Shadow Rider (24 page)

“Wow, Francesca,” Rigina said. “I love your dress. It's beautiful. It's a Sophia original, isn't it?”

Francesca had heard of the designer Sophia. She was renowned for her gowns and club wear. Her originals were fought over by her exclusive clientele. Francesca ran her hand down her dress, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, all the while her heart pounding. If this was really a Sophia original, it was worth three months or more of her salary. She should
never
have accepted it.

“It's gorgeous,” Rosina added. “You look beautiful. I can't wait to get inside the club and have Stefano catch his first sight of you in that dress. He's going to go ballistic.”

Francesca frowned. “Why do you all keep saying that? Stefano wanted me to wear this dress. The last thing I want to do is embarrass him because it doesn't look good on me. You have to tell me.” Her worried gaze found Joanna, her one real friend. If the others were making subtle fun of her, she was certain Joanna wouldn't do that. She'd never allow her to go out in public and be humiliated.

Emmanuelle reached over and took her hand, squeezing it in reassurance. Joanna frowned and shook her head. Rosina looked upset.

“Francesca, you look absolutely beautiful in that dress,” Joanna said staunchly. “Gorgeous. Right, Mario?”

Francesca thought Joanna incredibly generous to have
her boyfriend, the man she was really interested in, give Francesca compliments.

“I have to agree,” Mario said. “Beautiful.”

Emmanuelle nodded. “My brother has escorted countless women to clubs and he couldn't care less what they looked like. Elegant or slut clothes didn't much matter to him because if he was with a woman, it was for publicity purposes, like a charity event, or a hookup. He claims you for his own. For his woman. He's made it clear to the family and to those in our neighborhood. He'll make it clear to the world very soon. That's why we're all laughing a little. Stefano is not like most men. None of my brothers are. You're his and he'll watch over you and protect you every minute of every day. With you dressed like that, hotter than hell, he's going to lose his mind, and we're all going to enjoy watching it.”

Francesca liked some of what she'd said, was confused by other things and really didn't like the reference to Stefano's other women. She was going to have to gain some confidence in herself fast if she was really going to try to have any kind of a relationship with Stefano Ferraro. He was in a world where confidence mattered. Was needed. She'd been beaten down so far by Barry Anthon, she could barely walk with her head up. Stefano deserved better than that.

Francesca wished she'd met Stefano before Cella had been murdered. She had been different then, carefree and happy. Confident in herself. He would have liked Cella. Francesca hoped he would have liked her, because that was the real Francesca, not this woman who had such low self-esteem, nightmares and was afraid of her own shadow.

She let the talk flow around her. Joanna and Mario accepted drinks happily, and she sipped on champagne. She loved to dance. Loved it. Dancing was one of her all-time favorite things to do. Her parents had put her in dance classes when she was very young; ballroom, Latin, swing—she'd learned it all. Not to mention the pole dancing she'd done as exercise in college. Cella had insisted that was the one splurge they would have after their parents' deaths.

Francesca loved her sister for that sacrifice. It wasn't like she was ever going to be a professional dancer, but still, Cella deemed those lessons important and she worked extra hours to pay for them. As soon as Francesca was old enough, she worked, cleaning houses, working at the deli, anything at all in order to help Cella with the bills.

The limo pulled up to the front of the club. Francesca was a little shocked when she saw the line of people trying to get in. It seemed to go on forever. She knew she would never have had the patience to wait in a line that long, especially if, like Joanna had said, there was a possibility that she'd be turned away once she reached the front.

“This is crazy, Jo,” she murmured.

Joanna squeezed her arm tightly as they all got out of the limo. “I can't believe this. I feel like a princess arriving at the ball. Everyone's staring, trying to catch a glimpse of us. They think we're celebrities, Francesca.”

Emmanuelle suddenly moved, flowing across the short distance separating her from Francesca. She was elegant even in her body's movement, like a ballet dancer. As she got to Francesca, she took her arm, turning her around toward the club. Emmanuelle's body provided a shield as a dozen flashes went off.

