Joanna squeezed Francesca's hand. "Zio Pietro, this is my best friend, Francesca Capello."
"Yes, yes, you talk about her all the time," Pietro said, beaming. He waved toward the customers. "Hurry, before they take their business somewhere else. I'll look after Francesca for you."
He indicated for Francesca to follow him and she did, winding her way through the throng of people, back behind the counter. Once behind the counter she was up close to the smells of the food and her stomach growled again. She found herself pulling the coat closer around her like a shield, trying to hide from all the eyes staring at her. Trying to hide the fact that she was starving. She followed Pietro through a narrow hallway to the rather messy office.
Pietro waved her toward a chair. "Sit. I'll get you an application, but that's just because I need your information. A mere formality."
She winced, wishing it were easy for the average person to get a new identity. She'd actually made inquiries, only to find out it would be impossible when she didn't have money and didn't know anyone in the criminal world--well, only one someone--so she'd remained Francesca Capello. Her fingers gripped the outside of the coat, gathering the material into her fist, holding so tight her knuckles turned white.
"Tell me how you know Stefano Ferraro. It sounded as if you just met, yet he said . . ." He trailed off, clearly looking for more information.
She looked across the desk at Pietro, her heart beginning to pound. She needed this job. She wasn't good at lying, but . . . She didn't know what to do, how to answer him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Masci. I never laid eyes on him before today." There. She told the truth. She found she was trembling from head to foot. She had to get the job. She leaned toward him. "Please. I'm a really hard worker. I've had tons of experience. Really." She just couldn't put down any references. Not a single one.
Pietro sat back in his chair, frowning at her. "You've never laid eyes on him before today?" He repeated her denial softly. Thoughtfully. "He claimed you. He asked me to take care of you for him. Do you have any idea what that means for us? How can you not know him?"
She was getting desperate. Food had been scarce for the last few weeks. Hiding in old buildings trying to stay alive when you were being hunted could make food not a first priority. The bus trip had been long. She had to save her money to try to get a place to stay. That didn't leave a lot for food.
"I met Joanna in school--in college. When . . . things happened to me . . . to my family, she was kind enough to help me out. I took a bus out here from California because she thought I could work in your store and build a new life here."
He put both hands on the desk. Flat. Leaning toward her. Eyes piercing. Her heart sank.
"Are you running from the law?"
Relief was so strong she wanted to cry. She shook her head. "No, sir. I'm not. I did get into some trouble back home, but I'm not in trouble with the law. I really need this job. I don't have much money left . . ." That reminded her of the folded bills Stefano Ferraro had stuffed into the pocket of his very warm coat.
"Why would Stefano Ferraro ask a favor of me for you? Does he know your family?"
She shook her head, feeling dizzy. "I swear to you, I don't know him. I don't know why he gave me his coat, or acted the way he did."
"He took you outside and had a conversation with you. What did he say?"
"Nothing. He didn't want me to give away his coat. He said I had to buy some shoes with the money. He was being kind."
Something in his eyes shifted. "The Ferraros are a lot of things, but they are not kind. He wants you taken care of. My niece has asked as well. I'll hire you. You can start tomorrow. Fill out the papers, and I'll go get you food. You look as if you haven't eaten in a while."
Francesca had to admit she didn't think Stefano had helped her out of kindness, but certainly Pietro's expression was kindly and she sagged with relief. She was going to put down the entire incident with Stefano as weird, treat it like he meant the gesture kindly. She wouldn't spend his money, but she'd wear his coat and then hang it carefully in her apartment until she figured out how to get it back to him.
She filled out the application, leaving just about everything blank. Her name. Her social security number. That was it. There was nothing else she could safely tell him.
CHAPTER TWO
Joanna tossed a handful of magazines onto the table in front of Francesca. "Check those out. Tell me I'm wrong about the Ferraro family."
