Teresa Ventura smirked to herself as she pulled on the long gloves, all the while watching herself in the mirror. Her plan was getting closer to fruition. She hadn’t thought it would take so long, nor did she think she would like it so much, but Phillip Ferraro was nearly in her net.
For an older man, he wasn’t half bad. He certainly had all the moves and put her up in the best of places. Her high-rise apartment had a fantastic view of the city and anyone living there was treated as if they were made of money. The jewelry he bought her was worth a fortune. Now, all she had to do was convince him to get rid of his wife and marry her. She’d have the entire fortune.
“Teresa. What are you doing in there?”
She liked the impatience in his voice. He was always so eager to see her. “I’ve got a surprise for you, honey,” she called back and then winked at herself in the mirror.
She looked good. Better than good. Her thigh-high stockings were sheer black. Her garters, sexy lacy black. She had a great figure. She’d learned in high school the benefits of working out and looking fantastic. Switching on the music, she found the rhythm and danced out of her bedroom.
She was good at dancing. She’d gotten a job in a strip bar and made a ton of money dancing, but it wasn’t nearly as lucrative as this venture could be. She began a bump and grind, going to the floor, coming back up again, slowly stripping the glove from her right arm and hand.
Phillip stood in the middle of the room, just where he’d been when she’d danced in. He looked stunned. Good. It was time to step things up. They’d hit a plateau and she needed to up the ante so he’d do his part.
Phillip watched Teresa’s striptease from the center of the room. He’d come to tell her it was over. He’d use Eloisa, of course; it always worked when you convinced a mistress that your wife was psycho and capable of anything. He was merely trying to protect his beloved by leaving her. He always left his mistresses happy, weeping but happy with the money he settled on them.
He could appreciate a good striptease, and Teresa had always been excellent. He’d first seen her at a strip bar. She had a good body and a mouth on her that wouldn’t quit, but he was bored out of his mind. He was getting too old for this, and Eloisa was getting ready to dump him. He read the signs easily. She’d gone from hurt to angry to indifferent, and now there was a new resolve in her.
Eloisa. Right from the beginning, he’d manipulated her into believing he loved her. Over the years, he found, to his shock, that just might be true. Phillip’s phone buzzed annoyingly. He didn’t bother to answer it. It was probably the bodyguards. He’d given them the slip to come here, but he’d be back soon. Eloisa was making noises about being on alert, but that was just silly. He was a rider and no one could find him in the shadows.
“Phillip!” Teresa reclaimed his attention. She pouted beautifully. “You aren’t watching and I did all this for you.”
All what? Put on her working clothes? He was damn tired of lies. His lies. His mistresses’ lies. Did Teresa really think she was the only woman he had? Or that he would put her above Eloisa? The phone buzzed again, and sighing, he reached into his pocket.
Something thunked hard against the window. It was so loud the sound drowned out the music. He glanced up, and Teresa stopped her dance in mid-grind. The thick glass spider-webbed out from a single source right in the center as if something large had hit it. Maybe a bird. As both stared, a little in shock, two men rappelling from the roof kicked in the window with their heavy boots, shattering the glass and sending shards exploding through the room like missiles. Both had automatic weapons and wielded them with ease, obviously from long practice.
Red and orange spray erupted from the muzzles and Phillip went over backward. He saw Teresa on the floor, her body looking like a broken rag doll, stained bright red. He looked down at his chest. Nothing registered. Not pain. He wasn’t certain what had happened. A shadow fell across him and he looked up to see a man with a gun standing over him. The man lifted the gun and aimed it right at his face. A thousand regrets rushed through his mind, the main one Eloisa.
He was a selfish man, a womanizer, and the shadows represented a way for him to carry out his affairs. He’d never once been decent to Eloisa. He knew what she went through, she’d tried to open up to him, tried to make their marriage real, but he had only thought about the fun he could have. Even after they lost their son, Ettore, and Eloisa had needed him, he had turned away from her. He regretted that. He regretted so many things.
I’m dead and I never told her I loved her. He attempted to rise, but he couldn’t feel his legs or arms. He could only watch as the man slowly squeezed the trigger and then there was nothing.
