“All right, bambina,” Stefano said softly. “You’re safe with us now. He isn’t going to get away with this.”

“He was there. Barry was there. He had blood all over him. He didn’t try to deny that he killed her. He wanted me to know. He told me that she’d been stupid and that I’d better give him what he wanted. I could hear the sirens and he just walked out, as if it didn’t matter who saw him. In the end it didn’t. I told the police it was him, and they said he had an airtight alibi.” Her voice shook, turned bitter.

The two cousins leaned forward, almost in unison, instantly drawing her attention. She had forgotten they were there. For some reason, she didn’t mind Stefano’s brothers hearing her story, but the cousins didn’t seem as sympathetic. They were much more unemotional, although, she had to admit, not unkind.

The moment the cousins shifted forward in their chairs, their gazes fixed steadily on her face, every one of Stefano’s brothers reacted, hitching forward as well, but protectively. She felt that instant shield go around her. She looked around and saw that every shadow was connected. She was feeling the emotions the brothers were, and they were definitely protective of her. Stefano’s hand on her shoulder was suddenly different as well. His fingers dug into her arm, and she knew he was fighting anger.

His brothers hadn’t come here to hear her story; they had come to show solidarity. The knowledge hit her instantly and made her want to cry. They believed her on her word alone; it was the cousins she had to convince. She didn’t know why Stefano and his family had rallied around her, or had chosen to side with her against Barry Anthon, but she was grateful they had. Surprisingly, it was Stefano’s anger that settled her churning stomach. She didn’t want him upset at his cousins when clearly he had asked them there to listen to her story.

“He didn’t find her phone then,” Lanz said, making it a statement.

She shook her head. “But at the time, I had no idea what he was talking about. I didn’t for a while.”

“Continue,” Deangelo encouraged.

Her heart began to beat harder and a little faster. She turned her hand, the one on Stefano’s thigh, threading her fingers through his, needing his reassurance. He instantly bent his head, his lips pressed to her ear, right through the thick mass of hair tumbling around her.

“Francesca, if you need a break or this is too upsetting, we can continue later. We don’t have to do this now.”

She wanted to take that out. The rest of her story was a roller coaster of emotions. She had managed to tamp down the horror of her sister’s murder, the terror of the man she knew had savagely killed her. She was tempted to take the out he gave her, but looking around the room at his brothers waiting so patiently for her decision, knowing all of them would back her up, gave her the necessary courage to continue.

Francesca shook her head. “It’s better to do this all at once. If you want to know, I’ll tell you now. Barry Anthon is a monster and he does all kinds of horrible things and gets away with it. You have to know what he’s like, because if I stay here, and I think he’s already found me, he’ll come after anyone who helps me.”

“I believe you’re correct on that,” Lanz said, sitting back in his chair.

At once she felt the difference in Stefano and his brothers. The tension in the room eased and several of them lifted their glasses to their mouths, where before they had just held them without moving. They wanted Lanz and Deangelo to believe her. That meant the two cousins had the same gift of hearing truth when others spoke. They believed her. She hoped they would continue to believe her because no one else had.

“An older man was arrested for the crime. He walked into the police department and turned himself in. He had the knife and his fingerprints were all over it. He said he’d been drinking and followed her home. He had brain cancer and sometimes he would fly into a rage. He was remorseful. Crying. He pleaded guilty and died before he ever served time. I believe he did it in order to get money for his family before he died. He couldn’t even look me in the eye.”

“His name,” Deangelo said abruptly.

“Harold Benson. His daughter, Carla O’Brian, was with him. She works for Barry Anthon and has, apparently, for several years.”

Deangelo nodded. “That’s easy enough. It does seem like everything leads back to him. But there’s more, isn’t there?”

Francesca nodded, tightening her fingers around Stefano’s. “Barry came by about a dozen times. He’d just show up in my house. It didn’t seem to matter what locks I used—he’d be in there with a couple of his men. They pushed me around a lot and threatened to . . .” She swallowed and lowered her voice, unable to look at any of them, the humiliation and fear crowding too close. “Rape me,” she finished. “They would shove me down and rip my clothes, always demanding I give them what Barry wanted. They never said what it was, but I knew they hadn’t found her cell phone.”