Shadow Rider
Page 77
He knew if it was just him asking the questions, she would answer without hesitation, but her gaze continually strayed to his brothers. She was uncomfortable with them there.
“We’re here to help you,” Ricco reiterated. “You belong to Stefano, so that makes you belong to all of us—even our cousins. We’re all family. That means something to us. Don’t be afraid. We’ll know the truth. Don’t you, when you hear it? Haven’t you always been able to tell when someone is lying to you?”
Francesca nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was very low and filled with reluctance as she made the admission, as if they would think she was crazy.
“Our entire family has that ability,” Ricco said. “Our cousins and our parents, an aunt and uncle as well. It’s a gift we deliberately chose to develop in our family, for generations, not just us. We’ll know the truth when you give it to us.”
Francesca’s palm pressed deeper into Stefano’s thigh. She knew Ricco had given both reassurance as well as warning, but she nodded and Stefano felt some of the tension ease out of her.
“I’ll have a glass of red wine. I didn’t eat dinner, and I’ve noticed even a small amount of wine seems to affect me. I’m a lightweight, but I do enjoy the occasional glass with dinner.”
“You don’t eat enough,” Stefano said, his voice gruff. A bit bossy and disapproving.
That earned him a flash of amusement from her vivid blue eyes, and then it was gone as she accepted the glass of wine from Vittorio. Stefano felt something move deep inside him at that intimate look. He knew it was meant for him alone. He’d never had that. Not once in his life. A woman who was exclusively his. Francesca wasn’t aware of it, but she looked at him with far more trust in her eyes than he deserved. She looked at him as if the sun rose and set with him.
“I’m not exactly thin, Stefano.” She ducked her head, looking at her wineglass rather than at him as if the discussion about her curves embarrassed her.
She had gone hungry for a long while. Truthfully she’d lost some weight, but he could tell that she thought she needed to. Women seemed to always think that way. He preferred curves to supermodel thin. He didn’t understand why women were so hard on themselves. Francesca was beautiful and he didn’t want a single pound to go away.
His brothers, drinks in hand, found chairs and settled, all eyes on his woman. He knew that made her uncomfortable so he kept his fingers around the nape of her neck and his other hand covering hers on his thigh.
“Tell us about Barry Anthon, Francesca,” Ricco said. “From the beginning. How he came into your life and what happened from there.”
Francesca glanced up at Stefano for reassurance and then carefully set the wineglass on the small end table, fearing she’d spill it on the gleaming marble floor. Her entire body trembled and she didn’t seem to be able to do anything about it, even when she commanded herself to be still. She didn’t want to talk about Barry Anthon, or relive the nightmare world she’d been dragged into two years earlier when Cella first met Barry.
She risked another look around at the faces of the Ferraro brothers. Vittorio and Taviano looked encouraging. Ricco looked downright scary. Giovanni nodded at her as if to tell her to get on with it. She felt Stefano’s body sitting next to her, yet he seemed to take up the room, surrounding her, in front of her, at her back. He was everywhere. Dangerous. Determined. Giving her a feeling of security. How he managed that she didn’t know. The fingers massaging her neck almost absently were mesmerizing. Without consciously thinking about it she eased back into them, seeking more. Seeking his touch while she gave them what they wanted.
“My sister, Cella, is—was—nine years older than me. When our parents were killed in an automobile accident she decided to raise me herself. She didn’t have to do it—she wanted to. She never once made me feel like a burden to her, even though it was difficult. We didn’t ever have a lot of money and we lived in a tiny apartment, but I was really happy.”
No one rushed her to get to the place where she met Barry, and she appreciated their patience in allowing her to tell it in her own time and way.
“I was working at a deli and going to school. Cella worked at a beauty salon as a hairdresser. She did nails as well. Her shop was downtown, in a good location, which meant they had a lot of high-end clients. She made decent money and her clientele really built. Next to her salon was a very busy and popular coffee shop. One day she was rushing back to work, and another customer at the coffee shop ran right into her. His coffee spilled all over her. It was hot and she got burned. She dropped her purse, everything went flying and he knelt down and picked everything up for her, immediately took her to a boutique to buy her new clothes for her workday and asked her out. That man was Barry Anthon.”
