Shadow Flight

by Christine Feehan

  “My mother gave this to me on my wedding day. Her mother gave it to her. You’re my daughter, so I’m giving it to you, and I hope when your daughter gets married you give it to her, and she treasures it the way I know you will.”

  Lucia looked into the jewelry box for a long moment and then lifted the piece out slowly. Nicoletta’s breath caught in her throat. She heard Emmanuelle gasp. The bracelet was a series of thin gold bangles held together by woven gold braided knots. The piece was to be worn from wrist to shoulder.

  Nicoletta didn’t know the first thing about jewelry, but just looking at it, she knew it was absolutely unique. Emmanuelle stepped closer to watch as Lucia slid the bangles up Nicoletta’s arm and tightened the knots. They were actually slipknots made of the finest thin gold.

  “That’s so clever,” Emmanuelle said. “That’s a genuine Italian piece from the earliest craftsmen. Lucia, it’s worth a fortune.”

  “It was my grandmother’s. And then my mother’s,” Lucia reminded in her gentle way as she turned each bangle on Nicoletta’s arm until she was satisfied the gold enhanced the perfection of her skin. “I wore this same bracelet, and now our girl is wearing it. To loosen each bangle, you simple pull the slipknot, see, Nicoletta?” She demonstrated with the last tiny braided knot.

  Nicoletta should have protested wearing it, let alone accepting it. A piece of jewelry in such pristine condition from so long ago, crafted by Italian jewelers for wealthy patrons, was only seen in museums and then, rarely. But this was Lucia’s, and it was given to her from the heart, handed down from mother to daughter. The gesture was huge, and the meaning behind it even greater. She never wanted to take the bracelet off.

  “Thank you, Lucia. I’ll treasure this incredible gift always, and when my daughter weds, she will wear it,” she vowed.

  Nicoletta wrapped her arms around Lucia again and gently hugged her. Lucia always seemed delicate to her, a fragile flower, yet she’d lost two children and she remained standing straight, loving her husband, supporting him through every difficult time. She had a backbone of steel, just as Nicoletta’s birth mother had. Nicoletta was going to maintain that same backbone and make certain her children—boys or girls—did the same. She wanted Lucia and Amo close to be grandparents to her children, to be the amazing examples they were.

  “I made certain to show Taviano the piece so he could match the gold with your earrings and necklace,” Amo pointed out, to keep the women from bursting into tears again.

  Nicoletta turned back to the mirror to look at herself. Immediately her gaze was drawn to the golden circles going up her arm, complementing her skin. The ivory silk sheath dress could have been planned around the piece. The sheer duster, with its peekaboo shoulders and wispy sheer lace, looked as if it had been made specifically to be worn with the bracelet.

  Even the tiara she wore in her hair with the chocolate diamonds had the same Florentine gold woven around the glittering gems.

  Emmanuelle beamed at her. “You truly are beautiful. I can’t wait for my brother to see you coming down the aisle to him.”

  The door opened and Grace leaned in. She beckoned to Lucia and Emmanuelle. “Everyone is waiting. We don’t want them to get restless, and if we’re not on time, Taviano will panic and come looking for Nicoletta.” She stopped to really look at her newest sister-in-law. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”

  Emmanuelle took Lucia’s arm. “She does, doesn’t she? We don’t want to panic Taviano by being late.”

  Lucia blew Nicoletta kisses and walked with Emmanuelle out of the room. Grace glanced at her watch. “I’ll come get you in a couple of minutes.” She closed the door, leaving Nicoletta alone with Amo.

  “I’m so nervous, Amo, and I don’t even know why. Technically, I’m already married to him. He took my ring back.” She rubbed her finger. It felt bare without her ring. “Even without his ring, I’m still married to him. I shouldn’t be nervous, but look at this.” She held out her hand to show him her trembling fingers.

  Amo took her hand and kissed her fingers. “You’ve never liked to be the center of attention, vita mia. That is why you have these nerves, not because you are having second thoughts. You would marry Taviano a hundred times.”

