The man dropped the knife from nerveless fingers and sagged in Stefano’s arms. Stefano dropped him like a piece of garbage on the ground, not even bothering to kick the knife out of reach. He caught Francesca in his arms just as his brothers and Emmanuelle emerged from the shadows.

“She’s bleeding,” Emmanuelle announced unnecessarily. “How bad, Stefano? Does she need an ambulance? A doctor?”

Francesca shook her head. “I’m fine. Really. Just scared.”

Emmanuelle ignored her proclamation, clearly looking to Stefano to give her the word one way or the other. The brothers formed a protective ring around her while Stefano inspected her for damage.

“She has several cuts, shallow, shouldn’t need stitches, but I saw him kick her. She’ll have a bad bruise.”

“Who is he?” Francesca asked.

“Later, amore,” he said, his voice clipped. “We have to do damage control.”

“Get her home,” Ricco advised. “We’ll do cleanup and call you when it’s done.”

Francesca didn’t like the sound of that, all too aware that the man had said his friends had been the ones to try to rob her and they’d disappeared. The last she’d seen of them, Emilio and Enzo were putting them into a car and taking them off somewhere.

“Stefano,” she tried again.

He simply pulled her into his arms, swinging her up to cradle her close, snapping orders. A car pulled up, a man driving she’d seen, but didn’t recognize. Clearly he was family to the Ferraros; another cousin she was certain. He had to be one of the bodyguards who had taken Emilio’s place.

Stefano carried her to the car, Ricco stepped forward and opened the door to the backseat and Stefano slid inside, keeping Francesca in his arms. The door slammed shut and the car was in motion. Stefano dropped his chin on top of her head. “That scared the hell out of me. Hearing him threatening you. Your scream. I think it took thirty years off my life.”

She closed her eyes and sagged against his chest. “He seemed to think you had something to do with the disappearance of his friends. You didn’t, did you, Stefano?” She didn’t open her eyes, but she listened, because it was very important to her to hear his voice, to hear the truth or a lie.

“I know they are no longer alive,” he admitted carefully. “But I didn’t kill them.”

That was strictly the truth, but even that admission was enough to start her heart pounding. She tried to push the thought away that Stefano and his family were part of organized crime, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t get around it. There were too many coincidences as far as she was concerned. She tried to get off his lap, but Stefano’s arms tightened around her.

“Settle, dolce cuore. We’ll talk about this once we’re home.”

“Stefano . . .” What was she going to say? She couldn’t leave him. The thought of being without him made her ill. She wouldn’t survive it. Somehow, and she wasn’t even certain when it had happened, she’d fallen hard and fast. She was in so deep, even knowing he was a criminal, she might not be strong enough to walk away from him.

He nuzzled her neck. “Let’s get you home, clean you up and I’ll make dinner for us while you rest. After, when you’re feeling better, we’ll clear everything up.”

She heard the ring of truth in that as well. He wasn’t avoiding talking to her. He just wanted her warm, safe and comfortable. That helped to ease her mind. Surely if he was a criminal he would be far more hesitant to talk about the muggers and why he knew they were dead.

“What’s going to happen to that man? The one who attacked me?”

Silence filled the car. The air went very heavy with his anger. Heat vibrated in the air, and all over again, dread filled her. Stefano didn’t answer and she didn’t ask again. The car pulled up to the private entrance around the side of the hotel, the one that looked like an employees-only door, but only family had the code. The bodyguard got out first, took a careful look around, opened the door and signaled to Stefano.

Stefano refused to put her down, even in the private elevator or when they reached the apartment. He carried her on through to the master bedroom and put her on the bed before collecting warm washcloths and a first-aid kit. Francesca detested how safe she felt with him. The soft, loving look on his face. His touch as he cleaned the shallow lacerations. There was no doubt in her mind that he cared about her. She was important to him—maybe too important.

“Are you going to kill him, Stefano?” Francesca had to ask. She already knew the answer, but she had to ask. She had looked at his face, right there, when he’d had his arm around her assailant’s neck and she knew he was capable of killing that man. His eyes had been flat and cold. Like ice.