*
The party was in full swing at the Windship Club, one of the most prestigious in Chicago. The event was all about wining and dining the local celebrities so they’d write fat checks for the latest charity Windship was backing. Taviano and Giovanni Ferraro knew it really was about the women, drugs and drink. Vittorio lay in a hospital bed, cut up all to hell, and they were supposed to be snorting coke off a woman’s belly, drinking champagne and taking the women into the next room for a quick blow job, or worse, having one crawl under the table and go for it right there in the plush lounge.
Harvey Windship was a sick prick with far too much money. Taviano had never liked the man and Giovanni had a terrible aversion to him. More than once throughout the last hour, Taviano had to be the one to restrain his brother when Giovanni wanted to kick Harvey’s ass–and Taviano was known for his bad temper. He couldn’t wait to see his brothers and point out just which Ferraro had had to be the peacekeeper.
Laughter erupted all around them and Taviano made certain to put a fake smile on his face. He was good at that. All the Ferraros were. They played out their lives in front of the paparazzi. Very early they learned the art of smiling at parties they didn’t enjoy, surrounded by people who weren’t their friends.
Harvey flung his cut crystal glass into the fireplace and laughed loudly as it shattered, the remaining alcohol making the flames flare for just a moment. “Gina, get over here,” he called.
His wife giggled drunkenly and obeyed, her stiletto heels clicking loudly on the marble floor. She teetered and then fell into her husband’s lap when he grabbed her wrist and yanked her down to him. “Having a good time, honey?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.
Harvey was a drunk. He liked his booze, and the more he drank the more amorous he got. He thought of himself as a player, although Taviano knew he genuinely loved his wife. It was his one saving grace. He put on lavish parties and raised millions of dollars for charity, so he wasn’t all bad. It was just that his parties were . . . disgusting. Everyone attended of course. The cream of Chicago. Mostly, Taviano was certain, to see what Harvey would do next.
This party was the most garish of all. His wife liked furs so, to thumb his nose at those protecting wildlife, he had decorated the entire club in big-game trophies and real fur rugs and throws. It turned Taviano’s stomach just a little, and when Harvey suggested to one of the girls to “do Giovanni” on the leopard skin rug in front of the fireplace, he almost let Gee hit the man. Instead, both laughed, playing their roles for the press. Giovanni declined and they wandered away to give themselves a respite from the man.
Now they were back in the lounge, once again seated in the plush chairs. “Have to go, Harv,” Giovanni said. “Vittorio is in the hospital and we’re each taking shifts with him.” That was a lie and then it wasn’t.
Stefano never left the hospital and wouldn’t until Vittorio was completely out of danger, but the others came and went. They took care of business while Stefano and Vittorio were out of commission. Still, it was a good excuse and one Harvey would accept. The man was just drunk enough that he might make a scene, and that was the last thing either of the Ferraro brothers wanted.
Both men stood and Harvey tried to get to his feet, too, pushing his wife off his lap. She fell on the floor, landing on her butt. Harvey laughed, subsiding in his chair, his eyes on his wife as she struggled into a full sitting position, her legs sprawled out in front of her. She glared at her husband, who pointed and laughed more.
“Come on, Harvey,” Taviano said in resignation. “You don’t want to get locked out of your bedroom for a week, do you?” He leaned down to extend his arm to Gina.
Giovanni stepped forward as their two bodyguards turned toward the door where four men had attempted to enter but were stopped by the bouncers. They wore ill-fitting suits and long trench coats over the cheap material.
Two men in the chairs closest to Harvey snickered. “Look at those clowns. Think they can crash the party.”
Simultaneously, Giovanni’s and Taviano’s phones vibrated in the complicated pattern Taviano had devised to alert each of his brothers when an attack on a family member was imminent or happening. Taviano was already leaning down. He dove toward the shadows under the coffee table, slamming Gina back down to the floor with one ruthless arm hooked around her neck.
Tomas and Cosimo Abatangelo, first cousins and bodyguards for the Ferraro family, both shoved Giovanni toward the shadows as they turned, pulling weapons, putting their bodies between the riders and the threat.
Gunfire erupted as the four men pulled automatics from under their coats and sprayed the room with bullets. Screams, cries of agony and the sounds of shattering glass along with the thundering roar of guns filled the room. Tomas leapt for the thick lounge chair as he fired at the man on the outside of the group. Fire raced up his leg and chest as holes blossomed there. He saw his target fall as he hit the floor.
