She had checked out of the conversation for a few minutes, but now, thinking it over, she knew they had quietly offered him more money for Sandlin’s care. For the extra trouble of security and bodyguards. For more background checks. In return for allowing her brother to stay there, they had been willing to add another desperately needed wing onto the Center and to fund the equipment for that wing as well.
Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t been paying attention. She’d stood by the window in that stuffy little office, shaking, terrified she’d have to remove her brother, and all the while, Giovanni had been negotiating on her behalf. He’d taken care of it without hesitating. He hadn’t asked permission from his family, nor had Stefano balked, treating her as if she’d been born into the Ferraro family solely because she was engaged to Giovanni.
A small groan escaped. She’d been so prideful, insisting she take care of Sandlin herself. She couldn’t afford extra security for him. It wasn’t Giovanni’s fault that someone was stalking her, and he certainly didn’t have to continually provide her with protection or pay for her brother’s protection—yet he did. She wasn’t even certain if she’d thanked him. She’d been so busy resenting him for even offering because Sandlin was her brother and she wanted to be the one to take care of him.
What in the hell was wrong with her? Loving Sandlin meant utilizing whatever she had access to in order to give him the best possible care available. Was it her ego that dictated to her that she not use Giovanni’s money? She rubbed her temples, put her head back and stared at the ceiling. It was the fact that she didn’t want Giovanni or anyone else to think she was with him for his money. Everyone used him. They used his family. They wanted something from them.
She’d seen the women in the club throw themselves at every family member in the hopes of hooking one, not because they liked them, but for their money. What would that be like? She didn’t want Giovanni to think she wanted his money, not for her and not for Sandlin. She wanted Giovanni. He made her laugh. He made her feel safe in an unfamiliar world. He seemed to value her opinions. He listened carefully to every word she said, as if it was terribly important to him.
She let out another groan and wrote down “stalker.” How had she managed to catch the eye of some insane person? The detectives had told her it could be someone who passed her on the street and she’d absently smiled at them. She worked at the deli in the daytime. She smiled at a lot of customers. She worked at the club at night. She’d worked the floor at first, and who knew how many customers she’d served?
Giovanni thought the problem had started when she took over for Nancy that first night of serving on the top tier. She was afraid he was right. It felt right, but how did one explain that to a cop? The Ferraro family was doing their own investigations and she’d gone along with them, not telling the police everything. She knew why. She couldn’t deny that she knew if Giovanni and his family figured out who was threatening her and those around her, they would send for their cousins and the man would disappear or be found dead. What did she think about that?
She began to pace again, thinking about the way the light structure and a portion of the ceiling had fallen on the couch where her brother always sat to read. Everyone knew he sat there. That light fixture had been deliberately rigged to fall on him. She knew the stalker was escalating his behavior. He’d threatened Giovanni. He’d targeted her brother. What was next? Who was next?
Was any of that Giovanni’s fault? Of course not. She would have the stalker and the threat he presented hanging over her head without being engaged to Giovanni. If anything, Giovanni had tried to make both her and her brother safe.
She had been targeted by John Darby and his college frat boys for an ugly prank so he could boost his reality show ratings. Was that Giovanni’s fault? Nope. She had taken that job because it paid so much money. West had told her about the dangers of drunken celebrities and how they often felt very entitled. He’d even told her about the specialized training servers got before they worked the top tier and told her he was worried because she hadn’t had it yet.
She’d insisted she could do the job. She wasn’t involved with Giovanni at the time. The incident would have happened no matter what. Even her picture in the tabloids might have happened without her name being attached to his because Darby would have tried to get mileage out of his prank.
She picked up her cell phone, needing to call Giovanni. She just wanted to hear his voice, but she knew if she did, he’d want to come to her—or have her go to him. That told her something right there. She had confidence that it was her he wanted, not someone like Meredith. She believed him when he told her he would be faithful to her. She believed he had a code and he would always live by that code.
She pressed the cell phone to her forehead and continued to pace. Why was she so angry at him? His world? He was born into it. He’d had no more choice in who gave birth to him than she’d had—she’d just gotten luckier. Was she really going to throw him over because he had far too much money? Because he lived life in a completely different lane than the one she was used to?
She was a fighter. She’d always been a fighter. Her mother told her she came out of the womb kicking and screaming. As a toddler, she never let anything defeat her when she wanted to learn something. She could be defiant, go her own way, be stubborn until she got what she wanted. Was she going to let Giovanni’s lifestyle defeat her? Why? Pride? Ego? Worry about what the rest of the world would think of her because she was becoming part of a very wealthy family? Fear that she’d have to constantly battle the paparazzi and what was written about her?
She’d never cared before. Never. Why had it suddenly become important now? There was a sound outside her door. It sounded like something had hit her balcony rail. Everything in her froze, driving out her inner dialogue. She went to the front door, but she wasn’t about to open it. Nobody knocked. She took a breath and slowly pushed aside her curtain.
She’d left the light on so that it shone on the small porch just outside her door. It wasn’t much more than a landing, really, but she called it a front porch. Had she sat out there, she’d be staring into the alley, and at the surrounding buildings, but still … Right now, she was looking at the wooden railing, obviously broken. Something had hit it and it was pushed outward. Outward. Someone had stood just outside her door and shoved that railing, or hit it with something. She knew a bodyguard had been sitting out there. Where was he now?
She pressed Giovanni’s number and prayed he’d answer immediately. A crack sounded so loud she jumped. Simultaneously, the glass around her porch light shattered and the light went off. Her heart thudded and she stepped back from the window. It was a good thing she did, because the glass in the large pane splintered apart in hundreds of small pieces, flying into her house. With it, liquid sprayed in every direction, as the thrown bottle spun through the air, releasing the fluid inside.
“Sasha?”
Giovanni’s voice was so calm, she sagged with relief. She equated him with safety. “He’s here,” she said. “I think he hurt the bodyguard. He broke out one of my windows.”
Even as she said it, the second window exploded, glass hurtling through her residence. Again, whatever had been thrown spilled a liquid all over. She could smell accelerant and knew the next thing coming through the window would be fire.
“He’s burning the place. Call the fire department. Hurry, Giovanni.”
He was swearing now. Not so calm, but she could tell he was on the move. “Get out of there, baby. You can’t stay in there. Where the fuck are your bodyguards?”
“I think he did something terrible to them.”