Still the van hadn't moved. Needing an outlet for the adrenaline and grief, Terry screamed at the driver. "Move this fucking van now, Danny, or I'm going to shoot you. Brady, you drive." He lifted his weapon half-heartedly as a threat toward the driver.
Brady sat a few feet away, slumped over, looking peculiar. Something was off about the way he was sitting.
"Brady?" Terry lowered his gun. "Danny, something's wrong with Brady."
Danny turned his head to look. "He's dead. That's what's wrong."
The voice didn't sound right. Staring at the driver, frowning, trying to figure out what was wrong with all of them, Terry scooted toward Brady on his hands and knees. It hit him then. The driver wasn't Danny. It was Taviano Ferraro. Whipping his head around, he tried to think what he'd done with his gun even as he knew it was far too late. Hands were on his head. There was a terrible wrenching. Pain flashed through his body. Excruciating. The wrenching happened a second time and then he was gone.
Taviano leapt from the van just as Giovanni did. They raced back toward the club, one hand sending alert texts to their families. They'd already called 911 and asked for ambulances and cops. Tomas and Cosimo were theirs. They had to know if they had survived and, if so, how badly they were injured.
*
Eloisa Ferraro hurried outside, nearly forgetting to set the lock on her door. She was tired of Phillip playing around with all his young girlfriends, making her out to be the psycho wife to extract himself when he got bored with the relationship. She'd contemplated divorcing him for some time. A rider didn't do such a thing easily. If she divorced Phillip, she could never ride again. Their shadows had tangled together, and if torn apart, she'd lose her ability to ride, and Phillip would never remember a single thing about the Ferraro family. He'd taken the name and he wouldn't even remember that.
Vinci Sanchez, their lawyer, would help the Greco family plant a lifetime for Phillip. He'd have money and a past, but wouldn't remember a single thing about being associated with the Ferraro family. Not her. Not his children. It was a high price to pay for divorce, but it was time.
His latest mistress was twenty-five years old. Confronting the women for him was becoming harder and harder. She just didn't have the energy or will. So screw him. She was going to divorce him. She'd call Vinci that afternoon, as soon as she got back from visiting Melani Barone, a woman she'd known for years. Massimo and Melani owned Luna's, a favorite restaurant the Ferraro family frequented. The note from Melani sounded very urgent but off a little. Stilted and unlike her. That only served to alarm Eloisa more.
She'd called Henry, the man who had grown up in her family and worked for them for longer than she'd been alive. He took care of their cars. The cars, as a rule, were stored in a climate-controlled garage. Henry kept them in good shape and was extremely loyal to the Ferraros. But he did everything at his own pace and was bossy as hell. Especially to her. The car wasn't waiting in the driveway for her. That annoyed her to no end. Everything seemed to annoy her these days.
Vittorio was in the hospital. Why? No one knew. Probably the teenage girl Stefano and Taviano had insisted risking their lives as well as the family for. Nicoletta something. Who even knew what a girl like that would be like? Slutty no doubt, like that awful Teresa Ventura. Now Lucia and Amo Fausti were at risk as well just because they were sweet enough to foster the girl. By all accounts, the teen had been with so many men already and she wasn't even eighteen, no doubt exactly like Teresa Ventura.
Eloisa glanced at her watch, stomped her foot and glared down the driveway. What was holding Henry up? She detested being late to anything. With Vittorio in the hospital, Stefano was in a bad mood, giving her nasty looks just because she wouldn't visit him there. She couldn't, but she wasn't about to try to explain why. Not to any of them. She didn't owe them an explanation anymore, and she didn't care if she was never going to win a mother-of-the-year award.
In the distance, she saw the car coming toward her. Henry was driving very fast. Unusual for him. No, impossible for a man like him. He babied the cars. He would never, not in a hundred years, drive like that. She stiffened, took stock of her surroundings and waited until the car was almost in the driveway. She stepped into the shadows, feeling the familiar pull on her body as she was torn apart to become nothing but molecules. She was whisked from one tube to the next, circling around behind the car as it came to an abrupt halt in her driveway.
