Shadow Rider

by Christine Feehan

  "I don't understand." Francesca's eyes went from dazed and dark with need to confusion and wide with shock as she stared at the gun. "What questions? And why are you carrying a gun? Is that legal?"

  He threaded his fingers through hers, his thumb sliding gently over her knuckles in a little caress. He felt her answering shiver. He could still taste her in his mouth, that particular addicting blend of Francesca's passion and innocence. He tugged until her front was tight against his side and he stepped from the hallway into the great room to greet his brothers.

  "You know the family, and this is Lanz and Deangelo Rossi, my cousins. This is my woman, Francesca."

  She nodded but didn't smile, clearly very confused.

  He didn't tell her why they were there, that in his family, an investigator from another branch would help out when they were directly involved. He didn't want to risk questions. She wasn't ready to learn the family secrets. He needed to hook her deep, make certain she loved him enough to stay. She wasn't there yet, and he wasn't about to chance fucking his one shot with her up. He wanted the spotlight off his cousins. "Where's Emmanuelle?"

  "Someone had to be the sacrificial lamb," Taviano said. "She drew the short straw." That meant she would keep Eloisa, his mother, busy while they held this meeting.

  Stefano nodded. "Anyone want coffee? Wine? Something else to drink?" He led Francesca to the shorter love seat, allowing his brothers to take the larger couches or more comfortable, deep armchairs.

  Vittorio was already at the bar, mixing drinks for his brothers and cousins. He served his cousins first and then flashed Francesca one of his winning smiles. "What can I get you?"

  She looked up at Stefano. "Am I going to need a drink for this?"

  "It might be best, dolce cuore," Stefano said. He ran his hand over the fall of soft hair tumbling around her face. "We have some questions that need answering."

  Her face instantly shut down. She shook her head, her hand slipping from his. She dropped her hands to her lap, lacing her fingers together tightly. "Stefano . . ."

  "It has to be done, Francesca. We need to know what we're facing. I've got my cousins looking into what happened and also into Anthon's past, but we need to hear the truth from you."

  She shook her head again, glancing nervously at his cousins. They remained steadfastly silent. "How are you going to know whether or not I'm telling the truth? I told the police, the judge, my boss at the deli where I'd worked since I was sixteen, the landlords of two apartments, and in the end no one believed me except Joanna. Your brothers barely know me and your cousins don't know me at all. Why would they even consider I'd be telling the truth over him?" She made a move to stand, getting ready to flee. "I've done this too many times. I don't want to do it again."

  He stood solidly in front of her, refusing to give ground, making it impossible for her to move. She subsided back onto the love seat and he sat beside her, his arm sliding along the back of the couch, fingers settling on her neck. "Red wine, or would you like something stronger? Vittorio makes a killer margarita."

  She moistened her lips. He felt her body shiver and instinctively he moved closer to her until she was locked against him, thigh to thigh, her body beneath his shoulder.

  "You have to trust me to take care of you through this," he said. "I know it's upsetting, but you have us now. You're not alone. Anthon may think that, and he'll make his move, but you won't be alone ever again, bella. You're mine. I take care of what is mine."

  "Ours," Ricco corrected. "Famiglia."

  The others nodded in a show of solidarity.

  Francesca's hands trembled and Stefano put his over them, tugging until she let him pull one open palm onto his thigh. He covered her hand completely with his, pressing her palm into his muscles, holding it tight against him. She looked up at him for a long time, her gaze searching his. He knew what she saw. He wasn't a man to lie. He was hard. Cold even. Tenacious. Ruthless, and when he had an enemy, without mercy.

  He knew if it was just him asking the questions, she would answer without hesitation, but her gaze continually strayed to his brothers. She was uncomfortable with them there.

  "We're here to help you," Ricco reiterated. "You belong to Stefano, so that makes you belong to all of us--even our cousins. We're all family. That means something to us. Don't be afraid. We'll know the truth. Don't you, when you hear it? Haven't you always been able to tell when someone is lying to you?"

  Francesca nodded. "Yes." Her voice was very low and filled with reluctance as she made the admission, as if they would think she was crazy.

  "Our entire family has that ability," Ricco said. "Our cousins and our parents, an aunt and uncle as well. It's a gift we deliberately chose to develop in our family, for generations, not just us. We'll know the truth when you give it to us."

  Francesca's palm pressed deeper into Stefano's thigh. She knew Ricco had given both reassurance as well as warning, but she nodded and Stefano felt some of the tension ease out of her.

  "I'll have a glass of red wine. I didn't eat dinner, and I've noticed even a small amount of wine seems to affect me. I'm a lightweight, but I do enjoy the occasional glass with dinner."

  "You don't eat enough," Stefano said, his voice gruff. A bit bossy and disapproving.

  That earned him a flash of amusement from her vivid blue eyes, and then it was gone as she accepted the glass of wine from Vittorio. Stefano felt something move deep inside him at that intimate look. He knew it was meant for him alone. He'd never had that. Not once in his life. A woman who was exclusively his. Francesca wasn't aware of it, but she looked at him with far more trust in her eyes than he deserved. She looked at him as if the sun rose and set with him.

