“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.