Three men leapt out of the still-running car, leaving the doors wide open. A fourth sat behind the wheel, a gun in his hand, tracking the yard. The three men all carried semiautomatics, and they sprayed the shadows along the house and across the wide lawn. She rode the shadows behind the assailant closest to her, sliding out of the tube right behind him, snapping his neck and catching the gun before it--or the body--hit the ground.
She'd been at this far too long to let four idiots take her down. She might be old enough to have grandchildren, but she hadn't lost her skills. And what had they done with Henry? He might annoy the holy hell out of her, but he was family, and if they touched one hair on his head, even after she killed them, she'd come back and chop them into pieces. She found her stomach lurching at the idea of Henry being killed by these men. He was ex-CIA, and before that Special Forces. She had known him since she was a little girl and he was the one constant in her life she could count on.
She shot the two men in front of her in the back of the neck, using the gun she'd taken from their fallen comrade. Mercenaries. Not very good ones. Whoever sent them probably viewed her as the least of their threats. A society woman. Mother of a bunch of playboys. Old. Damn it all, she wasn't that old. She wasn't twenty-five like Teresa Ventura, but she damn well refused to be old. She shot the driver just as he turned his head toward her, realizing his friends had stopped shooting.
She walked up carefully to each of the fallen men, checking to ensure they were dead. Her car was a mess. Blood all over the windshield and seat. She really liked that particular car. Another vehicle approached, lights flashing, and she knew that was Henry just by the way he drove. She was shocked at the relief she felt that he was alive. Her knees turned to rubber and she almost went down.
He jumped out of the car, a semiautomatic in one hand and a shotgun in the other. "You all right, Eloisa?" He was on her in seconds, kicking one of the bodies out of the way to get to her, running his hands over her to ensure she wasn't hurt.
"I'm fine," she assured.
There was a lump on his temple and another on the back of his head, both bleeding. She touched one of the cuts. It was deep and bleeding profusely. He'd come for her though. As hurt as he was, he'd come for her.
"You don't have your phone on you, Eloisa." It was an accusation. "Ricco sent out a warning that the family was under attack. Everyone tried to reach you, but you didn't cue in the code that you got the message."
She'd left her phone on her nightstand. Purposely. She knew Phillip well enough to know exactly what he'd intended when he left. He was going to try to break it off with his latest mistress and she'd get the call to come and help him. She wasn't doing it. Not again. Not ever again. Especially if the woman was twenty-five to her sixty.
"I know, Henry."
"Damn it, Eloisa, you know better. And where the hell are your bodyguards?"
She'd dismissed them. She'd been worried about her children since Vittorio had been put in the hospital and she wanted them to double up on her sons. Tomas Abatangelo was to stay and guard her while his brother Cosimo went with Giovanni and Taviano. She had thought to stay in and decided it was better the two went with her sons instead. They were so shorthanded, all the bodyguards were floating around from rider to rider. She'd pulled rank and they'd complied, because if they hadn't she would have been a real bitch and they knew it. She was good at that.
Stefano would have more leverage than ever against her now. He had decreed the entire family have bodyguards, but they were spread thin. Still, he was right. He was always right. She was proud
of him, yet at the same time, she resented him, especially the way he was with his siblings. His warmth. Francesca. All of it. He'd been raised in the same cold environment she had, yet he'd turned out so different.
"Who else checked in?" She looked at Henry with stricken eyes.
"There hasn't been time for any of them." When she kept staring at him, her eyes wet, he sighed. "The one thing you did for certain was to teach your children how to survive. How to take care of themselves. You have to trust in that now. We should get this done, Eloisa. We have to phone it in and, before the cops get here, try to get all identifying marks." He indicated one of the bodies and crouched beside another while he pulled out his phone. "I'm calling the police now. We have to do this fast."
"Phillip went to see that woman. He didn't have bodyguards." She had to say it, and the words clogged her throat. Humiliation turned her face red and she couldn't look at Henry. She didn't want to care. She really didn't, but she didn't want Phillip dead.
