She didn’t lift her head. She couldn’t tell him while she looked at him because the guilt would overwhelm her. She knew how a man like Stefano would react to her disclosure. He’d asked, but still, she knew he was off-the-charts protective. If he were really interested in her as a woman, he’d be even more so.

“I dream about Cella and the murder. Nearly every night. Again and again.”

There was silence while his hand moved in her hair. She wanted to look up at him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not yet. Not when she was throwing him into the pit where demons lived. She didn’t know when it had happened. Maybe when he’d been so angry over the DVDs he’d handed her. The tone in his voice, his abhorrence that any man could act that way toward a woman, for one brief moment she’d let down her guard and he’d slipped in.

His coat. The bane of her life. The money. The way he’d talked to the little boy. Ruffled his hair. So sweet. The older woman, Theresa Vitale, who had cried and moved him to help her. The way he talked about the people in his neighborhood. There was genuine caring there. Unreal to her when she’d never seen it or known it until him. He’d found a crack in her armor and he’d slipped right in so that she trusted him when she barely knew him. When she didn’t trust anyone.

“I’m sorry, dolce cuore. When did this happen?”

She couldn’t believe he could sound so gentle. Stefano didn’t strike her as a gentle man, yet he had been with Tonio, the little boy, and Theresa Vitale, the older woman. Even with Lucia and Amo Fausti. She moistened her lips and forced herself to look up, into his piercing blue eyes.

“A year ago. Almost eighteen months.”

“Like yesterday,” he murmured, still stroking her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

She nodded, blinking back more tears. The aftermath of a nightmare always left her wrung out and exhausted emotionally, yet wide awake, afraid to go back to sleep.

“Did they catch him?”

She stiffened. She couldn’t help herself. Her gaze started to slide from his but he caught her chin in an unbreakable grip.

“Answer me, Francesca. The truth.”

“Someone confessed.” That was strictly the truth. “He didn’t go to prison because he was terminally ill. He died six months ago.”

“But,” he coaxed gently, “you don’t believe he was guilty.”

She took a breath, wishing she could pull her gaze from his, but it was like being held captive. She was chained to him, body and soul, and she had no idea how, in the faint light from the open window, that had happened. There were shadows all over the room. Her shadow merged with his on the wall. That was how she felt when she was close to him like this. Merged. Connected. One skin instead of two. Wrapped in chains, so that they both were irrevocably tied together.

“No. It wasn’t him. I came in after and I saw him. I knew him. He spoke to me. Taunted me.”

His blue eyes darkened to pure steel. “He threatened you?”

She nodded slowly. “I told the police, but they didn’t believe me. He took away my job and my home and everything I had. Twice in the middle of the night he came with some others and tore up my apartment. Damaged the walls, ripped out the toilet, broke things, put horrible scratches in the floor . . .” She broke off, her hand going to her throat because she feared she’d choke to death on the large lump blocking her airway. “He could do that here,” she added in a small, gasping voice.

“Take a breath, Francesca. Look around you. I own this hotel. There’s security here. I’m here. He can’t get to you and neither can his friends.”

She drew in air and took the scent of him deep into her lungs. The nightmare was beginning to fade. and with clarity came horror at what she was doing. She wasn’t the type of woman to manipulate anyone into doing something dangerous, such as standing in front of her—as she knew Stefano would—to protect her from the likes of the man who had murdered her sister. It was a despicable thing to do, and no matter how terrible her circumstances, she had no right to drag anyone else into her personal nightmare.

She tried to shift subtly, to pull back, give herself a chance to rethink what she was doing. His arm, locked across her back, held her in place.

“Stefano, he can get to anyone. He has money. Power. Politicians and cops in his pocket. He has lunch regularly with the governor of California and the local district attorney. He plays golf with the senator. He runs in your . . .” She broke off, her gaze sliding from his. “Circle,” she finished lamely.