Shadow Rider (11 page)

Francesca burst out laughing. Joanna had brought back fun into her life. She'd forgotten what fun was.

“I stopped by the deli and Zio told me Stefano had kidnapped you. It's so
romantic
. I have to admit, I stalked the two of you, just to see how things were going. The Ferraros always sit back here and it's hard to see them in the booth. They kind of disappear into the shadows. You did, too, so even though I bribed Berta with three dollars—that's all I had—
and
she's my friend—I couldn't get seated close enough to the two of you to eavesdrop. So not fair.” She picked up the wine bottle and read the label. “Oh. My. God. Of course he got you this. It's like the most expensive bottle I've ever heard of and there's not a drop left.”

Francesca handed over her wineglass immediately. “I've had too much. It really is that good. But so is the pie.”

“Tito and Benito are the
best
. You can totally have an orgasm eating their pizza. But if I'd been sitting that entire time with Stefano, I would have had, like, ten orgasms. He smolders with sex. He walks into a room and doesn't have to say or do anything.”

“His voice can do it, too,” Francesca confessed, and then covered her mouth. She'd had
way
too much wine to give that away.

Joanna laughed and then took a slow sip of the wine from Francesca's glass. Her eyes closed and she moaned. “I'm in heaven right now. This has been the
best
day.”

“Really? Aside from your perving on Stefano Ferraro, what else happened?”

“I got a call from”—Joanna leaned close for dramatic effect—“
Emmanuelle Ferraro
. Can you believe that?”

“Stefano's sister?”

Joanna nodded solemnly. “She's the baby in the family. Can you imagine having five big brothers like hers? All of them are like Stefano. Definitely in charge. She never dates, but then I don't think there's a man on earth who would dare try it. They'd probably disappear, never to be found.”

Francesca went still. “Joanna, seriously. You have to tell me the truth. Are the Ferraros a mafia family?” Because she actually
liked
Stefano. He'd given away so much about himself, and she liked what he'd given away.

Joanna glanced around the room. “It's not a good idea to talk about things like that, Francesca. Not ever. The Ferraros are different.”

“Joanna,” Francesca warned. “You're my friend. I'm not going to talk about it to anyone else. I'm talking to you.”

Joanna sighed, took another sip of wine and then shrugged. “I don't honestly know. They could be. I know they've been investigated but nothing was ever proved against them. The family is very powerful internationally and they have like a bazillion cousins. Not just here, but all over the United States and Europe. No one has ever found anything on them, but people are afraid of them. Not us. Not here in their territory, but others. I don't know,” she finished. “It's possible. Maybe even probable.”

Francesca sighed. It wasn't an answer. It was speculation. She knew better than anyone how rumors got started and became truth in everyone's mind. She wasn't going to do
that to anyone, believe gossip without proof. Still, she had to be wary.

“So tell me about Emmanuelle's phone call,” she prompted.

“She said Giovanni told her about how I couldn't get into their club and she wanted to personally invite me to go with her and her cousins. She said I could bring anyone I wanted along. I thought I could ask Mario Bandoni—you know, you met him. He manages the shoe store. I already mentioned it to him and he seemed receptive.” Her words tumbled over one another, and she leaned toward Francesca. “I've liked him forever. Even in elementary school. He was always so popular and I could never make myself make a play for him because I really, really liked him. I thought you could go and it wouldn't seem like I was asking him on a real date. Just casual, you know, a big crowd.”

“Joanna, if you're going with Emmanuelle and her cousins, that's already a crowd.” Francesca didn't want to let her down, but she couldn't go to a hot nightclub in her holey jeans.

“But not
my
crowd. I don't run in her circles, and neither does Mario. We're acquaintances, but not real friends. They aren't just rich, Francesca—they're ultrawealthy. I like them, but I'm not comfortable with them. I can't imagine that they're going to hang around with me in a nightclub. They'll be sitting in the VIP section and I'll be down on the floor, trying not to be tongue-tied with Mario.”

“Honey,” Francesca said softly. “You're never tongue-tied with men.”

A thread of unease crept through her and she glanced up to look around the restaurant. Her gaze collided with a man's. He was across the room, standing by the hostess booth. A shiver went down her spine. He was medium height, but powerfully built. Wide shoulders, a thick chest. He had the body of a prizefighter. He wore his hair cropped close. From the distance she couldn't tell the color of his eyes, but his mouth was set in a forbidding scowl. He looked vaguely familiar.