“We’re here to help you,” Ricco reiterated. “You belong to Stefano, so that makes you belong to all of us—even our cousins. We’re all family. That means something to us. Don’t be afraid. We’ll know the truth. Don’t you, when you hear it? Haven’t you always been able to tell when someone is lying to you?”
Francesca nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was very low and filled with reluctance as she made the admission, as if they would think she was crazy.
“Our entire family has that ability,” Ricco said. “Our cousins and our parents, an aunt and uncle as well. It’s a gift we deliberately chose to develop in our family, for generations, not just us. We’ll know the truth when you give it to us.”
Francesca’s palm pressed deeper into Stefano’s thigh. She knew Ricco had given both reassurance as well as warning, but she nodded and Stefano felt some of the tension ease out of her.
“I’ll have a glass of red wine. I didn’t eat dinner, and I’ve noticed even a small amount of wine seems to affect me. I’m a lightweight, but I do enjoy the occasional glass with dinner.”
“You don’t eat enough,” Stefano said, his voice gruff. A bit bossy and disapproving.
That earned him a flash of amusement from her vivid blue eyes, and then it was gone as she accepted the glass of wine from Vittorio. Stefano felt something move deep inside him at that intimate look. He knew it was meant for him alone. He’d never had that. Not once in his life. A woman who was exclusively his. Francesca wasn’t aware of it, but she looked at him with far more trust in her eyes than he deserved. She looked at him as if the sun rose and set with him.
“I’m not exactly thin, Stefano.” She ducked her head, looking at her wineglass rather than at him as if the discussion about her curves embarrassed her.
She had gone hungry for a long while. Truthfully she’d lost some weight, but he could tell that she thought she needed to. Women seemed to always think that way. He preferred curves to supermodel thin. He didn’t understand why women were so hard on themselves. Francesca was beautiful and he didn’t want a single pound to go away.
His brothers, drinks in hand, found chairs and settled, all eyes on his woman. He knew that made her uncomfortable so he kept his fingers around the nape of her neck and his other hand covering hers on his thigh.
“Tell us about Barry Anthon, Francesca,” Ricco said. “From the beginning. How he came into your life and what happened from there.”
Francesca glanced up at Stefano for reassurance and then carefully set the wineglass on the small end table, fearing she’d spill it on the gleaming marble floor. Her entire body trembled and she didn’t seem to be able to do anything about it, even when she commanded herself to be still. She didn’t want to talk about Barry Anthon, or relive the nightmare world she’d been dragged into two years earlier when Cella first met Barry.
She risked another look around at the faces of the Ferraro brothers. Vittorio and Taviano looked encouraging. Ricco looked downright scary. Giovanni nodded at her as if to tell her to get on with it. She felt Stefano’s body sitting next to her, yet he seemed to take up the room, surrounding her, in front of her, at her back. He was everywhere. Dangerous. Determined. Giving her a feeling of security. How he managed that she didn’t know. The fingers massaging her neck almost absently were mesmerizing. Without consciously thinking about it she eased back into them, seeking more. Seeking his touch while she gave them what they wanted.
“My sister, Cella, is—was—nine years older than me. When our parents were killed in an automobile accident she decided to raise me herself. She didn’t have to do it—she wanted to. She never once made me feel like a burden to her, even though it was difficult. We didn’t ever have a lot of money and we lived in a tiny apartment, but I was really happy.”
No one rushed her to get to the place where she met Barry, and she appreciated their patience in allowing her to tell it in her own time and way.
“I was working at a deli and going to school. Cella worked at a beauty salon as a hairdresser. She did nails as well. Her shop was downtown, in a good location, which meant they had a lot of high-end clients. She made decent money and her clientele really built. Next to her salon was a very busy and popular coffee shop. One day she was rushing back to work, and another customer at the coffee shop ran right into her. His coffee spilled all over her. It was hot and she got burned. She dropped her purse, everything went flying and he knelt down and picked everything up for her, immediately took her to a boutique to buy her new clothes for her workday and asked her out. That man was Barry Anthon.”
