“I can assure you I don’t sell drugs, nor does any member of my family. We don’t run guns, either.”

He saw the relief on her face. She pushed at her hair and sent him a tentative smile. “I think you’re right about going to bed. It’s been a long day and I need to sleep before I figure out what I’m going to do next.”

He indicated for her to follow him. He hadn’t lied to her. No member of his family would even consider selling drugs or running guns. That didn’t mean they never worked with the scum who did do those things. He pushed open the door to one of his guest bedrooms. “This room has a private bath. I’m close if you need anything. Otherwise, sweet dreams, baby. Don’t forget the chair under the doorknob.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Francesca drew the covers to her chin, snuggling down between the luxurious sheets. The mattress was pure heaven. The sheets felt even better. Sleeping in the street, in a shelter, or on the floor in a sleeping bag wasn’t conducive to a great night’s sleep. Worse, as a rule, she was afraid to close her eyes, but the bed was sheer bliss. The room was huge, much larger than the entire apartment she’d rented. She shivered, trying not to think about Bart Tidwell staring at her as she showered. It was such a violation.

She looked around the tastefully decorated room and wished she could stay. For the first time in three years she felt safe. She knew it was because of Stefano Ferraro. She had no idea why he made her feel safe, when she knew absolutely that he was a dangerous man, but he did. She wished she could stay right there in that wonderful room, in the even better bed, and just feel protected and cared for.

She crammed her fist into her mouth, closing her eyes, deeply embarrassed that she’d asked him if he was a member of organized crime. He’d been good to her—she couldn’t deny that. He might have used crude language, but he’d been decent, and she’d rewarded him with false accusations. She’d lost faith in everybody. In everything. The justice system. Her former friends. Her former boss.

There had only been Joanna, and now she’d gotten her in trouble through her own stubbornness and pride. If she was being entirely honest, she didn’t want to owe Joanna anything more because she couldn’t bear to be hurt again. She didn’t want to trust her more than she had to, and that was a very sorry thing to have to admit about herself. Joanna had proven to be a good friend. A better friend to her than she was to Joanna.

She felt herself drifting. Trying not to think about Stefano or his gorgeous, very hot, over-the-top masculine looks. She secretly liked that he was bossy. It made her feel as if he could really protect her from anything, although she knew better. Reality was far different from daydreams.

What woman in her right mind wouldn’t fantasize about Stefano? She could give herself that. He was wealthy, handsome, confident, everything a woman could possibly want in a man. She knew he wasn’t for her, so it wasn’t a good idea to think about him while falling asleep, especially when she was in his home, in his bed.

She allowed her eyes to close and conjured up an image of her beloved sister, Cella. She was older by nine years and in Francesca’s mind, absolutely stunningly beautiful. That had been the trouble. Cella was so beautiful she could stop traffic. It was impossible for anyone not to notice her. Noticing led to temptation. Temptation led to murder.

Cella’s smile, as she stared back at Francesca, faltered. She opened her mouth to say something. To call out. To scream. She reached a hand toward Francesca, looking scared. Terrified. Pleading. Francesca reached for her, trying to connect, trying to hold on, to keep her sister with her. Blood spattered across Cella’s face. Down her body. She was naked, her clothes ripped from her. There were bruises marring her skin, and five puncture wounds on her body. Each wound had blood dripping from it. One spouted like a fountain.

Francesca dropped to her knees beside her sister and covered the spray with both hands, pressing deep, sobbing, calling her sister’s name, imploring her to stay. To not leave her alone. Her phone felt slippery as she called 911, and she dropped it twice, trying to punch in the numbers, Cella’s blood all over it. Cella coughed, bringing up blood. It bubbled all around her mouth. Her eyes widened as she stared at Francesca. One hand reached for her. She coughed. Gurgled. Then her head turned and only her eyes stared. Lifeless. Gone.

Francesca screamed, “No! No, Cella, don’t leave me. You can’t leave me.” Anguish was raw and terrible, ripping at her heart. Her screams tore at her throat. She lifted her horrified, grief-stricken gaze to stare up at the man framed in the doorway.