“Keep walking. Stay between us all, in the middle,” Emmanuelle ordered, her voice low.

Emmanuelle's hand was steady on Francesca's back, pushing her gently toward the entrance. As they moved past the front of the line to the entrance, the bouncers unhooked the velvet ropes to allow them in. Francesca noticed that Emilio and Enzo fell in behind them. She had no idea where they came from, but suddenly they were walking with the small group of women, as if they'd always been with them.

The moment the doors to the club opened, Francesca could hear the pounding beat of the music. It was loud, impossible not to want to dance to and very trendy. The DJ was extremely popular, one who commanded all sorts of money, and yet stayed there in Chicago rather than moving
to New York, where he would be given star status. There were several bars, each glowing a different color. Muted blues, reds, purples and greens pulsed to the music from the lights secreted in the bars. The bartenders were moving fast, bottles spinning in the air as they quickly made drinks for the customers pressing around the curved bars.

Francesca could feel the beat of the music already heating up her blood. They moved through the lower section in a tight group, Emilio and Enzo ensuring the crowd parted for them as they wound their way through the floor. Up a few stairs was the VIP section, where tables and booths guaranteed privacy. Even farther up were the very secluded tables and booths. Those were reserved for family and friends.

Emmanuelle led the way with absolute confidence. She clearly was the queen of the club. Deference was paid to her everywhere one looked. Nods. Smiles. Waves. She kept moving even when a few scantily clad women called out her name and stepped toward her. She was gracious, always replying, but she made it clear she was heading toward her own table.

A waitress followed them, ready to take their drink orders. There would be no queuing up to the bar for them. Francesca surveyed the room below her. It was exciting, the music already finding her pulse and beating there, calling her. Joanna was already swaying to the persistent call of the drum.

Emmanuelle sank into one of the plush seats, indicating the chair beside her to Francesca. “I have to join my brothers for a meeting in a few minutes, but I've got time for a drink. We've got cousins from New York here. Four of them. I noticed them on the dance floor when we walked in. They've already got women hanging on them. See that blonde down there?” She indicated a woman in a very short leather dress with cutouts on either side. The openings ran from her hips to under her arms. Her platinum hair was short and spiked.

“I see her.” Francesca frowned. The woman looked very familiar. “Where have I seen her before?”

“She's a starlet. Plays in a drama on television and thinks
every man in all the states wants to sleep with her. She's totally after my cousin.”

“We call her the barracuda,” Rosina supplied.

Joanna giggled as she craned her neck, trying to peer into the dark crowd of moving bodies. “She's got on five-inch heels. Wow. I don't know if I could actually dance in five-inch heels.”

Francesca suddenly recognized her. Not from the television, but from a magazine Joanna had given her. “She was on page seventy-three. Hanging on Stefano's arm.” She whispered it before she realized just what that admission gave away. Color moved up into her face.

The waitress was back, putting their drinks in front of them, confirming that the Ferraros didn't have to wait for anything, not even their drinks. Francesca reached for hers and took a long drink as the woman hurried away. The Moscow Mule went down smoothly. She needed the alcohol to fortify her.

Emmanuelle leaned forward and put her hand over Francesca's, stilling the fingers that had been drumming on the table. Francesca hadn't even been aware she was so restless. Nervous. Jealous.
Sheesh.
How embarrassing in front of his sister and cousins.

“Stefano may have sowed his wild oats, but he's done with that. I can guarantee that when my brother chooses a woman, he will be faithful to her. It's for life.”

Francesca bit her lip to keep from laughing. There was nothing humorous about Emmanuelle's statement, and yet it was laughable. “You can't know that.”

“We live by a code. It's a strict one, but we cling to honor. It's just who and what we are. That can't change.”

Francesca refused to look at her. Instead, she looked around the enormous room, where many, many women danced suggestively with partners. “So how many women right here in this club do you suppose Stefano has been with?” Her chin went up and she finally forced her head to turn toward Emmanuelle, her gaze meeting Stefano's sister's vivid blue
eyes. “Would you say about half? Or am I being conservative?”

