“No, Francesca,” Emmanuelle assured. “Nothing at all is wrong with the way you look. You’re absolutely beautiful and my brother is going to think so, too. It’s just that he can be . . . possessive of what is his.”

Francesca felt a jab to her stomach, hard enough that she hunched a little. The thought of Stefano being possessive toward other women really bothered her. She knew he had a history with women—beautiful women—but he’d told her that she was special to him. She really wished her self-esteem hadn’t taken such a beating and she didn’t constantly feel inadequate, worrying about Stefano and the beautiful women who had been in his life prior to her.

A limo awaited them, right in front of the hotel, the long sleek lines making Joanna squeal in glee. Francesca felt it was a little on the ostentatious side. She would never get used to the casual display of wealth and privilege. She slid into the vehicle after Joanna and Mario and discovered that two other women already occupied the leather seats. They were drinking red wine from elegant glasses. Both smiled at her, their gazes running over her dress and shoes automatically, as if they did a sweep of everyone they saw.

“Rigina and Rosina Greco, my cousins,” Emmanuelle introduced. “They are sisters of Renato and Romano. I think you’ve met their brothers.”

If she had, Francesca knew she wouldn’t be able to place them. She’d been introduced to too many people and some when she was being carried upside down in a sleeping bag through a murky apartment building. She smiled and nodded. The women looked like Ferraros. They carried themselves with that same enviable confidence.

“Wow, Francesca,” Rigina said. “I love your dress. It’s beautiful. It’s a Sophia original, isn’t it?”

Francesca had heard of the designer Sophia. She was renowned for her gowns and club wear. Her originals were fought over by her exclusive clientele. Francesca ran her hand down her dress, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, all the while her heart pounding. If this was really a Sophia original, it was worth three months or more of her salary. She should never have accepted it.

“It’s gorgeous,” Rosina added. “You look beautiful. I can’t wait to get inside the club and have Stefano catch his first sight of you in that dress. He’s going to go ballistic.”

Francesca frowned. “Why do you all keep saying that? Stefano wanted me to wear this dress. The last thing I want to do is embarrass him because it doesn’t look good on me. You have to tell me.” Her worried gaze found Joanna, her one real friend. If the others were making subtle fun of her, she was certain Joanna wouldn’t do that. She’d never allow her to go out in public and be humiliated.

Emmanuelle reached over and took her hand, squeezing it in reassurance. Joanna frowned and shook her head. Rosina looked upset.

“Francesca, you look absolutely beautiful in that dress,” Joanna said staunchly. “Gorgeous. Right, Mario?”

Francesca thought Joanna incredibly generous to have her boyfriend, the man she was really interested in, give Francesca compliments.

“I have to agree,” Mario said. “Beautiful.”

Emmanuelle nodded. “My brother has escorted countless women to clubs and he couldn’t care less what they looked like. Elegant or slut clothes didn’t much matter to him because if he was with a woman, it was for publicity purposes, like a charity event, or a hookup. He claims you for his own. For his woman. He’s made it clear to the family and to those in our neighborhood. He’ll make it clear to the world very soon. That’s why we’re all laughing a little. Stefano is not like most men. None of my brothers are. You’re his and he’ll watch over you and protect you every minute of every day. With you dressed like that, hotter than hell, he’s going to lose his mind, and we’re all going to enjoy watching it.”

Francesca liked some of what she’d said, was confused by other things and really didn’t like the reference to Stefano’s other women. She was going to have to gain some confidence in herself fast if she was really going to try to have any kind of a relationship with Stefano Ferraro. He was in a world where confidence mattered. Was needed. She’d been beaten down so far by Barry Anthon, she could barely walk with her head up. Stefano deserved better than that.

Francesca wished she’d met Stefano before Cella had been murdered. She had been different then, carefree and happy. Confident in herself. He would have liked Cella. Francesca hoped he would have liked her, because that was the real Francesca, not this woman who had such low self-esteem, nightmares and was afraid of her own shadow.