Berta said something to him and he instantly turned his attention to her, smiling down at her. Francesca sighed and
forced her gaze back to her friend. She was just being overly paranoid. She was hundreds of miles from California. No one knew where she was. She'd covered her tracks fairly well. She took a breath and turned her full attention back to Joanna, having missed her reply.

“What did you say?”

“I said, you've never seen me around a man I really, really like. I make a total fool of myself. Please, Francesca. Do this for me. I'll help find you something to wear. I can even help pay . . .”

“Don't,”
Francesca cautioned. “You've done enough for me. You want me to go, I'll find a way.” Hopefully she could find something decent at the thrift shop. If not, she might have to dip into the money Stefano had left with her and that would be humiliating. She wanted to return the money along with the coat when she saw him next.

“Thank you, Francesca. This means the world to me,” Joanna said happily.

“Are you ready? I have to retrieve Stefano's coat before your uncle closes up for the night.”

Joanna laughed again. “You and that coat.”

“Right? It's the bane of my existence.”

Francesca followed Joanna from the pizza parlor. Joanna called a greeting to several people and waved toward the kitchen as they made their exit. The boxer—as Francesca thought of him—seemed to be waiting for a to-go order. She kept her eye on him just in case, but he didn't appear to pay any more attention to her.

Emilio and Enzo lounged by the door, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes at them. They both grinned and put away their cell phones when she emerged.

“You cold?” Emilio asked.

She shook her head. Lying. The restaurant had been warm and the evening was very cool, but she knew if she admitted she was, Emilio would have whipped off his coat and then she'd be responsible for two of the darn things. Everyone seemed obsessed with her lack of a coat.

“Hey Emilio. Enzo,” Joanna greeted. “Out for a stroll again tonight?”

“Got orders, Jo,” Enzo said. “You two troublemakers decide you're going to rob the jewelry shop, we've got orders to stop you.”

“So not fair! I've had my eye on a diamond bracelet,” Joanna declared.

“Sorry, girl. You're going to have to give up that particular dream,” he said.

The door opened behind them and Francesca glanced over her shoulder. The boxer had emerged carrying a small box. He looked toward them and then abruptly turned the other way and walked unhurriedly down the street. When she turned back, Emilio was watching her. He raised his gaze to follow the man's departure.

“Someone you know?” he asked. Low. Lethal.

He sounded just that little bit like Stefano. Definitely a relative. She shook her head. “I'm just a little jumpy.” She touched her throat deliberately. The last thing she wanted was for Emilio to report an innocent man to Stefano. She didn't know what he might do, but she was leery. Until she knew what he was, criminal or just a very overprotective man, she was going to be very, very careful.

“We're walking with you, Francesca,” Emilio said. “No one is going to touch you.” She saw the weapon hidden in the shoulder holster beneath his jacket when he moved. Like his cousin, both men wore suits, although not pin-striped. They were attractive and dangerous looking. She had to admit she felt safe with them.

“Thanks. I didn't realize what a baby I've been until just now. I appreciate you taking the time.”

“Sei famiglia,”
he said.

She didn't touch that. They stopped at the deli and retrieved Stefano's coat. Emilio, a gentleman like his cousin, held it out for her to slip into. She drew it around her, very close, loving the warmth. Loving that it still held Stefano's
scent. Joanna remained at the deli with her uncle while the two men walked with her to her apartment.

Francesca liked that they walked to her building. She stopped outside of it. Until that moment, she hadn't been aware of just how different her building was from the ones they'd just passed. In the Ferraro neighborhood, all along the street where the businesses were, the buildings were immaculate, as were the sidewalks. Her apartment building was old and crumbling. Litter and debris were scattered everywhere along the walkway and, she knew, inside the building itself. Worse, it wasn't that difficult to spot a needle or two lying near the entrance to the alley that ran along the side of the building.

“This is good,” she said firmly, halting abruptly. “I can take it from here.”

“Got orders, Francesca,” Enzo said.