  "I'm not exactly thin, Stefano." She ducked her head, looking at her wineglass rather than at him as if the discussion about her curves embarrassed her.

  She had gone hungry for a long while. Truthfully she'd lost some weight, but he could tell that she thought she needed to. Women seemed to always think that way. He preferred curves to supermodel thin. He didn't understand why women were so hard on themselves. Francesca was beautiful and he didn't want a single pound to go away.

  His brothers, drinks in hand, found chairs and settled, all eyes on his woman. He knew that made her uncomfortable so he kept his fingers around the nape of her neck and his other hand covering hers on his thigh.

  "Tell us about Barry Anthon, Francesca," Ricco said. "From the beginning. How he came into your life and what happened from there."

  Francesca glanced up at Stefano for reassurance and then carefully set the wineglass on the small end table, fearing she'd spill it on the gleaming marble floor. Her entire body trembled and she didn't seem to be able to do anything about it, even when she commanded herself to be still. She didn't want to talk about Barry Anthon, or relive the nightmare world she'd been dragged into two years earlier when Cella first met Barry.

  She risked another look around at the faces of the Ferraro brothers. Vittorio and Taviano looked encouraging. Ricco looked downright scary. Giovanni nodded at her as if to tell her to get on with it. She felt Stefano's body sitting next to her, yet he seemed to take up the room, surrounding her, in front of her, at her back. He was everywhere. Dangerous. Determined. Giving her a feeling of security. How he managed that she didn't know. The fingers massaging her neck almost absently were mesmerizing. Without consciously thinking about it she eased back into them, seeking more. Seeking his touch while she gave them what they wanted.

  "My sister, Cella, is--was--nine years older than me. When our parents were killed in an automobile accident she decided to raise me herself. She didn't have to do it--she wanted to. She never once made me feel like a burden to her, even though it was difficult. We didn't ever have a lot of money and we lived in a tiny apartment, but I was really happy."

  No one rushed her to get to the place where she met Barry, and she appreciated their patience in allowing her to tell it in her own time and way.

  "I was working
at a deli and going to school. Cella worked at a beauty salon as a hairdresser. She did nails as well. Her shop was downtown, in a good location, which meant they had a lot of high-end clients. She made decent money and her clientele really built. Next to her salon was a very busy and popular coffee shop. One day she was rushing back to work, and another customer at the coffee shop ran right into her. His coffee spilled all over her. It was hot and she got burned. She dropped her purse, everything went flying and he knelt down and picked everything up for her, immediately took her to a boutique to buy her new clothes for her workday and asked her out. That man was Barry Anthon."

  The brothers exchanged a long look and she hesitated, and then glanced up at Stefano. "What?"

  "He does that. He sees someone beautiful that he wants and arranges an 'accident,' where he can play the mortified white knight, and asks the woman out, sweeps her off her feet and gets her hooked before his true colors come out."

  "You know that about him?"

  Ricco took a drink of amber liquid from the tumbler in his hand and nodded. "He uses it when he's at parties. I've witnessed it a time or two."

  A little shudder went through Francesca. Unconsciously she pressed closer to Stefano. Instantly his hand went from her neck to her shoulders and he shifted her right against him before his fingers slid back beneath her hair to caress her nape.

  "That's what he did. Cella would come home laughing and talking about him like he was Prince Charming. I was happy for her. She was certain she was falling in love. They dated often over the next six months, although little things she wasn't thrilled with began happening. First, he was introduced to me, and I didn't like him at all. Not. At. All." She enunciated each word. "He was too charming and he would touch me all the time. Stand too close. Breathe on the back of my neck. More than that . . ." She broke off, frowning. How could she tell them without sounding insane? She was already going to have to combat insanity charges when she told them the entire story.

  "Francesca." Vittorio leaned toward her, evidently reading her reluctance. "Cara, we're all family here. Say whatever it is and let us decide. We hear truth. We told you that. We meant it, quite literally, so whatever you say can't be much more bizarre than that."

  Absently, beneath Stefano's palm, her fingers bunched the material of his immaculate pin-striped trousers into her fist, holding on for support. "I know how this sounds, but sometimes, when I'm standing a certain way and the light is just right, my shadow will connect with someone else's shadow. We're not physically touching. Just our shadows, on the wall, or floor. Wherever." She bit at her lip and then took a slow sip of wine, taking her time putting the glass down. She'd started. Now she had to finish. They were really going to think she was insane.

  "Bambina," Stefano murmured, his mouth against her temple, lips brushing her skin. Breath teasing her hair. "No one is going to think you're lying."

  She sighed and forced her shoulders straight. "I don't know if that has anything to do with it, the part about shadows, but I just noticed that they were always touching when I would get this sensation. I could feel what the other person felt."

  The brothers exchanged another long look and she hastened to try to make her explanation sound better. "I can't explain it, only that sometimes, I just know what a person feels. He would have slept with me, but he didn't feel anything for either of us. Not me. Not Cella. Not in the way Cella thought. It was more like a cat playing with a mouse. He was playing her for his own amusement. He planned on humiliating her. Dumping her. That kind of thing makes him feel powerful."

