“His name.”

She hesitated. This was what she wanted, but it wasn’t right. She would be a terrible person for involving him more than she already had. “Stefano, I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t even be talking about this, especially to you.” She couldn’t look at him. Shame burned through her. “I can’t imagine your life, the way you have to live, always thinking you have to protect and take care of everyone around you. You make it easy to shift burdens your way. You don’t protest. You don’t ask for space. You just take control and no one has to worry but you.”

His thumb and finger gripped her chin, lifting her face so she once again had no choice but to meet his eyes. “Bambina, I am that man. Don’t make me out to be a saint, because I’m anything but. You aren’t going to find me easy to live with, and I assure you, Francesca, we will be living together. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you what I wanted. You can turn over those burdens to me, and you won’t ever have to worry. With that comes the price of belonging to me. Above all things, I want you safe. So tell me his name.”

Her breath caught in her lungs at his declaration. The idea of belonging to him was both terrifying and exhilarating. She couldn’t look away from his eyes. She’d only just met him yet she felt that she’d known him forever. She knew he was dangerous, possibly more dangerous than Barry Anthon, but still, that connection between them was so strong, she couldn’t imagine not having him in her life in some capacity.

“I think I manipulated you to this point. I didn’t start out that way, and then I did, and now I . . .” She broke off as his eyes glittered. “Stefano, you can be scary.”

“Tell. Me. His. Name.” He bit out each word separately. Enunciating them. Making them a command.

“Barry Anthon.” She blurted out his name, and then was shocked that she had.

There was a small silence. She knew he recognized the name. How could he not? When she said he ran in the same circles, she meant it. Anthon even had his own racing team, just as the Ferraro family did.

The silence stretched, and her belly knotted. Her fingers closed into fists on his thin tee, bunching the material. Of course. She should have known. Why would he take her word over that of the police? Over Anthon’s? She had been so fogged coming out of the nightmare and feeling so guilty for involving him that she hadn’t stopped to think about whether or not he would believe her. How stupid. No one else had believed her. Not the landlords who threw her out of the apartments she’d rented and supposedly damaged. Not the boss she’d worked for since her teenage years. Not the police who arrested her for destroying property. Not the judges or even the lawyers who defended her. No one believed her about Cella’s murder.

She strained away from him, against the hard bar of his arm, her hands going flat on his chest to push him away.

“Settle,” he commanded softly, his eyes on her, but he was clearly somewhere else. “Barry Anthon the third, I presume. He has somewhat of a reputation with women.”

So did the Ferraro brothers. She’d read all about them in the magazines Joanna had given her. She didn’t say a word. He would have to release her sometime, and then she’d find a way to leave. She could stay in the street like Dina. The thought made her feel a little hysterical. She’d done that and it had been awful, worse than awful.

“I need to wash my face.” She needed distance. She had to put everything into perspective, and she couldn’t do that when he was so close to her.

His gaze searched hers for a long time. She felt as if he saw right inside of her, saw her deepest secrets, her shame for involving him, her fear that, like everyone else, he wouldn’t believe that a man like Anthon had systematically set about destroying her entire life until she had nothing left. No home. No friends. No money. No way to get a job. She crushed down the sob welling up.

Stefano ran the pad of his thumb down her face, tracing her high cheekbone and making his way slowly to her lips. He rubbed his thumb along her bottom lip, his eyes darkening until her breath caught in her lungs and just stayed there. A strange throb began deep inside her, low and insistent.

“I’ll make you hot chocolate. If I don’t have any, I’ll call down to the kitchen.”

“It’s too late for room service,” she pointed out.

He shook his head. “What part of ‘I own the hotel’ don’t you understand? I call down, they get me what I want, even if they have to send out for it.”

“You’re spoiled, Stefano.”