“You’re welcome.” What else was there to say?

A beautiful woman with Italian flawless skin, lots of generous curves, and a wealth of black hair stood holding open the door of the deli. Instinctively, Mariko knew this was Francesca. Francesca put her arms around Lucia and drew the older woman and teen inside the store, but her eyes were on Ricco, assessing the damage to him. Mariko knew it looked bad. His clothes were torn and bloody from the fall off the hood of the truck to the street.

“No gunshot wounds, cara,” Ricco assured her. “It looks worse than it is.”

That was such a lie. Surely she wouldn’t believe him, but Mariko could see the relief in her eyes as she turned away to help Nicoletta with Lucia. Ricco didn’t let go of Mariko. If anything, he held on to her tighter. His touch all at once seemed possessive, although what had changed, she didn’t know.

“Mr. Ferraro.” A shorter man, clearly the owner of the deli, hurried toward them. “Is everything okay? What can I do? What do you need?”

“It’s Ricco, Pietro,” he corrected and pulled out a chair for Mariko.

She was afraid to let go of him, but he stood stoically, his face a little pale. There were beads of sweat on his forehead, but she knew anyone seeing him would put it down to the wild ride on the hood of the rampaging truck.

Pietro bobbed his head and watched anxiously as Ricco sat down at the table with Lucia and Nicoletta.

“We’d appreciate as much privacy as possible, Pietro,” he said. “The police will be in asking questions soon. I imagine my family will show up as well. Emilio and Enzo must talk to the cops. I’ve texted our lawyer and he’ll be here soon. We’ll pay you for the loss of business, of course.”

Pietro waved his hand to dismiss such a notion, but Mariko knew the Ferraro family would insist. Pietro clearly knew it, too. He rushed over to the door and locked it, turning the sign to closed, and then hurried back behind the counter. Francesca returned from the back with a washcloth and towel. Ricco took both and just held them.

“Lucia, should I call the doctor to look you over?” he asked.

“No, no, I’m just shaken. I thought I would lose Nicoletta, and I can’t lose another child.” She clung to the teenager. “Already Amo and I think of her as our family.” She leaned into Nicoletta heavily.

The girl wrapped her arm around the older woman. “You aren’t going to lose me. Did you see Ricco? He moved like lightning.” The teen managed a small laugh, and Lucia responded with a smile, blowing him a kiss.

“Mariko, you hit the ground hard. Do you need a doctor?” Lucia asked.

“Thank you,” Nicoletta added, looking at Mariko for the first time. “Lucia told me you saved her from the truck as well as a very bad fall.”

“It was actually Ricco saving both of us from the truck,” Mariko corrected. “He shoved me into Lucia hard enough that we both were cleared from the path. He did that before he grabbed you and ran.”

A man emerged from the hallway behind Pietro. She knew immediately he had to be a Ferraro. He came striding out from behind the counter, his gaze moving first over Ricco, taking in the blood, torn clothes and beads of sweat, then moving on to Nicoletta, Lucia and finally to her. He was every bit as intimidating as Ricco. He looked younger, but no less lethal.

“Ricco?” One word. He injected more into that single name than she could imagine anyone doing.

“I’m fine, Giovanni. This is Mariko. She took care of Lucia for me.”

She took the wet cloth from his hand, very annoyed at his darling Francesca for not bothering to try to clean up the wounds. It would be a wonder if he didn’t get an infection. She glared at him when he tried to pull away. To her shock, he allowed her to dab at the blood and sweat on his face.

“Mariko,” Giovanni said.

She was beginning to think just saying a name was a language in itself; she just didn’t know the family well enough to know what the inflections meant. She nodded, noting Giovanni bent to brush Francesca’s cheek first and then Lucia’s and Nicoletta’s. Nicoletta went stiff, but she didn’t pull away.

Giovanni toed a chair around and straddled it, sitting across from his brother. “Was it deliberate?”

Nicoletta made a small sound of distress and instantly Francesca and Lucia put an arm around her. Mariko wished she knew where the girl fit in and what had happened to her, why someone might be after her.

“Yes.” Ricco’s voice was clipped. “But we don’t know who. It looked as if they were trying for either Nicoletta or me, but it could have been Mariko as well.”

“Or Lucia,” Nicoletta said, her voice tight.

Mariko was aware of another brother. He emerged from behind them, where the deeper shadows were.

“Bullshit,” the newcomer said. “No one would ever want to harm Lucia, would they amore? Well, not unless you stole some woman’s man. Or ran off with one of your ten thousand admirers.”

“Taviano,” Lucia said softly. “You know if Amo throws me out, I will run to the Ferraro family. No other men can compare.”

Taviano bent down to brush a kiss across her cheek, touched Nicoletta on the top of her head and hugged Francesca. “What trouble are you in now, Ricco?”

Mariko noticed that Nicoletta avoided Taviano’s gaze, as she did Ricco’s and Giovanni’s. Taviano smiled at Mariko. “I’m Taviano,” he announced. “One of Ricco’s many brothers.”

“Mariko,” she said, concentrating on getting the blood off of Ricco’s head. He’d hit the side of it fairly hard. The road had shredded his suit down one arm and part of his thigh. Blood seeped through the material. He sucked in his breath when she laid the cloth on his arm over the torn flesh. “Ricco, I don’t think you need stitches, it’s mainly surface, although there are a couple of spots that are deep.”

“It’s fine,” he said abruptly and pulled away from her.

She knew immediately he was embarrassed in front of his brothers and the other women. He didn’t want them to know he was hurt, although how he could hit the street like that and not get hurt, especially after the car crash, she couldn’t see.

“Don’t be a dick, Ricco,” Giovanni said.

“I’m not being a dick,” he objected. He took the cloth from her and tossed it on the table. “I’m being brave. Can’t you tell the difference?”

He said it straight-faced and it was all Mariko could do to keep from laughing.

“Amo is at the door, Pietro,” Francesca said, already hurrying to allow Lucia’s husband inside. “Vinci is with him.”