Shadow Rider
Page 37
Francesca went still. “Joanna, seriously. You have to tell me the truth. Are the Ferraros a mafia family?” Because she actually liked Stefano. He’d given away so much about himself, and she liked what he’d given away.
Joanna glanced around the room. “It’s not a good idea to talk about things like that, Francesca. Not ever. The Ferraros are different.”
“Joanna,” Francesca warned. “You’re my friend. I’m not going to talk about it to anyone else. I’m talking to you.”
Joanna sighed, took another sip of wine and then shrugged. “I don’t honestly know. They could be. I know they’ve been investigated but nothing was ever proved against them. The family is very powerful internationally and they have like a bazillion cousins. Not just here, but all over the United States and Europe. No one has ever found anything on them, but people are afraid of them. Not us. Not here in their territory, but others. I don’t know,” she finished. “It’s possible. Maybe even probable.”
Francesca sighed. It wasn’t an answer. It was speculation. She knew better than anyone how rumors got started and became truth in everyone’s mind. She wasn’t going to do that to anyone, believe gossip without proof. Still, she had to be wary.
“So tell me about Emmanuelle’s phone call,” she prompted.
“She said Giovanni told her about how I couldn’t get into their club and she wanted to personally invite me to go with her and her cousins. She said I could bring anyone I wanted along. I thought I could ask Mario Bandoni—you know, you met him. He manages the shoe store. I already mentioned it to him and he seemed receptive.” Her words tumbled over one another, and she leaned toward Francesca. “I’ve liked him forever. Even in elementary school. He was always so popular and I could never make myself make a play for him because I really, really liked him. I thought you could go and it wouldn’t seem like I was asking him on a real date. Just casual, you know, a big crowd.”
“Joanna, if you’re going with Emmanuelle and her cousins, that’s already a crowd.” Francesca didn’t want to let her down, but she couldn’t go to a hot nightclub in her holey jeans.
“But not my crowd. I don’t run in her circles, and neither does Mario. We’re acquaintances, but not real friends. They aren’t just rich, Francesca—they’re ultrawealthy. I like them, but I’m not comfortable with them. I can’t imagine that they’re going to hang around with me in a nightclub. They’ll be sitting in the VIP section and I’ll be down on the floor, trying not to be tongue-tied with Mario.”
“Honey,” Francesca said softly. “You’re never tongue-tied with men.”
A thread of unease crept through her and she glanced up to look around the restaurant. Her gaze collided with a man’s. He was across the room, standing by the hostess booth. A shiver went down her spine. He was medium height, but powerfully built. Wide shoulders, a thick chest. He had the body of a prizefighter. He wore his hair cropped close. From the distance she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, but his mouth was set in a forbidding scowl. He looked vaguely familiar.
Berta said something to him and he instantly turned his attention to her, smiling down at her. Francesca sighed and forced her gaze back to her friend. She was just being overly paranoid. She was hundreds of miles from California. No one knew where she was. She’d covered her tracks fairly well. She took a breath and turned her full attention back to Joanna, having missed her reply.
“What did you say?”
“I said, you’ve never seen me around a man I really, really like. I make a total fool of myself. Please, Francesca. Do this for me. I’ll help find you something to wear. I can even help pay . . .”
“Don’t,” Francesca cautioned. “You’ve done enough for me. You want me to go, I’ll find a way.” Hopefully she could find something decent at the thrift shop. If not, she might have to dip into the money Stefano had left with her and that would be humiliating. She wanted to return the money along with the coat when she saw him next.
“Thank you, Francesca. This means the world to me,” Joanna said happily.
“Are you ready? I have to retrieve Stefano’s coat before your uncle closes up for the night.”
Joanna laughed again. “You and that coat.”
“Right? It’s the bane of my existence.”
Francesca followed Joanna from the pizza parlor. Joanna called a greeting to several people and waved toward the kitchen as they made their exit. The boxer—as Francesca thought of him—seemed to be waiting for a to-go order. She kept her eye on him just in case, but he didn’t appear to pay any more attention to her.