"Eloisa." Henry's voice went commanding. "Phillip chose his path. We have to get this done. He'll come through this or he won't, but we need to know who is attacking our family."
She liked that. Liked that he thought of the Ferraro family as his own. His familiar bossy tone steadied her and she pushed aside the thought of her children or Phillip being in danger and went down beside one of the bodies.
They examined them for identifying markers. Their clothes, their wallets. Cigarettes. They took pictures of faces, of shoes, the patterns on the boots. They were meticulous gathering information. The family had members in all walks of life and face recognition software was available to them. They took fingerprints for the same reason.
"Enough," she said. "I have to start cleaning you up, Henry, or the cops will wonder why I didn't." In truth, she couldn't stand seeing him bloody and battered. But he'd come for her when she needed him. He always had.
*
Stefano Ferraro stretched. It had been a long night. Vittorio had lost a lot of blood. Just sitting in the chair beside his bed brought back very unpleasant memories of Ricco's accident. He'd been there at the track. He'd watched his brother's car go into the wall and break apart, metal flying everywhere, flames rising in every direction. He had lost his breath. For one moment the man who could never be anything but strong had lost his ability to move or think.
Ricco had survived, although he was still having headaches and vision problems. He tried to hide them, but Stefano knew him too well. The doctors had assured Stefano that Vittorio, at least, would be as good as new very soon. Behind his chair, Francesca put her hands on his shoulders and began a slow massage, easing the tension from him. She hadn't asked him to go home and rest. She knew he wouldn't. He'd been taking care of his younger siblings since he was a little boy himself and would never be able to rest until he knew they were out of danger and able to take care of themselves.
He'd been uneasy for the last few hours, and it bothered him. Mostly he'd been turning over and over in his mind the things Ricco had told him about his stay in Japan. Was that tied to the attack on Vittorio? Had the target been Nicoletta? It wasn't Stefano's way to sit idly by while someone attacked his family. He'd already sent for members of the International Council, laying out exactly what had happened to Ricco and the truth of the deaths of the Tanaka family as well as what he expected from the council. Still, the nagging in his gut just didn't want to go away.
"I'm going to go for coffee," he said. "Vittorio? Francesca?" The coffee was disgusting and both Vittorio and Francesca looked at him like he was crazy. Francesca stuck her head around his shoulder to give him her "are you nuts?" look.
He laughed, patted her hand and then stood and stretched. "It's better than nothing."
"No, it isn't," Francesca denied. "I think they deliberately make it that bad so no one wants to stick around."
He leaned in to brush a kiss over her temple. Just looking at her made him happy. She could soothe him when he was raging, and had no problem letting him know when his innate bossiness was out of control. She was everything to him. Everything. He'd insisted she come with him to the hospital after the attack to keep her from going to work. It was underhanded, but that nagging feeling of unease in his gut had him taking extra precautions with his treasured and very necessary other half.
He walked to the door, stopped and turned back, deliberately going to the opposite side of the bed from his wife. She was already digging through her pack to get out the food for Vittorio she'd brought. She didn't want him eating the hospital food. Vittorio raised an eyebrow but didn't say a word when Stefano leaned down and removed a concealed revolver from his boot and slid it under the covers into his brother's hand.
He caught his brother around his neck and leaned in. "Love you, Torio. You guard her for me. You know what she is to me."
"To us," Vittorio corrected. "Love you, too, man."
They had never had problems stating how they felt to one another. Stefano had initiated that early, when they were just children. He wasn't about to let them enter the shadow tubes without knowing they were loved.
"Is something wrong?" Francesca asked, her eyes on his face.
She was intelligent and quick. She knew him. His every mood. He flashed her a smile because she always made him smile, even when she was as stubborn as hell. "No, baby, just taking precautions. You know me. Security is never good enough. I'm sending Drago into the room while I'm gone. I'll take Demetrio with me." Even as he stated it, he realized he wouldn't. He hadn't meant to lie to her. When he said it, he meant it, but that strange feeling in his gut was getting worse. He'd leave Demetrio at the door, just to be on the safe side.