Francesca sighed. She'd managed to eat two meals, thanks to Joanna and her uncle. She'd kept the meals small, and she was happy she had. The food sat in her stomach as if her body had forgotten how to process it. Her first day at work had been very successful and Pietro was pleased. The deli's customers had doubled in one day. She'd kept her head down and worked hard, avoiding the staring eyes. Pietro didn't care if they stared at his newest employee. He cared about the cash register, and it was full. That meant the tip jar was full as well.
Francesca smiled at Joanna as Joanna leafed through one of the glossy magazines to show her a headline. Ferraro brothers. Fast cars and faster women. There was a series of photographs of Stefano Ferraro standing by a race car with a huge smile and a large trophy, a woman in his arms, looking up at him. Four very hot men and an exceptionally beautiful woman circled him, all beaming at him. Joanna was right. They were gorgeous.
"Well, that lets me out. I don't own a car, and I couldn't be considered running in the fast lane no matter who was talking about me." Francesca should have been feeling relief, but the more she paged through the magazines and saw models, singers, actresses and heiresses adorning the arms of the Ferraro males, the more she felt a little sick.
"Wow. If you considered even a tenth of this stuff is true, they live life on the edge. Parties. Racing cars. Playing polo. What was he doing in your uncle's shop? I wouldn't think he would set foot in a place that was rated less than five stars."
"The Ferraro family owns most of the buildings in our neighborhood. Not the homes, but the apartment buildings, and all the store space. They're very hands-on. Their parents actually buy locally. They often come in and talk to Zio Pietro."
"You're telling me that these people are actually friends with all of you?" She couldn't keep the disbelief from her voice.
Joanna shook her head. "Not friends exactly. I'm not saying we run in the same circles. It's more like they're royalty and we all know them by sight. They keep an eye on things."
Francesca looked at the pictures of the ridiculously handsome faces with women on their arms--women dripping with diamonds--and she just couldn't see them walking around the neighborhood and frequenting the local shops.
"Are they mafia?"
Joanna gasped and looked around her. "Francesca! Sheesh. Are you nuts? You don't ask a question like that where anyone might hear you."
"Well. Are they?" she persisted.
Joanna looked uncomfortable. "They keep the neighborhood safe."
Francesca looked down at the open pages of the magazines again. They looked like playboys, yet if she looked really close, if she studied their faces, she could see the danger lurking under all that beauty. The bell over the door announced a customer and Francesca looked up as she stood. Her heart stuttered. Another Ferraro. Definitely. Not Stefano, but certainly one of his brothers. His sharp gaze moved around the store until it settled on her. Her stomach reacted, taking a little dive. She glanced at Joanna. Her friend sat frozen, her mouth open, her hand on the magazines.
Francesca carefully closed the covers and prayed those sharp eyes already dissecting the two of them hadn't seen what they were looking at. She forced her body to move, going straight to and around the counter. That helped, putting a barrier between them.
"May I help you?" Her voice came out a little strangled. She had secrets. Men like the Ferraros--jet-setters, men so rich they thought they owned everything in their world-- could ruin her. She knew from experience that they wouldn't think twice about destroying anyone who got in their wa
y.
"Hello, Joanna," the newcomer said, looking at Francesca, not Joanna. "You want to introduce us?"
Joanna jumped up so fast she nearly knocked over her chair. This time of day the deli was relatively quiet. Clusters of customers came in sporadically until the next big rush. Still, the few customers that were there ceased speaking, just as they'd done when Stefano had walked in.
"Of course. Giovanni Ferraro, this is my friend Francesca Capello."
Giovanni stuck out his hand. Francesca had no choice but to take it or seem rude. For all her declarations of the Ferraro family keeping the neighborhood safe, Joanna seemed anxious. Giovanni's hand closed around hers.
"You're new in our neighborhood." Giovanni made it a statement.
Francesca nodded. "Is there something I can get for you?"
"Mamma would like me to bring her some of Pietro's tiramisu. She's been craving it and couldn't get into the store today. Would you box me up six pieces?"
Francesca nodded. Relieved. He had a legitimate reason for coming to the store. What did she know? Joanna said the family frequented the store. Her weird encounter with Stefano made her nervous--that was all. She put together one of the carry boxes and lined it carefully, knowing Pietro would want the box to be extra special.