They even talked like Stefano, in clipped, abrupt sentences when she knew they had the best education possible from private, very expensive schools as well as tutors in the home. Joanna had given her the magazines to read, the ones that had tons of information regarding the Ferraro family with their fast cars and faster women.

“Take a risk. Live dangerously. Ignore them,” she advised.

Emilio reached above her head and pulled open the door. “That's not going to happen. You obviously don't know Stefano. He'd skin us alive if we took another chance with your safety. How come anyone can walk into this building?”

She sighed. “If you insist on coming upstairs with me, try not to sound like him. It's annoying.”

Truthfully, she hated walking into her apartment building, especially walking past the owner's apartment. She was always afraid he'd open the door, and he was . . . disgusting. She didn't feel in the least bit safe, but it was a step above sleeping on the street, her only alternative. There was something very creepy about the apartments. Oily and disgusting. She was fairly certain drug deals took place regularly both
inside and outside of the building. She'd already stepped on a needle that had been thrown on the stairs. Luckily she'd been in her new boots and not her holey shoes.

The place was poorly lit. The stairs were creaky and the carpet torn and shabby. The walls were dingy and smelled like smoke. Still, it was a roof. It was cheap. She needed both.

Her apartment was on the third floor. She unlocked it, and before she could say anything, Emilio gently set her aside and went in first. Enzo kept a hand on her shoulder to prevent her from moving as Emilio walked through her apartment. That had to be one of the most humiliating moments of her life. She didn't look at Emilio when he emerged. She knew what she'd see on his face.

He handed her the keys. “All clear. Lock the fucking door, Francesca, not that it will do you any good.”

Yep. He sounded just like his cousin. And he was unhappy.

S
tefano rode the shadows to Francesca's apartment building, his gut in knots, his rather famous temper held in check by a mere thread. He was furious. Beyond furious. Emilio had been tense, quiet, and very upset when he'd described the apartment Francesca resided in. He'd bit out the ugly description between clenched teeth, a muscle working hard in his jaw. There was a storm of fury gathered in his eyes.

The Ferraro neighborhood stopped just two small storefronts before her building. Their block ended and they paid little attention to the state of properties bordering them. They couldn't monitor the entire world, so they were careful not to interfere, other than to warn any criminal coming into their territory not to come back.

Why the hell had Joanna allowed her friend to get an apartment outside their territory?
He wanted to pay her a visit, yank her ass out of her comfortable bed in her safe home and demand the reason. It was fucking bullshit to allow Francesca in harm's way while Joanna was taking advantage of the Ferraro protection.

Joanna knew where the borders were. Francesca didn't. Joanna knew that anyone living in their neighborhood was protected inside their borders and would be watched over and avenged if anything happened outside of them. Francesca was vulnerable where she was. Joanna knew that. The moment she heard Stefano claim Francesca as his, she
should have insisted her friend move within the borders or at least come to him and tell him the situation. Anything could have happened to her.

Emilio had been very uneasy just entering the apartment building. Everyone in the Ferraro family was born with a psychic gift. Most weren't shadow riders, but they were sensitive to the world around them. If Emilio said something was wrong in that building, there was no question that he was right.

Stefano stepped from the tube and waited until the car glided up, hovering at the curb, Taviano behind the wheel. He could have caught the ride with his younger brother, but he had needed to be alone. He was far angrier at himself than he'd ever been in his life. His first duty was to Francesca. He should have ensured her safety before anything else—even a job. Without her, there would be no future generations.

The Ferraro family needed her to survive.
He
needed her. Now that he knew of her existence, it was all he could think about. His own woman. He'd never really believed he would find her. To have her just show up, walk right through his territory, her shadow reaching for his, connecting so strongly with his that the jolt had felt like a lightning bolt flashing through his entire body.

He took a deep breath and tried to let some of the anger go. He would need to keep his foul temper under control to get her to cooperate. If Emilio lost his temper looking at this place, Stefano was fairly certain he'd lose his mind. She wasn't staying—and there was going to be retribution.

There was no keypad on the outer wall beside the door. Anyone could enter, not just the residents. No safety features whatsoever. His gut tightened and his jaw clenched. With controlled violence, Stefano yanked open the door and stepped inside the building. He stopped just inside, taking a deep breath as he looked around him. The lighting was very dim, only a few of the overhead lightbulbs actually working. The elevator was to his left. It looked like a death trap. The stairway
was to his right, and that didn't look much better. Again, the lighting was poor. Half of the stairs appeared to be in the dark.

