She shouldn't like that he called her sweetheart. She shouldn't be sitting there with his hand curled around her neck. She was drowning, hypnotized by him. She'd never experienced such intense chemistry. She didn't even know physical attraction could be so strong. He was like a magnet and she couldn't seem to find the resistance necessary to break free.
"You're far more important than a fucking coat."
"It's your favorite," she whispered, shocking herself at what that admission implied. She'd been afraid of him, hadn't she? Not attracted. Not worried that he'd be upset over his coat and she didn't want that. Or that she'd come to love that coat and the way it made her feel.
"It's a coat, Francesca." His hand slid from her neck and he straightened, turning his head toward the interior of the restaurant.
She hadn't heard anything at all, yet he'd been aware of movement in the pizzeria. She blinked several times, trying to come out from under his spell, out from under the web of sexual attraction.
"Your pie," Tito said with a flourish, placing the pizza between them. "The house specialty. Enjoy." He winked at Francesca. "You'll think you're in heaven."
"Grazie, Tito," Stefano said, shifting his body subtly to put himself once more very close to Francesca, his posture possessive.
Even Francesca saw the blatant warning. She smiled at Tito. "Thanks, it looks fantastic."
Tito nodded, gave them both a small salute and slipped away, leaving her once more alone with Stefano.
Francesca knew she had to protest Stefano's proprietorial behavior. She wasn't in a position to have any kind of a relationship and in any case, she didn't do casual. Stefano was way out of her league. She couldn't imagine that a man like him would want to date someone like her. She shopped at the thrift store. He'd be appalled if he saw where she lived. She was appalled whenever she went to her little apartment, but still, it was hers. She knew she'd faint if she ever saw where he lived. His coat cost more than three months' rent, maybe four.
Stefano put a slice of pizza on her plate. "No one makes pizza like Tito or his father. Benito Petrov is impressive. Big, like Tito, but that's where the similarity ends. Tito smiles all the time. Benito is very sober. Tito's sweet, and Benito is gruff."
"How did Tito get to be so different?"
"He takes after his mother. She was the sweetest woman alive. They lost her about seven years ago to breast cancer. Benito had a difficult time getting over it. That's when Tito stepped up and really took over the restaurant."
"What else is different about them?" Francesca was curious, but more, she loved to hear Stefano's voice. It was beautiful, perfectly pitched. Low. Sensual. She could listen to him talk all night.
"Benito is covered in tattoos, has one earring, is bald and looks like he would rip your throat out for a buck." He laughed softly. "He's a regular volunteer at the food bank and heads up the committee for fund-raising to help supplement it. He started a community garden with the idea that anyone could eat when they were hungry. He's been working on plans for a greenhouse so the food can be grown all year-round."
She forgot all about her protests and leaned on the heel of her hand, her eyes on his face. It was fascinating to see the way his expression softened when he talked about the neighborhood and its residents. "Where did they get the land for the gardens and greenhouse? I imagine that land here would be very expensive."
"Take a bite. You don't want to hurt Tito's feelings. The land was donated."
She knew his family had donated the land. She knew it instantly. She took a bite of the pizza and nearly moaned, it was so good.
He grinned knowingly at her, nodding. "Right? Superb."
"I had no idea anything could taste this good, let alone a pizza. I might be spending my paycheck here."
"On weekends, there's a line to get in. Petrov and Tito cater to the locals so there's an entrance around the side they open when the line's long. They slip the locals in. A few tables are held in reserve so they can seat them as soon as possible."
"This is a very tight-knit community, isn't it?"
He nodded. "Good people." He touched the scratch along her throat with a gentle finger. "I hate that this happened to you. I'm very sorry, Francesca."
She frowned at him. "Stefano." His name slipped out easier than it should have. She didn't care. She leaned close. "This wasn't your fault." That's why he had brought her to Tito's restaurant. He felt guilty. She felt such an overwhelming sense of physical attraction she'd nearly made the mistake of thinking it had to be mutual. He felt responsible. He watched out for the residents and someone had tried to mug her. "Please stop worrying about it. I'm perfectly fine."
