Shadow Rider
Page 97
“Rigina and Rosina are keeping an eye on things,” Emmanuelle said. “Don’t go all cavemen on poor Joanna. She’s really into Mario, and he seems genuine enough.”
Stefano held out the chair for Francesca and then, when she slipped into it, pulled the one beside it close, so their thighs were touching and he could easily wrap his arm around her shoulders. He caught her hand and pulled it to his thigh, pressing her palm deep into his heat.
The waitress was there instantly. Francesca knew she shouldn’t—she needed to keep her wits about her—but she ordered another Moscow Mule with lime. The lime, vodka and ginger beer made a refreshing drink. It went down smoothly, sometimes too smoothly, but she didn’t care. She relaxed into Stefano and let the talk flow around her, although the cousins, brothers and Emmanuelle made certain she was a part of the conversation.
There was a lot of laughter. The Ferraro family clearly was close and they liked one another enough to give one another a hard time. Salvatore and Lucca’s brother, Geno, couldn’t attend the family celebration but had sent his congratulations.
“What exactly is the family celebrating?” Francesca asked Stefano, leaning close to him, her head on his shoulder, her lips pressed against his ear to be heard above the noise of the club.
Stefano threw back his head and laughed. She loved the sound. Carefree. Masculine. Enjoying life. He didn’t laugh a lot. “You, bambina, we’re celebrating me finding you.”
She was stunned by the sheer honesty in his voice. By the raw desire so plain in his vibrant blue eyes for anyone to see. By the possession stamped deep into his dark expression. He meant that. His cousins and family were celebrating Stefano finding Francesca. Claiming her. That knowledge went deep. She felt tears burn behind her eyes. Before anyone else could see them, she turned her face into his neck.
Immediately he wrapped his arms around her. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Francesca. Of course I’m going to share the most important woman in my life with the people I love. My cousins from San Francisco couldn’t make it, but they wanted to.”
“We’re careful not to all gather in one place,” Taviano supplied. “San Francisco drew the short straw.”
The short straw—she’d heard that term before when Emmanuelle hadn’t come to support her during what she thought of as “the interrogation.” “Why wouldn’t you be able to gather in one place together?” She frowned at them as they all went silent.
Stefano shrugged casually, when she knew he was feeling anything but casual. She could feel the tension around the table.
“It stems from hundreds of years ago, a law handed down in our family generations ago. The Saldi family in Sicily murdered the Ferraro family, killing as many members, men, women and children, as they could. The decree that we don’t all gather in one place was passed down by those surviving that massacre. It was a long time ago, just history really, but we still abide by that rule.”
Stefano had sworn at Giuseppi Saldi, deliberately goading him. When the two families had feuded for over a hundred years or more, why would he feel he was safe talking to the head of a crime family like that unless the Ferraro family was also a crime family as she’d first suspected? A small, icy finger of unease snaked down her spine.
“We’re celebrating tonight,” Ricco said, raising his glass. “To our Francesca. May she be followed by the right ones in a very timely manner.”
“Hear, hear,” the others chorused and clinked glasses.
She had no idea what they were talking about, but they all seemed happy, so she sipped at her drink, smiling. Letting herself believe that she could have a big family. That a man would love her the way Stefano seemed to. She didn’t deserve it. She hadn’t earned it, but she was determined to do so.
The talk flowed around her for another hour. She wanted to dance. One more Moscow Mule and she wouldn’t care whether it bothered Stefano or not. She leaned close to him. “I’ll be right back, Stefano,” she said. “I’m heading to the ladies’ room and no, you can’t go with me,” she hastily added as he rose with her. To her horror they all stood. The entire table of men. To try to stop the furious blush rising, she tugged at her hand to escape him. “And I’ll want to dance, so if you didn’t bring your dancing shoes, be prepared for seeing me dancing with another man.”
“That’s not happening, dolce cuore, not unless you want to see bloodshed. Fortunately, I always bring my dancing shoes. And I will be escorting you, so don’t argue with me anymore. I don’t like it and it won’t do you any good.”