Enzo slid out of the murky darkness, coming from around the corner. Renato and Romano Greco, in their distinctive dark suits, the dark purple ties indicating to their family they were investigators, possessing the ability to hear lies, lounged near the door to the first apartment. Giovanni approached from the far corner. He didn't look happy.

Renato gestured toward the door. “He's in there. Name's Bart Tidwell. He's got a rap sheet you wouldn't believe. Inherited the building from his daddy. The daddy was just as fucked up as he is.”

“What kind of rap sheet?” Stefano asked, knowing just by his gut instinct he wasn't going to like it. He didn't need the look of utter distaste on either of his cousins' faces.

“B and E, multiple counts. Armed robbery. More importantly, he's a sex offender. Two counts of aggravated rape. Served time on one of them. Several arrests after that, but every time since then the charges have been dropped. Stefano, each time, the alleged rape occurred in his building,” Romano warned. “He fancies himself a fighter, ex-boxer, and he likes to go to bars and beat the shit out of people. Again, the charges are always dropped.”

“He have family? Someone who would put pressure on the witnesses or victim for him?” Stefano asked.

“We're still digging. The only person in his life that appears to be constant is his lawyer.” He glanced at his watch. “Facts are still coming in.
Mamma e papa
are still working that angle. Stefano, the lawyer is Adamo Bergenmire. He's the head lawyer for the Saldi family.”

There was a small silence. “Damn it,” Enzo said softly. “We should have known that fucking family would be involved.”

Stefano shrugged. “We've already got a feud going with them. We have had for centuries. What the hell difference will it make if we piss them off again? I'm happy to stick it to them any chance we get. It's not like the old days, Giovanni, when
they could wipe out all of us in one shot. We got smart. They can't get to all of us and they know it. They order a hit and someone's going to be slitting their throats right in their bedrooms.”

“We don't retaliate like they do, killing every man, woman and child,” Renato said. “Don't have it in us and they know it.”

Stefano nodded. “But we've retaliated enough that the bosses fear us. They aren't going to come after us because there's a connection between Tidwell and the Saldi family. Hell, they'll probably be happy to get rid of the pain in their ass. Let's pay him a little visit.” Stefano glanced at Enzo. “You have men upstairs?”

“Do you need to ask? I called in half our crew to protect her. Ricco's watching her door personally. Had a couple of nonresidents on the floor, but they left when they saw us. We weren't trying to be invisible.” He sounded as grim as Stefano felt.

Romano knocked on the owner's apartment door. Hard. Controlled anger in the sound. Within a minute the door was flung open, the occupant cursing at them. He was a big man, bald, with roped muscles and a scowl meant to intimidate. He wore jeans and a wifebeater. There was a beer in his hand.

Stefano stepped into him, delivering a short, hard punch into the belly, and the man folded. Stefano walked him backward into the apartment, his men coming in behind him. Enzo closed the door and stood against it while Romano prowled through the apartment to ensure they were alone.

The room was messy, beer bottles everywhere. It stank of a combination of cigarettes and weed.

“You're going to want to take a look at this, Stefano,” Romano said, poking his head out of the room at the far end of the apartment.

Stefano skirted around Tidwell and glanced into the bedroom. There was a bank of screens set up along one wall. Each screen showed an occupant's bedroom. A recorder displayed a green light beneath each screen, clearly spying on
the women dressing, undressing, bringing in men and performing various sexual acts meant to be strictly private. Rows of labeled home-recorded DVDs were on the shelves.

Stefano immediately suspected this was why the charges of rape had been dropped. Tidwell showed his victims tapes and threatened to put them on the Internet. The third screen from the left showed Francesca asleep on a sleeping bag in the corner of the room, her long hair spread across a pillow. There was no furniture in the room at all. His coat hung on a single hanger above her head. In the opposite corner was a small bag. He presumed her clothes were in it.