"I had my cousins watching over you, but I told them to hang back so you wouldn't feel crowded. That was my mistake. Most residents are known. You're new. Criminals stay away, but . . ."
"Technically, we left the neighborhood," Francesca pointed out. Without thinking she laid her hand over Stefano's. "You had no responsibility in what happened to me."
The moment her palm curved over the back of his hand, she knew she had made a mistake. His heat seemed to fuse them together. Little sparks of electricity crackled along her nerve endings. She jerked her hand away, feeling as if she'd just gotten burned. Not burned. Branded. She'd laid her hand over his, yet she felt as if he'd captured her. Connected them. That connection seemed to grow stronger each time they physically touched.
"Any resident of our neighborhood should be safe anywhere they go in the city," he said, his voice suddenly scary. "They blew half of Cencio's face off. His own mother couldn't even see him in the coffin one last time." He sounded fierce. Guilty. As if somehow he was responsible for Cencio's death. He sounded grief-stricken.
That was the worst. That a man like Stefano, so arrogant, so confident, strong and absolutely a rock could be so shaken. She couldn't help herself. She shook her head, her eyes meeting his. She had to take that pain from him, she didn't know why, but she had no choice. "I know what grief is, Stefano. To suffer the loss of a loved one through murder. To feel responsible when really, there was nothing I could have done. You can't look out for every single person in your neighborhood. It's impossible. You aren't responsible for me or the attack on me." Her voice was soft, persuasive.
She couldn't believe she'd given away what she had. She didn't talk about her past; she didn't dare. Still, she had to take the pain from his eyes. Her heart hurt just looking at the pain.
His eyes changed. Focused completely on her. Saw too much. Took her breath. Made her heart flutter and her stomach do a slow roll.
"Someone you loved was murdered?"
She nodded. "I shouldn't have said anything. I just don't want you to think that you have to protect the entire world because your friend died. You can't, Stefano."
"Not the entire world, Francesca." He picked up her hand and idly played with her fingers.
She should have pulled her hand away, but she couldn't make herself be that mean, not when she was trying to make him see reason. It was just that, with his fingers moving through hers, brushing along and between them, her body reacted, making her all too aware of secret places and a growing hunger--for him.
"Just my neighborhood. Just the people in my world. Someone has to look after them, and that's my job."
She wanted to cry for him. It was no wonder that that first time he'd walked into Masci's he'd seemed so alone. So remote. He had taken on an impossible task, even to the point of looking out for a total stranger. She shook her head and reached for the wineglass, needing to do something to counteract the empathy and awareness of him.
"Where is your family?" he asked.
She knew sooner or later he'd ask. It was a natural enough question. "I don't have any family. My parents died in a car wreck when I was fourteen. I didn't have any aunts or uncles or grandparents. You have a big family, but it was just my sister, Cella, and me. She was older by nine years so she raised me."
There was a silence. He leaned back in the booth, hi
s arm sliding along the back of the seat. "Are you telling me Cella was the one murdered?" There was an edge to his voice.
"I don't like to talk about it." She took another sip of wine. "I shouldn't have brought it up."
"You were trying to make me feel better. That just pisses me off. Someone fucking murders my best friend, Cencio, as he walks out of a theater, and someone murders your only sister."
The vibe around them got a little scary, as if his anger was so oppressive it could weigh down the entire room.
"Was it random? A stranger?"
Like Cencio? he was asking. She shook her head before she could stop herself. How had she allowed such personal information to slip out? They'd been having a good conversation, and just like that she'd ruined the mood. Stefano was intense. His anger was intense. He'd gone from being sweet and easygoing to vulnerable and then dangerous in the space of a couple of minutes.
"I'm sorry I spoiled the mood," she said, trying to backpedal. "You were relaxing and I just . . ." She broke off when his fingers went to her neck, massaging the knots there, in an effort to ease the tension out of her.