"How are you settling in to the neighborhood?" Giovanni asked. "Everyone treating you right?"
Francesca felt the tension in the store rise a notch. She lifted her gaze slowly to meet his. This was no casual visit. She didn't know why the innocent question tipped her off, but the Ferraro family continued to take an interest in her. Alarm bells began shrieking at her. Maybe even Chicago wasn't safe for her. She tried not to look as if she was freaking out. Joanna was. Her face had gone pale and she twisted her fingers together anxiously, waiting for Francesca's answer. The entire store seemed to be waiting.
"Everyone has been wonderful," she replied, and looked down at her work space, carefully placing each piece into the box.
"No complaints then?" he prompted.
Her heart jumped. She felt like she was walking on eggshells, one wrong move and something terrible would happen. She just didn't know what.
"None." She put the box on the counter.
Giovanni leaned close as he handed her the money for the tiramisu. "Buy some shoes." His voice was low. Just between the two of them.
Her gaze jumped to his. He refused to look away. She wasn't going to argue with him, but she wasn't spending Stefano's money. Not one cent. Not for anything. Pietro let her eat there at the deli and she was careful not to abuse that privilege, but she wasn't going hungry anymore, so she didn't need Stefano's money. The Ferraro family seemed to be obsessed with her getting new shoes.
"Don't piss him off," Giovanni advised. "Buy yourself the shoes. You can always pay him back. He'll be home soon and you don't want to get him riled."
"He sent you to check up on me?" she hissed.
He grinned at her, completely unrepentant. He looked nearly as gorgeous as his brother. And as arrogant. "We're watching over you," he admitted. "He'd beat the holy hell out of us if we didn't. So buy the shoes and keep me from getting a broken nose. I like mine the way it is."
She gave him the change. "Just wait right there. I've got his coat in the back and you can . . ."
Giovanni backed away from the counter. "Not going to happen, woman. You give him that coat in person. He'd kill me over that coat. Wear it. He'll be checking on that, too. Buy some shoes and wear the fucking coat. Put him in a good mood for a change."
What did that mean? Stefano looked like he was in a good mood when he was smiling for the cameras with all those women hanging on his arm.
Giovanni turned away from Francesca, which was just as well because she might have thrown something at him. "Joanna, you haven't been by the club for a while."
Joanna had closed the rest of the magazines, stacked them and turned them all over so only the back covers showed. Francesca was fairly certain it was too late. Giovanni had seen what they were doing. There was no doubt in her mind that he would report that to his brother as well.
"You been giving our competitors your business?" Giovanni's tone was teasing, but Joanna looked nervous.
"I love the club," she said, "but the price is a little steep, and I usually don't make it in even if I come up with the door fee."
Giovanni's face darkened. "What did you say?"
"It's all right, really. I understand. It's a hot spot. I don't exactly have the clothes . . ."
"That's bullshit." He pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to her. "Skip the fucking line and show that to the bouncer. They don't let you in, you call the number on that card and I'll handle it. You're one of ours. They let you in when you want in. Come this next weekend and bring Francesca. I'll be there and so will Stefano. We've got a meeting. If there's any trouble, just call."
Francesca was horrified. Shocked, too. Giovanni sounded really angry. Not because of her, but on Joanna's behalf, and that made Francesca like him a little better. He didn't like that Joanna had been refused entry into their club. Still, she was not going to some hot club. What was she going to wear? Her holey jeans? Not likely.
They watched Giovanni leave, and then Francesca came out from behind the counter. "What in the world was that?"
"I don't know, but clearly the family is watching over you," Joanna said. She held up the card. "Can you believe he gave me this? He was angry that they didn't let me in. He said to just jump the line, too. Can you imagine getting to do that? I've gotten into the club a couple of times but usually they turn me away at the door."
"That's terrible. Snobs."
"The Ferraros clearly aren't the ones being snobs," Joanna said, waving the card at her. "We can go dancing, Francesca."