  She waited for recriminations, but no one said anything. Ricco nodded at her assessment of Barry Anthon. That was the most she got from them. "I tried to tell her. It was the first time we ever had a big fight. She refused to believe me." That had really hurt. She couldn't understand why her sister wouldn't believe her. She didn't lie. She never lied. They were close. It didn't make sense to her.

  "After the fight we had, Cella noticed little things that upset her. Barry never took her out in public. He would attend fund-raisers and go to huge events where the media was all over, and he would take an actress or some celebrity. He'd tell Cella he had to, because it was important to get the maximum amount of coverage for the event as possible, but even at ball games he'd be photographed with other women. He would make little remarks to her, sneering at her clothes or shoes, or laugh because she didn't know which fork to use at his club. She made excuses for him, saying that she probably was looking for something to be upset about because of the way I felt about him."

  Ricco shook his head. "I've heard him do that, put his date down. Make fun of her. Say things to take away her self-esteem. He does it to just about all of the women he dates."

  Giovanni nodded. "I heard him talk to a friend of his once, about how you put a woman in her place and she'd do anything to be with you because she knew you were better than she was and she was damned lucky to have you. He believes that shit."

  "Fucking asshole," Taviano muttered under his breath, and abruptly jumped up and paced across the floor to the bar to pour himself another drink. "I despise that fucker."

  She nearly smiled, more because she realized all the brothers were alike, even down to their colorful language. And they seemed to believe her. At least they knew Anthon and had observed his behavior so what she was telling them wasn't so far out of line they wouldn't hear her the way the police and judge had been with her.

  "You aren't alone," she told Taviano. Because, in spite of the language, if there was a person on earth who could be described with that one word, it would be Barry Anthon.

  "Keep going," Stefano instructed.

  She took a deep breath, trying to keep the door in her mind from cracking open, the one where she relived finding her sister dying on the blood-slick floor of their apartment.

  "She spent the night with Barry at his condo and she called me very late. She was upset because she said that he had talked to her about this multimillion-dollar fight that was huge, televised, a title fight that had been in the making for a couple of years. She wasn't into the fights at all and she was a little bored that he went on and on about it. That evening he bragged about how much money he made betting on the fight. He kept repeating how he knew how to pick them."

  "The Henessy and Morrison fight," Giovanni guessed.

  Francesca nodded. "Those were the names. He was called to the door and he went outside with a couple of his men, who seemed to be upset. He'd left the door to his office cracked open. Usually it was locked. That was the one room in his home she'd never been in, so she peeked in to see what it was like. Cella told me she wandered around a little bit and then as she was going to leave, she was behind his desk and she saw a book open with names and numbers, and she recognized the name of the fighter who lost--the one Barry said everyone expected to win. It looked to her as if he had paid the fighter to lose. In case, she took pictures of the pages with her phone and then a video of the entries, and there were hundreds of them."

  "The book was just lying open on his desk?" Ricco asked, his voice disbelieving.

  She bit her lip hard before she realized he wasn't disbelieving what she was telling him, more that Barry was an idiot for leaving such a thing out, maybe for even keeping records, although she suspected it was for blackmail purposes.

  "Cella said that he was in his office working late. He was interrupted by a commotion at the door and several of his men took him out where she couldn't hear. She'd been in the kitchen cooking for him. He liked her to cook whenever she came over. Cella wasn't the best cook. She worked all the time, but because I usually did the cooking for us at the apartment, she took the opportunity at his condo. She went into the bedroom and called me and told me she wasn't going to spend the night. That she wanted me to call in a few minutes and say I was sick."

  Her voice faltered and she put her hand to her throat defensively. Already a lump was forming. Tears burned behind her eyes. She took another deep breath to keep from going
to pieces. "I should have gone straight home right then. I needed to study and I was already at the library. It was so silly really, how important I thought it was to do research for a paper I was writing." She shook her head and had to swallow several times. Her chest hurt, her lungs burning for air.

  "Just tell us the rest, dolce cuore--say it fast and get it over with," Stefano murmured, his mouth once again against her temple.

  "I called about ten minutes later and told her I was sick with the flu. She made lots of sympathetic noises and made her excuses to Barry. She didn't realize he had a camera in his office and everything she did was recorded. When he found the door open, he looked at the feed and apparently saw her looking at the book. He went after her." She tried desperately to separate herself from the rest of it, to be unemotional and recite the events as if they'd happened to someone else, but she couldn't. Her voice shook, betraying her. She sounded strangled, close to tears and no matter how many times she took a breath, she couldn't get enough air into her lungs.

  "I came home late and the apartment was dark. The moment I tried to get in, I knew something was wrong because the door was cracked open. I could smell blood and I heard a mewing noise, like a wounded animal in terrible pain. The lamp was closest and I turned it on. Blood was everywhere. All over the walls, the furniture and the floor. Cella lay close to the couch, in a pool of dark red, her clothes red. Her hair was matted with blood. I ran to her, dropped to my knees beside her and tried to stem the blood and at the same time call 911."

  "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.