“I met Joanna in school—in college. When . . . things happened to me . . . to my family, she was kind enough to help me out. I took a bus out here from California because she thought I could work in your store and build a new life here.”

He put both hands on the desk. Flat. Leaning toward her. Eyes piercing. Her heart sank.

“Are you running from the law?”

Relief was so strong she wanted to cry. She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m not. I did get into some trouble back home, but I’m not in trouble with the law. I really need this job. I don’t have much money left . . .” That reminded her of the folded bills Stefano Ferraro had stuffed into the pocket of his very warm coat.

“Why would Stefano Ferraro ask a favor of me for you? Does he know your family?”

She shook her head, feeling dizzy. “I swear to you, I don’t know him. I don’t know why he gave me his coat, or acted the way he did.”

“He took you outside and had a conversation with you. What did he say?”

“Nothing. He didn’t want me to give away his coat. He said I had to buy some shoes with the money. He was being kind.”

Something in his eyes shifted. “The Ferraros are a lot of things, but they are not kind. He wants you taken care of. My niece has asked as well. I’ll hire you. You can start tomorrow. Fill out the papers, and I’ll go get you food. You look as if you haven’t eaten in a while.”

Francesca had to admit she didn’t think Stefano had helped her out of kindness, but certainly Pietro’s expression was kindly and she sagged with relief. She was going to put down the entire incident with Stefano as weird, treat it like he meant the gesture kindly. She wouldn’t spend his money, but she’d wear his coat and then hang it carefully in her apartment until she figured out how to get it back to him.

She filled out the application, leaving just about everything blank. Her name. Her social security number. That was it. There was nothing else she could safely tell him.

CHAPTER TWO

Joanna tossed a handful of magazines onto the table in front of Francesca. “Check those out. Tell me I’m wrong about the Ferraro family.”

Francesca sighed. She’d managed to eat two meals, thanks to Joanna and her uncle. She’d kept the meals small, and she was happy she had. The food sat in her stomach as if her body had forgotten how to process it. Her first day at work had been very successful and Pietro was pleased. The deli’s customers had doubled in one day. She’d kept her head down and worked hard, avoiding the staring eyes. Pietro didn’t care if they stared at his newest employee. He cared about the cash register, and it was full. That meant the tip jar was full as well.

Francesca smiled at Joanna as Joanna leafed through one of the glossy magazines to show her a headline. Ferraro brothers. Fast cars and faster women. There was a series of photographs of Stefano Ferraro standing by a race car with a huge smile and a large trophy, a woman in his arms, looking up at him. Four very hot men and an exceptionally beautiful woman circled him, all beaming at him. Joanna was right. They were gorgeous.

“Well, that lets me out. I don’t own a car, and I couldn’t be considered running in the fast lane no matter who was talking about me.” Francesca should have been feeling relief, but the more she paged through the magazines and saw models, singers, actresses and heiresses adorning the arms of the Ferraro males, the more she felt a little sick.

“Wow. If you considered even a tenth of this stuff is true, they live life on the edge. Parties. Racing cars. Playing polo. What was he doing in your uncle’s shop? I wouldn’t think he would set foot in a place that was rated less than five stars.”

“The Ferraro family owns most of the buildings in our neighborhood. Not the homes, but the apartment buildings, and all the store space. They’re very hands-on. Their parents actually buy locally. They often come in and talk to Zio Pietro.”

“You’re telling me that these people are actually friends with all of you?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice.

Joanna shook her head. “Not friends exactly. I’m not saying we run in the same circles. It’s more like they’re royalty and we all know them by sight. They keep an eye on things.”

Francesca looked at the pictures of the ridiculously handsome faces with women on their arms—women dripping with diamonds—and she just couldn’t see them walking around the neighborhood and frequenting the local shops.

“Are they mafia?”

Joanna gasped and looked around her. “Francesca! Sheesh. Are you nuts? You don’t ask a question like that where anyone might hear you.”