  She would. She knew she would. More. He would always be her choice. She nodded. “You’re so right. I love him more than life itself.”

  “I feel that way about Lucia. I always have, and nothing has ever happened through the years to make me feel any differently.” Amo guided her hand and put her fingers in the crook of his arm. “Always remember, this is your marriage. Your partnership. No one else knows what is between you. Keep that sacred and have each other’s backs at all times. Put each other first, and I promise you, Nicoletta, if you both do that, you will have what Lucia and I have had, and it is good.”

  Throughout her time living under Amo’s roof, when he imparted advice, it was always in the simplest of terms, and yet upon examination, she had continuously found his guidance to be profound. “Thank you. I’ll remember. You look very handsome in your suit. I forgot to tell Lucia how elegant and beautiful she looks.”

  “The Ferraro boys didn’t forget,” Amo said, with mock annoyance. “They try to steal her out from under me.”

  Nicoletta laughed. “You always say that. I love that you do. You make her smile no matter what she’s thinking about at the time.”

  “A sense of humor is always of the utmost importance in a marriage.”

  She knew that it was. She’d seen Amo turn the worst situations around with his wonderfully timed humor.

  “Before we join the others, I just want to say one more thing, my beautiful girl. I couldn’t have asked for a better daughter. I know you would have preferred a quiet little wedding, without the photographer underfoot and all the many guests, but this big affair was Lucia’s dream for our daughter. You’ve become that for us—our daughter. She needed this dream to be fulfilled.”

  “I know she did,” Nicoletta agreed quietly. She had known.

  Lucia would have never voiced a single objection had Nicoletta held up her ring and stated she wasn’t going through a huge church wedding just to satisfy the curious masses. Lucia, more than once, had talked to her about the wedding she had dreamt of for her daughter. Choosing the dress together, the cake and bouquet, jewelry, all the planning. It was extremely important to Lucia, and therefore, it became important to Nicoletta. She could take being in the glow of that hot spotlight for a few hours for her foster mother.

  “Thank you,” Amo said simply.

  “I love you both very much,” Nicoletta said.

  Before Amo could reply, Grace pushed open the door, and at once they could hear the music signaling that the bridesmaids were to begin their walk down the aisle. She would have had Mariko stand up for her, and Taviano would have had Stefano, but since Lucia wanted a large wedding, there were several bridesmaids.

  Emmanuelle, Sasha and Grace were escorted down the aisle by Elie, Giovanni, and Vittorio. They looked elegant as only the Ferraros could, dressed in their suits and the long silk dresses. Following them were Pia, Bianca and Clariss, escorted by Ricco, Enzo and Demetrio. Bianca, especially, looked ecstatic. Enzo looked pretty happy as well.

  Nicoletta tightened her fingers on Amo’s arm as Mariko turned her head to look at her, sent her a serene smile and then started down the aisle.

  Her heart began to beat wildly. Amo patted her hand, and then they were walking through the double doors following Mariko. The entire church was filled with people, all on their feet. She didn’t see anyone. She was looking down that long white strip leading to the man standing at the end of it.

  Taviano was in a dark suit with the thinnest of stripes. He was so handsome he took her breath away, but then he always did. Mariko moved to one side, and Nicoletta had a clear vision of Stefano standing beside Taviano, but it was really only Taviano that she saw. His ey
es were on her. There was that look on his face, and she knew she had a matching one on hers. Love. Adoration. Taviano was her everything, and she was his.

  She felt the weight of the three generations of Italian gold bangles on her arm, proclaiming the love between the man and wife exchanging vows. She had that. She had that man, that family. It didn’t matter how difficult some of her trials and issues were and would be for the rest of her life, or the scars both Taviano and she bore, they had this amazing love and family to see them through.