"You didn't kill the mood, Francesca. You were trying to help me and I appreciate it. Very few people would have even seen that I'm still carrying that load around with me. I appreciate you sharing."
His voice was very low. Intimate. His eyes met hers and her stomach did another somersault. He was just plain beautiful.
"Signore Ferraro," a voice called from across the room.
She saw impatience cross his face, but it was swiftly masked. When Stefano turned to see the woman standing in the doorway, a good distance from them, he did so with a smile. The woman looked every day of eighty. She was short and a little bent, her skin thin and her face still beautiful in spite of the few wrinkles proclaiming she'd lived her life. She wore a long black dress and matching shawl and she wrung her hands together as she hurried through the restaurant toward them, weaving her way through the tables and ignoring Berta, who tried to stop her.
Stefano raised his hand to Berta and she skidded to a halt and then went back to her station. Stefano rose as the older woman made it to them. He towered over her, settling his arm around her shoulders with a gentleness that took Francesca's breath. No one would ever guess that he was the least bit impatient with the interruption. To Francesca's dismay the woman had tears in her eyes and her lips trembled.
"Signora Vitale, you're upset. Please sit for a moment and join us. Have a glass of wine." There was nothing but solicitation in Stefano's voice.
He held up his wineglass toward Berta, who clearly had been watching along with everyone else in the restaurant. She hurried toward them and placed another wineglass on the table as Stefano helped the older woman into the seat across from Francesca.
"Signora Vitale, may I present Francesca Capello? Francesca, this is Theresa Vitale, a dear friend of mine."
Francesca loved how gentle his hands were when they touched the older woman, pushing the glass of wine into her hand and keeping contact with her. More, his voice was soft with affection. She murmured a greeting, knowing the woman barely registered her presence. Signora Vitale's entire attention was centered on Stefano.
"Drink that and then tell me what has upset you."
Theresa took the wine in shaking hands and obediently took a sip. Francesca couldn't imagine anyone disobeying Stefano, not even a woman of Theresa's age. He might be gentle, but there was no mistaking that he was the absolute authority.
"Perhaps I should leave, give you privacy," Francesca ventured.
Stefano's fingers slid around her wrist, shackling her to him. "No. Stay. Please."
Her heart fluttered at the soft please. He had issued a command to her, but then he'd added that one little word that changed everything. She nodded, and he relaxed his hold on her. Instead of shackling her, the pad of his thumb brushed intimately along her inner wrist.
For the first time, Theresa looked at Francesca, dropped her gaze to Stefano's fingers around her wrist and then her eyes went wide as she looked at his face. "I'm interrupting something important." A fresh flood of tears came and she rocked herself back and forth.
"Francesca doesn't mind any more than I do, Theresa," he said gently, using her given name. "Do you, bambina?" he asked, his eyes on hers.
"Of course not," she immediately replied. "Please don't be distressed."
Theresa drank her wine and placed the empty glass directly in front of Stefano. Still keeping his hold on Francesca, he obliged Theresa by pouring her more.
"It's my grandson, Bruno," Theresa confessed, her voice very low. "He's in trouble again."
Stefano sighed and sank back against the booth, his thigh brushing Francesca's. He brought her hand to his mouth, nibbling on her fingertips absently, as if he had forgotten it was an actual flesh-and-blood hand. The feel of his mouth on her skin was even more intimate than when his thumb had brushed her inner wrist. The ache in her breasts increased and her body responded with more damp heat. His eyes were hooded, impossible to read, but Francesca had the feeling he was exasperated with the conversation, not at all aware of the explosive chemistry she was feeling.
"What kind of trouble this time?"
Theresa took another gulp of wine, looked left and right and then lowered her voice. "Drugs," she whispered. "I think he's selling them for someone and I think the police are watching him. He can't get arrested again. He just can't."
Stefano didn't move. He didn't speak. Around them, the air got heavier. Darker. Francesca felt the scary vibe he gave off. She knew immediately that Theresa's grandson was in far more trouble with Stefano than he would have been with the police. Theresa didn't seem to notice, but the rest of the people in the room did. Heads turned and conversation grew muted.
