her, and she caught up her clutch and hurried out to greet Joanna and Mario Bandoni, Joanna's date, as they stepped into the foyer. Joanna looked awesome in her hot red dress. Both she and Mario were staring around the huge room, taking in everything so she had a chance to walk right up to them. Francesca couldn't blame them. When Stefano was there in his apartment with her, she felt at home and safe, but the moment he was gone, she felt like a fraud, an intruder. She didn't belong in his extremely wealthy world. She was very uncomfortable there.

  Joanna's eyes widened in shock when she caught sight of Francesca. Her mouth dropped open and she stared openly. Mario made a low sound of approval.

  "You look . . . so good, Francesca," Joanna said. "Beautiful. Really beautiful. I'm not certain you should go out in that dress. Has Stefano seen you?"

  Francesca laughed. Joanna and Mario had boosted her confidence level immensely just by their reactions. "Not yet, but Emmanuelle and the others should be here in a few minutes. Stefano and his brothers are already at the club. They had a meeting or something. His family is crazy large. Cousins have arrived from New York and they're showing them around. I've never seen so many cousins as Stefano has."

  "Most of them are male," Mario pointed out. "He's got Rosina and Rigina, Romano and Renato's sisters. They're pretty nice, although I've never said more than hello to them."

  "I nod," Joanna said. "Females can be really bitchy and I never wanted to be put in my place so I was careful around them."

  "They put people in their place?" Francesca asked. She knew she looked good, but it was the dress. She didn't run in Stefano's circles. If his cousins decided to be mean to her, she'd much rather stay home. She really wanted to go out wearing the dress and shoes, but not if it meant feeling awful about herself when some woman made her feel like she didn't belong.

  "No, they've never done that," Joanna hastened to say. "Get that look off your face, honey. You're with Stefano. No one would dare to be mean to you." She looked around the large room with its high ceilings and open floor plan. "Show us around. I've always wanted to see where Stefa
no lived. This is . . . amazing."

  Francesca's stomach knotted. This was Stefano's home. His private sanctuary. Instinctively she knew he wouldn't want anyone peeking into his private world. Joanna looked eager, nearly rubbing her hands together with glee. Mario was happy to go along with her, but Francesca just couldn't do it. Showing them Stefano's home felt too much like a betrayal.

  She shook her head. "I can't do that. This isn't my home, Joanna." She kept her voice very firm.

  Joanna pouted. "Seriously, Francesca? Come on," she wheedled. "I won't say anything. It's not like he'd know. I really want to see where he sleeps. At least show me his bedroom. I can imagine it's all sexy. Big bed. Satin sheets. Very hot."

  Mario laughed. "You're giving me ideas, Joanna."

  "Keep getting them, Mario," Joanna flirted.

  Francesca wrapped her arms around her middle and held tight. There was no way she was going to show Joanna anything at all. She hated the idea of anyone fantasizing about Stefano's bed and sheets, let alone about him.

  Stefano had shown her around the enormous suite--and it was enormous. He had his own workout room complete with every machine imaginable. There was another room that he used for training in several types of martial arts and boxing as well as street fighting. His brothers and sister and sometimes his cousins trained with him there. She'd peeked into the large rectangular room and had been in awe of the equipment there as well as the mats and floor. There were racks of swords and knives and other weapons, some wooden, some not, on the far wall.

  Stefano's hand had been on the nape of her neck, or fingers threaded through hers, arm sometimes around her waist, as he'd taken her through his home. The tour had felt intimate, Stefano showing her his private world. She wasn't about to share that, not even with her best friend. She felt the need to guard him, to protect him. This was where he came to relax and no one was going to invade his privacy, not even her friend.

  Francesca had seen him every night throughout the week and knew his life was difficult whether he was aware of it or not. The phone rang constantly with demands for his time. His cell went off as much or more than the house phone. No one left him in peace. More than once she'd been tempted to give his neck a massage while he impatiently--and dropping F-bombs liberally--listened to pleas for his help, most of which he answered positively.