  Amo kissed both of her cheeks and put her hand in Taviano’s. He closed his fingers firmly around hers as he stepped up beside her. Their eyes met, and she let herself get lost in his gaze, safe there through the ceremony that joined them together in front of their family and friends.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from the next novel

  in the Torpedo Ink series by Christine Feehan

  DESOLATION ROAD

  Available July 2020 from Jove

  Aleksei Absinthe Solokov loved books. He loved the smell of them. The sight of them. The information in them. He especially loved the places he could go in them. Books had saved his life on more than one occasion. He’d originally come to this place needing the quiet and peace, needing the scent and the words. And once again, books had led him to find something so unexpected, so spectacular, he still hadn’t accepted the offering, the gift, not quite believing yet, but he couldn’t walk away.

  He sat in his favorite place right in front of the tallest stacks. The table was smaller and less inviting, due to the crowded space. He didn’t like being disturbed. He came to the library to get respite from the continual bombardment of other people’s thoughts and emotions. He could command with his voice, and sometimes the temptation to tell everyone to not think or speak for five minutes was brutally hard to resist. He needed to feel normal when he wasn’t. He wanted to see if he could fit in somewhere but he knew he couldn’t. He needed to stand on his own but it was impossible.

  His small table, nearly hidden beside the taller stacks, not only protected him from unwanted company but gave him a direct view to the desk where the librarian checked out books, recommended reads and sometimes—make that often—helped teens with their homework. He had been coming for over a month. Six weeks to be exact. And he just watched her. Like a fucking stalker. The librarian. She was so damn sexy he was shocked that the place wasn’t overrun with single men—because she was single. He’d made it his business to find out.

  When he first came to the library, he hadn’t worn his colors. It was more to be anonymous than for any other reason—at least he told himself that. Sometimes he just got a feeling. Whenever it happened, he acted on it—and he’d had that feeling, the one that often saved his life, so he’d removed his colors and gone into the library, feeling a little naked without them.

  He didn’t want to be noticed, although he was covered in tattoos and scars that couldn’t be seen beneath the tee that stretched tight across his chest. Just his sleeves showed, those tattoos that meant something to him but wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else. Memorials to his lost family and the children that hadn’t survived that nightmare he’d lived through.

  Now, he still didn’t wear his colors for the same reason, although he felt like a fraud, because he was Torpedo Ink. His club colors were tattooed onto his back, but it was more than that. His identity went beyond skin and sank right into bone. He knew with absolute certainty that he couldn’t live without his club, nor would he want to. Torpedo Ink was his identity. His life. His family—brothers and sisters—and their lives were bound together irrevocably.

  They were woven together like an old tapestry, and nothing could take them apart, and yet he felt as if he had betrayed them. Skulking away. The members rarely went off alone, certainly not daily for six weeks. And they didn’t go six weeks without wearing their colors. It wasn’t done. He might as well have gone naked. He didn’t know why he kept this place to himself . . .

  He did though. It was the librarian. The little redhead. She moved like poetry. Flowing like words across the pages of a book. One moment she could be a lady in a historical novel, taking the hand of a gentleman and gracefully emerging from a carriage, the next, a modern-day woman striding down the busy street in a business suit with her briefcase. Or a sexy librarian dressed in a pencil-straight skirt that hugged her curves and gave him all kinds of very dirty and graphic thoughts, like bending her over that desk of hers when the rest of the world went away.

  Still, that feeling of staying anonymous, of keeping his identity secret so that no one had a clue what or who he was, persisted while he unraveled the mystery of the woman who ran the library so efficiently.

  * * *

  * * *

  He was back. Oh. My. God. The most gorgeous man in the entire world and he just walked in off the street like he owned the place. Like the library was his home and gorgeous men came in every single day. He was tall with broad shoulders and a thick chest and arms. Really great arms. Muscles. Really great muscles. Scarlet Foley spent a lot of time perving on his muscles. And all those delicious tattoos. Who knew she’d fall for tattoos when she’d never been all that fond of them?