"I can't go," Francesca protested. "I wouldn't have the money to get in, let alone something to wear. Seriously, Joanna, go with your other friends or by yourself. No way am I going out to a club, especially one the Ferraros frequent."
"Own. They own it. They have several businesses, and that's just one. The main family business is international banking. They also have the hotel, which is the bomb. Movie stars stay there. In any case, you have to come with me. They'll expect it." Joanna pressed the card against her heart. "I'll find you something to wear."
"No." Francesca threw herself into the seat beside Joanna. "They're watching me. He as good as said so. Why would they do that? Do you think they found out about . . ." She trailed off, and reached for Joanna's hand. "They run in the same circles. If they tell anyone I'm here, I'll have to run again and I don't have enough money."
Unbidden came the thought of the money Stefano had shoved into the pocket of his coat. It would be stealing to take it and disappear. She had the feeling if she did run, Stefano would find her. He would never allow her to steal from him and not hunt her down. She shivered at the thought. She didn't want him coming after her. He would be relentless and she doubted if he had much mercy in him.
Joanna shook her head. "You're under Stefano's protection. That's what he meant when he said to my uncle to take care of what was his. Clearly the Ferraro family is looking out for you."
Francesca glanced around the room, took the stack of magazines, held them up and lowered her voice even more. "Are you crazy? I can't come under any scrutiny. You know that. No one can know anything about me. Having Stefano Ferraro showing me any interest, for whatever reason, even if he's just worried about my well-being, is dangerous."
Joanna looked crushed. "I love that club. Celebrities go there. Movie stars, Francesca. It isn't like they notice me, but I get to see them up close. Some of the NASCAR drivers go there as well. The bartenders do amazing tricks, just like you see in the movies, and the music is killer. Best dance place in Chicago."
"He said you could go anytime," Francesca reminded gently. "It didn't have anything at all to do with me."
Joanna sighed and nodded. "I guess you're right. What time do you get off?"
"
Your uncle said five. It's nearly that now."
Francesca didn't have to look at the clock to know it was close to the end of her shift. Her feet were killing her, toes numb with cold. She was afraid she was going to get frostbite. She wished for a bathtub to soak in. The tiny apartment had only a shower, and the water wasn't very hot. Still, she wasn't about to complain. She had a roof over her head and Joanna's uncle paid her a much better wage than she'd anticipated, which meant if he kept giving her the hours he'd promised her, she could pay another month's rent.
If she just ate one meal a day at the deli, or grazed a little throughout the day, she'd save money. Electricity and water were included in her rent. She didn't have a cell phone or a car. She was on the lookout for thrift stores so she could see if she could find a few more outfits.
"Why the big sigh?" Joanna asked.
"Why would it be such a big deal to the Ferraro family for me to buy a pair of shoes?" The temptation was there. Her feet were so cold she wanted to cry, not to mention, because the shoes were too big, she had blisters from them constantly rubbing.
"Is it a big deal?"
Francesca nodded, leaning into her hand. "Giovanni told me to buy shoes or his brother was going to be angry. He said not to make him angry."
"He said that?" Joanna looked shocked.
"I don't understand why Stefano would care in the first place. It isn't his business. Does he go around the streets and search for people with holes in their shoes and demand they buy new ones? Does he have a shoe store that needs business? And why would he send his brother in here to make certain I actually buy the shoes?"
"Wow." Joanna fanned herself. "That's just . . . wow."
Francesca rolled her eyes. "Don't start. It isn't wow. It's creepy. Maybe his brother has a shoe fetish and my shoes don't meet his standard for the neighborhood."
"It's wow and you know it. He's hot. He's rich. He's interested in you."
Francesca stiffened. "He is not. Not like that. Take another look in those magazines at what that man's type is. It isn't me. I'm no model. I'm short and have a lot of curves. All the running in the world isn't going to get rid of my . . ." She indicated her generous breasts. "Or my butt. Not to mention, I didn't see one Italian-American woman in the entire harem."