"What do you want me to do, Theresa?" he asked, the tone pitched very low. His voice was devoid of all feeling. His face was set in hard, implacable lines. Expressionless.
Francesca gently tried to pull her hand away, mostly because she was so aware of him, she couldn't think straight. His fingers tightened around hers and he bit down with his strong white perfect teeth. The little bite of pain sent a streak of fire straight to her sex. He pulled the finger into his mouth, his tongue curling around the bite, soothing the sting.
She froze. He wasn't looking at her. She wasn't even certain he knew she was there. His entire focus seemed to be on the older woman.
"You have to talk to him, Stefano. You have to talk to him," Theresa repeated. "If he gets caught, he'll go to prison this time. He's a good boy. He needed a father. My daughter, she was no good. You know that. Always the drugs with her. She just left him, and then my beautiful Alberto died and there is only me. I pray, but God is not listening to me. You have to, Stefano."
Francesca stopped trying to pull her hand away. Her heart hurt for Stefano. Everyone expected him to take care of their problems. It was clear this wasn't the first time Theresa had come to Stefano and Francesca was certain it wouldn't be the last. He carried a terrible weight on his shoulders.
"Bruno is twenty-four years old, Theresa. No one can stop him from doing what he wants. I've talked to him."
Theresa took a deep breath. "You haven't made yourself clear."
There was a long silence. The air was suddenly charged with tension. Most of that was coming from Stefano, but Theresa looked both scared and nervous.
"Are you certain you know what you're asking me, Theresa?" Stefano's voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper. Gentle. Still, it was somehow very menacing.
The old lady nodded. "He has to know there are consequences. It is the only way. Nothing has worked."
"There is no taking it back."
"I understand."
Francesca didn't. She was missing something big. Huge. Whatever Signora Vitale was asking for, Stefano was reluctant to do. She moved closer to him, wanting to comfort him. She didn't understand why, especially since his scary persona was back. As he sat there in his pin-striped suit
with his expressionless mask and flat, cold eyes, she could understand why she'd first thought he was in the mafia. No Hollywood movie would ever find a better man to play the part.
Theresa held his eyes for a long time. Stefano lowered his long lashes as if weary beyond measure and then he lifted them. "Bambina, I'm sorry." He leaned into Francesca and brushed a kiss over her forehead. At the same time, still holding her hand, he slid his index finger out and drew a soothing line along the scratch at her throat. "I had planned to walk you home, make certain you were safe, but I'm going to have to take care of this."
"That's all right. I can get home by myself." Francesca could see the reluctance to leave her in his eyes. He really didn't want to go and that made some small part of her very satisfied, even though the bigger part of her knew she was being a little delusional in thinking his concern could be anything but fear for her safety.
He shook his head as he lifted his hand to Berta and she came running. "Put this on my tab," he said to the woman. He left two twenty-dollar bills on the table as he rose, a huge tip, and held out his hand to assist Theresa Vitale in rising. "My cousins will be waiting outside for you, Francesca. Please allow them to see you home."
She smiled at him. "It's unnecessary."
"I disagree."
His tone told her not to argue. His eyes and the hard look on his face told her the same. He was a scary man to defy, but she might have argued just on principle if she hadn't seen him so vulnerable over his friend's death. If she hadn't figured out that he needed to protect everyone around him.
"All right then," she conceded, not sounding very gracious. She'd enjoyed their talk together far more than she'd expected and she liked him much better than she had thought possible. Maybe too much. She'd certainly told him too much about herself. She was especially grateful that when she'd made that mistake, he hadn't pried further. "Oh no. Stefano, your coat."
He shrugged. "Did you get yourself a coat?"
She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. He wouldn't like that. He'd specifically told her to buy a coat. It was just that all the ones in the neighborhood were expensive. She wasn't going to use his money for a coat. "I'm saving for one."
"Francesca." There was warning in his voice. "Look at me."