His brother, Cosimo, landed hard just feet from him, his weapon still barking. The assailants separated, came around from all sides, clearly looking for the Ferraros, who were long gone. Tomas stared at the ceiling, waiting for the bullet that would end his life. Cosimo’s gun had gone silent, and Tomas could hear him struggling for air, his lungs laboring.
When they couldn’t find their targets, the three remaining men turned and hurried out of the club into the parking lot. In the distance was the sound of sirens. Clearly several people had called 911 from their cell phones to report the attack and they’d done it very quickly. The assailants raced toward their van. The driver brought the vehicle beside them, the sliding door open. One by one they dove inside, rolled to make room for the next one and sat up.
“Move this thing, Danny,” Brady, the acknowledged leader, yelled, slamming the door shut.
He turned back to see Sean, the youngest of them, lying still on the floor of the van. He kicked at him with his foot. “What the hell. You hit?”
Terry turned his head to observe his younger brother, Sean. He crawled over to him. “Get going, Danny,” he added his command to Brady’s. “The cops will be here any second.” He leaned down to listen for a heartbeat and straightened up quickly. “Shit. He’s dead. I didn’t even see him take a hit.” He scrambled away from his brother until his back hit the wall.
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 cousins. 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.
He hit the stairway so fast that he nearly flipped over the bannister. It hit him hard in the belly, doubling him in half. His head went down toward the floors below, the movement drawing the gunman’s attention. The attacker fired several rounds rapidly but the stairwell was lit by bright lights, allowing the stairs themselves to cast shadows.
Stefano flung himself toward one, leaping over the rail, aimed right at it. He hit feetfirst and slid on his knees before swinging around onto his butt. The hitman sprayed bullets through the shadows, up and down and across. Stefano went down to his belly, still moving fast, the sensations horrifying, as if his chest were flying apart and his legs and arms hadn’t caught up with him. He’d never been in a tube that moved so fast.
Bullets hit all around him, two kissed his arm and shoulder. He had to do something fast. The shadow curved up the wall behind the gunman. He followed it to the end, leapt out, tackling the man, knocking him down the stairs, kicking the gun from his hand as he did so.
He kicked, first the man’s unprotected head and then his throat, following as the body tumbled, not giving him a chance to recover. In a desperate attempt to save himself, the assassin slammed a knife into the stairs to stop his body from rolling farther down them.
He tried to jerk the blade from the metal to attack Stefano with it, but he was already on him, catching him in an arm lock around his head and applying steady pressure. The attacker drummed his heels into the stairs, trying to push himself up. He managed to get the blade free but was already beginning to lose consciousness. The moment he slumped, Stefano transferred his grip and wrenched, breaking the neck.
Dropping the body onto the stairs, he raced back up to the floor where he’d left Demetrio. As he shoved open the door, he saw the body of the gunman sprawled out with the same doctor that the attacker had used as a shield leaning over him. Demetrio flashed past him, running toward Vittorio’s room just as two shots rang out. Stefano took off after him.
For a moment Demetrio blocked his way, checking the room first before stepping aside. The body of a woman lay just inside the door to the hospital room, two gunshots to her head. A gun lay inches from her fingers. Stefano glanced down at her, his heart pounding as he stepped over her to peer into the room. Francesca sat next to Vittorio on the bed. Vittorio had his arm around her. His eyes met Stefano’s over her head.
“She’s good,” he assured. “We’re both good.”
“Who got her?” Stefano asked.
“We both did,” Drago said. “Vittorio was fast. Too fast for me to tell him I’d already pulled the trigger. You’re bleeding. You okay?”
Francesca was off the bed in a flash, rushing to his side. Stefano put his arm around her and pulled her under his shoulder, sheltering her against his heart. “I’m good, baby. Three dead and none of them ours. Ricco sent a warning. Has anyone heard from him?”
“He’s not picking up. Neither is Emilio or Enzo,” Vittorio said.
Francesca was fussing with his arm. “You need to get this looked at.”
“The cops are here,” Demetrio announced.
“I’ve called Vinci,” Stefano said. “Wait for him before you make any statements. The press is going to be all over this. They’ll make it out to be a war to take over someone’s territory. They portray us as criminals every chance they get. The family should brace for the possibility of being investigated.”
He wanted to get to his brothers and Emme, but he couldn’t leave without talking to the cops. His siblings weren’t answering their phones. He was going to have to get them to have another code to let the family know each was alive and well.