Why had she come? She knew better. She didn't belong in this world of casual hookups. It wasn't her. She didn't understand it and she'd never be comfortable in it. She never would. It wasn't as if she was a prude. Whenever Stefano touched her or kissed her, her body went up in flames. She would fall, just like all the women before her, but she wouldn't chase him. Once he dumped her, she would disappear from his life. She had pride. She couldn't very well judge the other women, not when she was going to be just as bad.

Still, she was being a total bitch. It wasn't Emmanuelle's fault that Stefano was a hound dog. A gorgeous one, but still a hound dog. She shook her head. “I just feel out of place here, and I think I'm taking it out on Stefano.”

“He can't change his past, Francesca,” Emmanuelle stated quietly. “As much as he'd like to, he can't change a thing. He never expected to have you.” Her eyes searched Francesca's face. “He does have you, doesn't he?”

For the first time Emmanuelle sounded vulnerable. Francesca's heart jerked in her chest. She couldn't look away from Emmanuelle's blue eyes. She had that same ability as Stefano—the one that could capture and hold. It occurred to Francesca that Stefano's sister was every bit as lethal as the male Ferraros.

“I don't even know what he does for a living. I don't know him at all. This is all moving so fast I honestly can't catch my breath.” She tried a tentative smile. “Your brother tends to steamroll right over a girl. He's so wonderful. Beautiful. Everything that I'm not.”

Emmanuelle scowled at her. “Why in the world would you say that, Francesca? You obviously don't see yourself the way the rest of the world does.” She looked up suddenly, her face instantly going expressionless in the way Stefano's often did. She flashed a small, brief smile toward the trio of women who had mounted the stairs and invaded their private space.

“Doreen. Stella. Janice.” She gave a little nod, princess to peasant. “I had no idea the three of you were in town.”

Francesca twisted her fingers together in her lap. Rigina and Rosina both had gone silent. Joanna looked as if she might faint, and even Mario was staring with his mouth open. The three women were in a famous band. Hugely famous. They weren't the kind of women one would just see walking up to them in a nightclub. Joanna clearly was pinching herself, grinning from ear to ear and practically bouncing on her seat.

Francesca recognized each of the women, all of whom Stefano had dated briefly. There had been several articles on the scandal.
Will the band break up?
Keeping it all in the family.
There were many, many more. Stefano had quite publicly dated each of the women amid a flurry of torrid headlines.

“Emmanuelle.” Doreen nodded, her haughty look not quite as well done as Emmanuelle's. “Stefano's supposed to be here tonight, but we haven't seen him.” The three women exchanged a long look and then laughed together. “We thought we'd show him a real good time,” she added, almost purring.

Francesca winced. This was what she'd be putting up with every time she went anywhere in Stefano's circle. His women appeared to be legion and all of them were famous.

“Why fight over him and all three of us lose?” Janice added. “When we can share and all of us have him?”

“He's man enough to go around.” Stella ran one finger down her clingy short dress. “We texted him last night that we'd be in town.”

Francesca felt the burn of tears. She'd been with Stefano and his phone had gone off so many times. Not once had she paid attention. Not once had she suspected women had been texting or calling him.

Doreen's laughter was a mere tinkle that irritated Francesca. “We sent him a few pictures of what he could look forward to.” Again the three women exchanged a long sultry look and then burst into laughter.

That meant Stefano had their pictures on his phone. Francesca could well imagine what those pictures were like. The room was suddenly far too hot. Her lungs felt raw, burning, unable to drag in enough air. Her stomach churned and she pressed her hands tight to it, afraid she might throw up right there in front of all three of them.

The smile had died on Joanna's face. She looked as if she'd been struck. She had fantasies about the Ferraro brothers and it didn't include finding out they weren't husband material.

Emmanuelle sighed. “When are the three of you going to get some pride? Stefano made it very clear that he was done with you last year. He doesn't date. He doesn't have relationships. That was made clear to you. Quit stalking him. That's what it's called when you won't leave him alone.”