Stefano held out the chair for Francesca and then, when she slipped into it, pulled the one beside it close, so their thighs were touching and he could easily wrap his arm around her shoulders. He caught her hand and pulled it to his thigh, pressing her palm deep into his heat.
The waitress was there instantly. Francesca knew she shouldn’t—she needed to keep her wits about her—but she ordered another Moscow Mule with lime. The lime, vodka and ginger beer made a refreshing drink. It went down smoothly, sometimes too smoothly, but she didn’t care. She relaxed into Stefano and let the talk flow around her, although the cousins, brothers and Emmanuelle made certain she was a part of the conversation.
There was a lot of laughter. The Ferraro family clearly was close and they liked one another enough to give one another a hard time. Salvatore and Lucca’s brother, Geno, couldn’t attend the family celebration but had sent his congratulations.
“What exactly is the family celebrating?” Francesca asked Stefano, leaning close to him, her head on his shoulder, her lips pressed against his ear to be heard above the noise of the club.
Stefano threw back his head and laughed. She loved the sound. Carefree. Masculine. Enjoying life. He didn’t laugh a lot. “You, bambina, we’re celebrating me finding you.”
She was stunned by the sheer honesty in his voice. By the raw desire so plain in his vibrant blue eyes for anyone to see. By the possession stamped deep into his dark expression. He meant that. His cousins and family were celebrating Stefano finding Francesca. Claiming her. That knowledge went deep. She felt tears burn behind her eyes. Before anyone else could see them, she turned her face into his neck.
Immediately he wrapped his arms around her. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Francesca. Of course I’m going to share the most important woman in my life with the people I love. My cousins from San Francisco couldn’t make it, but they wanted to.”
“We’re careful not to all gather in one place,” Taviano supplied. “San Francisco drew the short straw.”
The short straw—she’d heard that term before when Emmanuelle hadn’t come to support her during what she thought of as “the interrogation.” “Why wouldn’t you be able to gather in one place together?” She frowned at them as they all went silent.
Stefano shrugged casually, when she knew he was feeling anything but casual. She could feel the tension around the table.
“It stems from hundreds of years ago, a law handed down in our family generations ago. The Saldi family in Sicily murdered the Ferraro family, killing as many members, men, women and children, as they could. The decree that we don’t all gather in one place was passed down by those surviving that massacre. It was a long time ago, just history really, but we still abide by that rule.”
Stefano had sworn at Giuseppi Saldi, deliberately goading him. When the two families had feuded for over a hundred years or more, why would he feel he was safe talking to the head of a crime family like that unless the Ferraro family was also a crime family as she’d first suspected? A small, icy finger of unease snaked down her spine.
“We’re celebrating tonight,” Ricco said, raising his glass. “To our Francesca. May she be followed by the right ones in a very timely manner.”
“Hear, hear,” the others chorused and clinked glasses.
She had no idea what they were talking about, but they all seemed happy, so she sipped at her drink, smiling. Letting herself believe that she could have a big family. That a man would love her the way Stefano seemed to. She didn’t deserve it. She hadn’t earned it, but she was determined to do so.
The talk flowed around her for another hour. She wanted to dance. One more Moscow Mule and she wouldn’t care whether it bothered Stefano or not. She leaned close to him. “I’ll be right back, Stefano,” she said. “I’m heading to the ladies’ room and no, you can’t go with me,” she hastily added as he rose with her. To her horror they all stood. The entire table of men. To try to stop the furious blush rising, she tugged at her hand to escape him. “And I’ll want to dance, so if you didn’t bring your dancing shoes, be prepared for seeing me dancing with another man.”
“That’s not happening, dolce cuore, not unless you want to see bloodshed. Fortunately, I always bring my dancing shoes. And I will be escorting you, so don’t argue with me anymore. I don’t like it and it won’t do you any good.”