Francesca nodded, but there was suspicion in her eyes. She went around the bed to intercept him before he made it to the door, planting her body right in front of him. "Stefano, you know, as much as I'm your world, you're mine. Don't take risks. We're going to be fine in here. Take Demetrio with you."
She kept looking up at his face. Dio, he loved her.
"Please."
He cupped the side of her face in his palm, his thumb sliding over her smooth skin, feeling love eating him alive. "For you, Francesca, but you do what Drago and Vittorio tell you."
"I will."
He heard his heartbeat, drumming for her. Needing her. Finding her rhythm. He glanced at his brother and then turned abruptly and stalked out of the room. Demetrio and Drago both came to attention as he closed the door. Cousins, they had taken up bodyguarding for the family, following their stint in the service. Both were quick, he'd trained with them several times to get a feel for their abilities. They were younger than Emilio and Enzo, the acknowledged leaders of their protection unit.
"I've got a bad feeling," he told them. "Drago, you stay right here. If trouble comes, get inside the room and shoot anything coming through the door. You get me?"
Drago nodded. Stefano started to tell Demetrio to come with him, but something made him hesitate. He'd told Francesca he'd take Demetrio, but protecting Vittorio and Francesca were far more important to him.
"Gotta go with you, Stefano," Demetrio said, seeing his hesitation. "Whatever your gut is saying, mine is saying the same thing. Get pissed. Don't care. Just doing my job."
His cousin was a pain in the ass and had been trained by Emilio. He was a mini-Emilio, and just to tweak him, Stefano felt like saying so. In a way, he wanted both guards staying in the hospital room because he wanted them protected as well. They were too damned young to die. He sighed. "Suit yourself. I'm just getting coffee."
"Got some in my thermos," Drago said. "Wouldn't drink the poison they serve here for anything."
"Thanks. I need to stretch my legs." And get a feel for the floor they were on. He didn't want any last-minute surprises.
He started down the hall toward the nurses' station where a bank of vending machines rested against a long wall. Demetrio trailed after him. That was another thing that annoyed the holy hell out of him. Demetrio and Drago were family, his c
ousins. He liked them. The last thing he wanted was for either to die from a bullet intended for him. The least the man could do was walk with him, but if Stefano said anything to him, Demetrio would shrug his shoulders and just do what Emilio ordered him to do.
Since when did Emilio's orders take precedence over his? He sighed. Always. Emilio was damned good at his job and he made certain that the others on the shadow rider detail were just as good.
He was thirty feet from the elevator when it dinged, the arrow lighting up above it. The doors slid open. Two doctors wearing scrubs and identifications stepped off, talking to each other. One turned his head to look at Stefano. Their eyes met. Stefano felt every cell in his body react. Recognition was there--not of whom but of what. This man was no doctor. He was a hitman--a very experienced one--and he was there for the Ferraros. Simultaneously, Stefano's phone vibrated, the code from Ricco that alerted them to an impending attack.
Recognition that his subterfuge was blown was in the hitman's eyes--Stefano knew what he was doing there. The attacker yanked the other man, a genuine doctor, in front of him as a shield, even as he drew his weapon and fired all in one smooth move.
Stefano took that split second to shove Demetrio away from him. Simultaneously, he somersaulted across the room for the shelter of a crash cart. Not much cover, but as he did so, he fired several bullets, skipping them off the floor to drive the assassin back, hopefully into Demetrio's line of fire.
"Down, down. Get down," he yelled to the nurses and orderlies who had frozen with shock, some in the line of fire.
Horror blossomed on the doctor's face. His eyes were looking beyond Stefano. Stefano rolled, bringing up his Glock just as a second gunman emerged from the stairwell. He had to trust Demetrio to do his job. He turned to face the new threat, firing as he did so, driving him back behind the door.
Demetrio's gun barked several times, and the first attacker answered. Stefano chose a shadow near the stairwell, did another somersault, sending his weapon skidding across the floor toward Demetrio as the pull of the tube took him inside. This was narrow and steep, greased lightning, flinging him toward the small crack beneath the door.
Shadow Reaper Page 19
