His eyes stayed on me. “And how did that happen?”
“He helped me with the crates?—”
“And why was he helping you?” Don Mancini stepped toward me, turning his back on Frankie and facing off with me in the kitchen.
I continued to lean against the counter, arms crossed over my chest, several inches taller than his six feet of height.
“Because you’re too weak and lazy to do it yourself?” He was ten years older than me but in great shape, lean and toned like he was a runner and didn’t eat too many biscotti in the morning. He infected the room with hostility that he didn’t have to work hard to produce.
I was impressed but not intimidated.
“Dad,” Frankie said in a warning tone.
“Leave us,” he said without looking at her.
She stayed.
I didn’t look at her, my eyes on her father, but I wanted to tell her to leave. I could handle her father like a man, no problem. Didn’t need a woman to fight my battles for me—especially against her father.
Her footsteps sounded as she walked out.
He continued to show me his quiet ferocity. “You belong in the warehouse, not in my house. Is that understood?”
My eyes flicked back and forth between his. “Just wanted to get him to the doctor?—”
“Capisiti?”
It took all my strength not to smile because Don Mancini really had no idea who I was. But I played the game and kept my eyes on the prize. “Yes, Don Mancini.”
7
FRANCESCA
I was at the desk upstairs when one of the maids called up to me. “Frankie, you’ve got a laceration downstairs.”
“Again?” Yesterday, Salvatore got a nasty cut from a broken wine bottle, and now I had another patient on the roster. I’d just made an order from the hospital for more supplies because I’d been flying through them with all the injuries that had happened recently.
I left the office, headed down the stairs, and reached the entryway.
Wolfe stood there, a towel clamped around his forearm, and he wore a playful grin on his lips. “Hello, Nurse.”
“You didn’t learn from yesterday?”
He gave a slight shrug. “Guess not. Gonna stitch me up?”
Something about this seemed suspicious. What were the odds of two cuts in a row from the warehouse? “Come on, follow me.” I walked outside and down the stairs, feeling his mountain of a presence behind me.
We went to the side of the house where the cellar was located, the spot where I triaged most of my patients. He went down the stairs, and I pulled out one of the chairs at the table. “Take a seat.”
He wordlessly sat down, the towel still clamped around his arm.
I grabbed all my supplies and pulled up the chair next to him so I could work on his forearm.
It was the first time I’d been this close to him. That distinct presence of his was even more potent at this proximity. He gave off an indescribable heat too, as if he were his own personal sun. And the way he smelled, like a man who had been working in the warehouse all day, but also with a hint of a man’s cologne, creating this musk that affected me like an aphrodisiac. “Let’s take a look.” I removed the towel and saw the long cut up his arm. “How’d this happen?”
“Another wine bottle.”
I lifted my eyes and looked at him.