  He had thick blond hair, a lot of it, and it spilled across his forehead, making her fingers itch to smooth it back. His eyes were very different. Blue. But not. More crystal blue. But not. Like two really cool crystals. She couldn’t decide. When she wasn’t perving on his muscles or fixating on his fascinating mouth, she was definitely wondering how to describe his eyes, and she was really good with words as a rule.

  She knew she shouldn’t be around him. He left her breathless and tongue-tied. If she had girlfriends, she would be over at their houses every night after work so she could share the mythical pictures she would secretly sneak of him like a crazy stalker. They would have dropped by the library to see him and giggled like schoolgirls.

  Instead, she acted the part of the librarian. Dignified. Hiding behind the glasses she didn’t really need. She had that role down perfectly. No giggling. No snapping contraband pictures to stare at in the middle of the night and fantasize over and pretend she might actually have some sort of love life. Or worse, get out every single toy known to single women, which wouldn’t even help because he was too gorgeous and nothing was ever going to match the real thing. But as long as he kept coming to her library, she was going to do some daydreaming. No one could take that away from her.

  He liked science fiction. He read psychology books. Not self-help books but the real thing, industry books. He also read a lot of obscure reference books on the pyramids of Egypt. The building of them. She knew because she watched his every move, and sometimes she helped him find the books he wanted. Up close, he smelled like cedarwood, and at night, when she was alone, she couldn’t get that scent out of her mind. She knew she would always associate it with him. Man. Muscles. And sex. Worse.

  Yes. It did get worse because she’d looked down his body. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t meant to. She’d practiced keeping her eyes up on his chest. But she handed him the book and her gaze just dropped and there it was . . . in all its glory. Hard as a rock. The full ultra-impressive package. So now she had it all to take to bed with her. And quite frankly it sucked that the man wasn’t in bed with her as well.

  He would ask her for help in finding a particular book, and when he asked, his voice was mesmerizing. Velvet soft. She swore she felt the sound sliding over her skin. Stroking her. An actual physical sensation. A little shiver always slid down her spine and a very inappropriate flutter in her sex accompanied that shiver. Now that she knew what he had, her wayward gaze strayed often, and her panties went damp more than they should have. She had no respect for herself. None. But that didn’t stop her.

  She’d never had that kind of reaction to any man, not in college and not when she’d traveled to other countries. His voice was always pitched low, very soft, but it was commanding, and
she heard a little twist of his words, as if he had an accent under the English pronunciation, but she couldn’t place it. She’d never heard a voice like his before, and she’d traveled extensively. He was very much a gentleman, and yet he gave off an extremely dangerous vibe. She’d been around dangerous men, and she would have placed him right there with them, but she didn’t know why. He seemed as if he’d be more at home in a suit and tie than casual clothes. And he wore his clothes like a model.

  She had a lot of time—too much time—to think about him when she went home from the library and sat alone in her reading chair, surrounded by her books and little else. He was the fastest speed reader she’d ever seen in her life, and she knew he was for real. At first she thought he was faking his ability to read that fast, but then she realized after some time that he was clearly reading the books and must be comprehending what he was reading.

  She was impressed. She’d taken several speed-reading courses and, in the end, had gone with the advice of the fastest reader in the world, learning from his books. She picked up things fast; she always had. The more time spent, the faster she learned. It was a gift she had, and she used it often, which made it all the more readily available to her.

  She’d made certain to touch him. The first time had been a brief brush of their fingers as she handed him a book. Frankly, she hadn’t been certain if he’d made that initial contact or if she had, but she would never forget it as long as she lived. The spark had gone up her finger to every nerve ending in her body, spreading like a wildfire, bringing her to life as if she’d been asleep—or dead—her entire life and it had taken him to wake her up.

  She had been dead. She’d chosen to be dead. She’d shoved the woman in her aside out of necessity and become what she had to be. Now she was simply surviving. Until he walked in. She had no idea what to do with him—but she wanted him. She’d sworn she would never—not ever—go there again. Put herself in a situation where the dark things inside of her had a chance to escape. She’d seen the results of that, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him . . . wanting him.