He sneered at her. “No one will believe you, Francesca. You’d better do what I say or you’ll find yourself in trouble. You can end this anytime.”

She launched herself at him, trying to take him to the ground, thinking she could hold him there until the police arrived. She was crying and her tears nearly blinded her. She couldn’t see him clearly.

“Wake up, bambina,” a male voice commanded. It was a command. Nothing less. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

She fought hard, trying to punch and kick. Her eyes were open. He was there. Watching her. He was always watching her. Laughing when the police dismissed her claims, ignored all of the evidence because it was him. He’d warned Cella. And then he’d killed her. Now he was warning her.

“Francesca. Open. Your. Eyes. Look at me.”

Her wrists were pinned to the mattress on either side of her head. He was strong. Enormously strong. There was no way to break free. A sob escaped. Panic choked her. If she did, if she opened her eyes and it was him . . .

“Dolce cuore. You’re killing me here. Look at me.”

This time the voice was soft. Gentle. The tone found a path through the fear lodged so deep in her throat. In her belly. He held her wrists together with one hand, but he brought her body tight against his, holding her. His other hand pressed her face into his solid chest. She inhaled and brought a familiar scent into her lungs. Her body recognized it before she did. Stefano. She loved the spicy, masculine scent that seemed to seep into her body through her pores.

She pressed deeper into him, and he let go of her wrists to slide his arm around her back, locking her to him. “That’s my girl. Relax. You’re safe.” His fingers delved deep into her hair, massaging her scalp. She’d never felt so safe and the panic began to slowly subside.

Francesca became aware that she was crying. She heard the soft sobs first. Muffled. A little wild. Stefano murmured to her in Italian. She understood a few of the words. Not many, because her parents had spoken the language in her home and she’d lost them. Once they were gone, Cella spoke mostly English. Sometimes it was . . . Bella. Cara. Carissima. She could have sworn he brushed kisses in her hair.

“Bambina, you have to stop crying. Take a breath and talk to me. It was a nightmare. You’re here with me. Safe. Nothing can get to you here.”

“He can,” she said, the panic welling up again. Smothering her. “He’ll hurt you. Joanna. He’ll say terrible things and I’ll lose my job. I have to . . .”

His hand found her chin, prying her face from his chest. He tipped her face up and brought his down. Close. “Look at me, bella. I am not a man others fuck with. Not ever. You’re here. With me. That means you’re safe.” There was an edge to his voice.

She wanted to smile and the choking fear and panic slipped further away. She forced her lashes to cooperate. The moment she opened her eyes, he was there. Stefano. His face was close. That hard jaw. The masculine beauty. His eyes. The arrogant confidence and the aura of danger clinging to him. It was all there. She felt more protected than she’d felt for years. She wanted to stay right where she was, close to him. Feeling how solid he was. All muscle. He had a steel core. Truthfully, he was the first and only man she believed might be able to keep her safe.

It wasn’t fair to him. To stay with him, knowing he felt he had to defend everyone around him, was wrong. She should find the strength to leave so she wouldn’t endanger him, but there was nowhere to go. She had no money. She had nothing at all.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Hating herself. Knowing she was going to give him that burden. That danger. Because she could no longer do this alone. She wasn’t living. She was existing. Every second of every day, she was terrified. One could only live with terror for so long. Not just terror. Anger. Guilt.

Stefano Ferraro was an unexpected complication. Or savior. She had chemistry with him, intense and scary, but it was there and she’d never felt it before. Not like that. He’d said he was attracted to her. It was obvious that physically, he was. She knew if she let anything happen between them, he would be bossy and controlling. She didn’t believe in relationships where one person was needy, and yet she was. She was exactly that person, but that wasn’t the real her. It was circumstances.

“You’re back with me.” Relief tinged his voice. His arms slid around her again and he held her close, her ear over the steady beat of his heart. One hand stroked caresses in her hair. “Do you have nightmares often?”

She had to give him the truth if she was going to give him the worst of her. “Yes. All the time. I don’t sleep more than a few hours a night because they come often. Every time I close my eyes.”