“Then go. Of course you have to go.” She stood up and moved behind his chair, sinking her fingers into his tight neck muscles in an effort to ease the tension out of him. “I want you to go.”

“Dio, bella, that feels good. But you should know . . .” He trailed off when the elevator door pinged in warning.

Ricco and Taviano entered a couple of moments later. Ricco sniffed the air and went straight to the kitchen, dished himself and Taviano a large bowl of pasta and dragged chairs closer to the table. “Dig in before the others come. We might have a chance at seconds.” He grinned at her. “Hey, Francesca, looking good for a bridezilla. I figured your head would be spinning around at this point.”

She continued kneading the tight muscles of Stefano’s neck and shoulders. “I feel like a bridezilla. I really understand the concept of eloping, but Stefano doesn’t get it.”

“I always thought the woman wanted the big white wedding and the man was all for eloping,” Taviano said, shoveling a heaping forkful of pasta into his mouth.

The elevator pinged again, and this time it was Giovanni, Emmanuelle and Vittorio. Francesca had come to realize that where one sibling was, more were close by. She was glad she’d made a healthy amount of pasta, although there weren’t going to be any leftovers for lunch the next day.

Once they were all seated around the table and eating, pouring glasses of wine, she looked closely at their faces. “So what’s wrong?”

Giovanni raised an eyebrow. “Why would you think something was wrong? Other than Emmanuelle’s really bad taste in lunch dates.”

“I didn’t have lunch with him and certainly didn’t go on a date,” Emmanuelle snapped, glaring at her brother. “I ran into him and it was polite to speak, that’s all. Stop with the teasing. He annoys the crap out of me.”

Francesca knew instantly they were talking about Valentino Saldi. The brothers disliked him on principle, and Emmanuelle disliked him because he was always sarcastic with her. She really hated being called princess and Valentino apparently did it at every opportunity. Emmanuelle sounded annoyed, but a faint blush stole up her cheeks and when her eyes met Francesca’s there was pleading there.

“Stop teasing Emme. It isn’t distracting me. I know you all didn’t show up here for the pasta, so something else is up,” Francesca said. “Just tell me.”

There was a small silence. Her fingers curled into Stefano’s shoulders, holding on for the inevitable blow, because just by the silence, she knew it was coming.

“Barry Anthon is in town and he’s on his way here,” Ricco announced, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

Francesca’s heart stuttered. Instantly her stomach churned. She pressed one hand to her stomach and the other to her mouth, afraid she’d be sick right there with Stefano’s family all sitting around the table, pretending they weren’t watching her closely. For a moment her vision actually began to fade and her legs went weak.

Ricco was up instantly, nearly knocking over his chair, his fingers strong on the back of her neck, pushing her head down. “Just breathe. Don’t panic on us. Don’t give the bastard that.”

Stefano’s chair scraped and he crouched down beside her, holding her long hair out of her eyes while he examined her pale face. “He can’t hurt you, bambina, not ever again. Whatever he says, and he’ll be very, very careful, knowing you’re my fiancée. He knows I’m not the kind of man to allow him to make implications or innuendos about my woman. He’ll be on his best behavior. So will we. We’re going to be all smiles and politeness.”

She forced air through her lungs, ashamed of her weakness. Stefano’s brothers and sister had dropped what they were doing to support her. “I’m all right now. I’m sorry. I just . . . He’s . . .” She sighed as she straightened slowly.

Ricco and Stefano both kept a hand on her as she stood. Of all the brothers, Ricco was the one she felt kept himself locked away, his eyes permanently shadowed, as if something terrible had happened to him, but he refused to share, to lighten his burden. He was very much like Stefano in that he was scary, maybe even more so. A dark, dangerous man seeking an adrenaline rush all the time. He was the most unpredictable and yet, he was careful of her. Gentle even. All of the Ferraros were so nice to her.

“He murdered her. All those stab wounds. The blood. I see it nearly every time I close my eyes. He would hurt any one of you just because he thinks he can. He’s made himself untouchable. I don’t know if I can sit across from his smiling face and not pick up a knife and stab him just as many times.” She made the confession in a rush, needing them to understand she wasn’t afraid of Barry so much as for all of them—or of what she might do.