Francesca glanced at Stefano’s sister. She appeared completely calm and she made no move to wipe away the blood on her face or mouth. She kept her head up, but her gaze took in every detail of the house and the men in it as they passed. Francesca followed her lead, although her heart pounded like mad. Barry had a crew of ten men that he kept close to him. She’d recognized seven of them so far. That meant the other three had to be close. If so, that was ten men used to killing for Barry. There had been too many guards to count outside and she assumed they were local muscle Barry had hired.

Barry’s right-hand man, Del Travers, stepped out of a room as they passed. He was dressed in his suit and tie. Francesca knew he was a lawyer and he’d gone to school with Barry. He stared at Francesca without expression. That was one of the things she always detested about him. He was cold, like a fish. She always wondered whether or not under that perfect suit he had scales.

Harold shoved her hard in the back, making her aware as she stumbled forward that she’d stopped for a moment to stare at Del. A slow burn of anger began to rise in her. She was tired of Barry taking her life apart piece by piece. She didn’t want them touching Emmanuelle. They were sick, perverted men and they had no business being close to a woman like Emme. She hated that they’d put their filthy hands on her, that they’d slapped and punched her.

Barry Anthon had surrounded himself with men just like him. He walked over people, a monster, charming those he wanted to manipulate, and hurting those he thought he could. And he did it for fun. Emmanuelle bumped her slightly and she glanced at Stefano’s sister. Emme shook her head, as if reading her thoughts of open rebellion.

“Don’t provoke them,” she whispered.

Francesca clamped her mouth shut and continued down the hall into a large room where Barry sat at a bar, waiting for them. The last two of Barry’s crew were with him. All ten men. Stefano would have to face them all if he came for his sister and her. And he would come.

Larry Fort was behind the bar. He was one of the worst. He’d laughed when he’d shoved her to the floor and torn the sink out of the wall so water sprayed throughout her apartment. Then he’d smashed the toilet and systematically shattered everything she owned. His partner, George Hanson, stood to the back of the room, his gaze immediately going to Emmanuelle. He glanced at Francesca and then at his boss.

Barry sat in a high-backed chair, much like a throne, a glass of bourbon in his hands. He looked terrible, his face swollen and distorted so that his usual good looks were impossible to see. He had stitches in three places. On his cheekbone, above his eye and along his jaw, all on the right side of his face. His lips were grotesque, triple their normal size. Both eyes were black and his nose had tape over it where it had been broken.

He stood up slowly, every movement stiff. “Put them in those chairs.” He indicated two straight-backed wooden chairs. One was set in front of his “throne” and the other was toward the end of the room, back in the shadows. The room was well lit with bright overhead chandeliers, just like in the great room. The floors were the same marble, but this room was quite a bit smaller in size.

The lights flickered several times as the storm raged outside. The rain beat continuously at the window and the wind shrieked in fury. Harold dragged Francesca over to the chair, pushing her nearly up against Barry, who stood very close—on purpose, she was certain—staring at her through the slits of his eyes. Yellowish goo clung to the corners of his eyes and up close, he looked even more ghastly than he had from across the room. Harold shoved her hard and she fell back into the chair. It nearly went over backward and neither man lifted a hand to keep her upright. She was just lucky that the chair didn’t go all the way over.

“Welcome to my home away from home, Francesca,” Barry said. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair, bending down to peer at her closely. “It’s a far cry from what you’re used to. That pissant Stefano doesn’t know how to live with all the money he’s got. You shouldn’t have crossed me and neither should your bitch of a sister. I would have had more fun with her, showed her the good life before I turned her over to my boys. They’re patient. Aren’t you, boys?” He lifted his head to look at the men in the room.

Six of them. The four that had brought them from Theresa Vitale’s home and the other two waiting with Barry. His other men were still scattered throughout the house. Francesca kept counting, hoping for better numbers, but any way she looked at it, Stefano was going to be in trouble because he wouldn’t bring his cousins to this fight. Just his brothers. She knew that instinctively.