Joanna glanced around the room. “It’s not a good idea to talk about things like that, Francesca. Not ever. The Ferraros are different.”
“Joanna,” Francesca warned. “You’re my friend. I’m not going to talk about it to anyone else. I’m talking to you.”
Joanna sighed, took another sip of wine and then shrugged. “I don’t honestly know. They could be. I know they’ve been investigated but nothing was ever proved against them. The family is very powerful internationally and they have like a bazillion cousins. Not just here, but all over the United States and Europe. No one has ever found anything on them, but people are afraid of them. Not us. Not here in their territory, but others. I don’t know,” she finished. “It’s possible. Maybe even probable.”
Francesca sighed. It wasn’t an answer. It was speculation. She knew better than anyone how rumors got started and became truth in everyone’s mind. She wasn’t going to do that to anyone, believe gossip without proof. Still, she had to be wary.
“So tell me about Emmanuelle’s phone call,” she prompted.
“She said Giovanni told her about how I couldn’t get into their club and she wanted to personally invite me to go with her and her cousins. She said I could bring anyone I wanted along. I thought I could ask Mario Bandoni—you know, you met him. He manages the shoe store. I already mentioned it to him and he seemed receptive.” Her words tumbled over one another, and she leaned toward Francesca. “I’ve liked him forever. Even in elementary school. He was always so popular and I could never make myself make a play for him because I really, really liked him. I thought you could go and it wouldn’t seem like I was asking him on a real date. Just casual, you know, a big crowd.”
“Joanna, if you’re going with Emmanuelle and her cousins, that’s already a crowd.” Francesca didn’t want to let her down, but she couldn’t go to a hot nightclub in her holey jeans.
“But not my crowd. I don’t run in her circles, and neither does Mario. We’re acquaintances, but not real friends. They aren’t just rich, Francesca—they’re ultrawealthy. I like them, but I’m not comfortable with them. I can’t imagine that they’re going to hang around with me in a nightclub. They’ll be sitting in the VIP section and I’ll be down on the floor, trying not to be tongue-tied with Mario.”
“Honey,” Francesca said softly. “You’re never tongue-tied with men.”
A thread of unease crept through her and she glanced up to look around the restaurant. Her gaze collided with a man’s. He was across the room, standing by the hostess booth. A shiver went down her spine. He was medium height, but powerfully built. Wide shoulders, a thick chest. He had the body of a prizefighter. He wore his hair cropped close. From the distance she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, but his mouth was set in a forbidding scowl. He looked vaguely familiar.
Berta said something to him and he instantly turned his attention to her, smiling down at her. Francesca sighed and forced her gaze back to her friend. She was just being overly paranoid. She was hundreds of miles from California. No one knew where she was. She’d covered her tracks fairly well. She took a breath and turned her full attention back to Joanna, having missed her reply.
“What did you say?”
“I said, you’ve never seen me around a man I really, really like. I make a total fool of myself. Please, Francesca. Do this for me. I’ll help find you something to wear. I can even help pay . . .”
“Don’t,” Francesca cautioned. “You’ve done enough for me. You want me to go, I’ll find a way.” Hopefully she could find something decent at the thrift shop. If not, she might have to dip into the money Stefano had left with her and that would be humiliating. She wanted to return the money along with the coat when she saw him next.
“Thank you, Francesca. This means the world to me,” Joanna said happily.
“Are you ready? I have to retrieve Stefano’s coat before your uncle closes up for the night.”
Joanna laughed again. “You and that coat.”
“Right? It’s the bane of my existence.”
Francesca followed Joanna from the pizza parlor. Joanna called a greeting to several people and waved toward the kitchen as they made their exit. The boxer—as Francesca thought of him—seemed to be waiting for a to-go order. She kept her eye on him just in case, but he didn’t appear to pay any more attention to her.