He ran his fingers along the DVDs, finding the latest ones, the recordings labeled
Francesca
. He shoved one in the player and watched as Francesca walked through her door. She turned and pressed the lock and looked around the empty room. She was in his coat. His stomach settled just a little, feeling as if she at least had that protection. Very carefully she shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the only hanger. She stood in front of it, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles, her hands lingering. He liked that. Too much. His gut tightened. She looked vulnerable. Sad. His heart clenched. She pulled her blouse over her head and very carefully folded it, standing in her bra and jeans. Rage ripped through him.

Bart Tidwell had watched his woman undress and shower. He'd violated her privacy. Invaded her home. Swearing, Stefano watched as she stepped into the shower to start the water. Her hands went to the back of her bra and he switched the video off. Gathering up everything that said
Francesca
, including the one still recording, he caught up one more that he was certain depicted a rape—just in case he had no choice but to prove to Francesca he was telling the truth when he took her the hell out of there. He had a feeling she'd resist, and he wasn't about to let her stay.

Stefano bit out several ugly words, ripped the cord from the wall and slammed the screen to the floor. It shattered with a loud crash. “I want all of these DVDs collected and destroyed. Every single one of them.”

Enzo nodded. “What do you want done with him?”

“Who inherits the building if he disappears?”

Tidwell let out a mewing noise and frantically shook his head. Stefano glanced at him. The man was on his knees, his mouth bleeding, his nose broken and one cheek split open. Emilio had returned, and he was definitely nearly as angry as Stefano.

“No one,” Romano reported. “It will be a nightmare for the tenants. Renato checked in. He has an aunt, but she's not listed as his heir, but my guess is when it's all straightened out, she'll be the one inheriting and she's married to a . . .”

“Saldi. Fucking building should be condemned,” Emilio snarled. He took out a gun and pressed the barrel to Tidwell's head. “Pervert needs to die, Stefano. Give me the word.”

“Not like that,” Giovanni said. “You're as bad as my brother. Get Vinci. We'll need his expertise. Nothing like having a lawyer in the family. Stefano, let us take care of this piece of shit and you get your woman and get her the hell out of here.”

“You take this building, Giovanni,” Emilio said, “and we're going to be bleeding money into it for a long time. To include it, we'll have to expand our borders. We need a vote on that.”

Stefano glared at him. “Fuck the vote. Some of these women have been through enough. He filmed his own rapes. Did you look at those titles? We can renovate the building and give them a decent place to live.”

Tidwell tried to rise and Stefano turned and hit him. Stefano was enormously strong and the man went down as if he'd been hit with a baseball bat.

Emilio shrugged. “I guess I can't argue with that.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “I'll call Vinci and have him get over here to straighten this out.”

Stefano pinned Tidwell with his eyes. Flat. Cold. Killer's eyes. “You want to sell this piece of real estate, don't you, Tidwell? It's nothing but an albatross around your neck.”

“You don't know who you're fucking with.” Tidwell spat on the floor at Stefano's feet, a mixture of blood and saliva.

Stefano raised his eyebrow. “You mean your connection to the Saldi family? We know. You get into a lot of trouble, Bart. A
lot
. You make Adamo work for his money, don't you? They have to continually send their top lawyer in to get your ass out of trouble. Then there's the muscle to scare the crap out of your victims and the witnesses. You're more trouble than you're worth.”

“My aunt . . .”

“Thinks you're a piece of shit, and her husband
knows
you are. Selling this building would make them happy, don't you think?” Stefano's voice was softer than ever. He pushed at the soft leather between his fingers, bringing Tidwell's attention to his thin gloves.

Tidwell licked his lips and then shook his head. “No. No. I don't want . . .”

Emilio crouched low and shoved his gun under Tidwell's chin. “That's too bad. My cousin's woman is in this building and you were violating her privacy. He's not a patient or forgiving man the way I am.”

“I didn't know. I didn't know who she was. I swear, I wasn't going to touch her. I've stopped doing that. Adamo said if I did it again . . . I'm cured.”

“You want to sell, don't you, Tidwell?” Stefano asked again, ignoring his confession and declaration.

Tidwell looked around the apartment, his gaze going cunning. “Yes. Yes. Let me up. I'll sign any papers.”

Stefano smiled. It wasn't a nice smile, but then he wasn't feeling nice. Tidwell thought himself a fighter. He was big, and most bar fights he got into were with others not his size. They didn't have his skill.

“Let him up,” he ordered softly.

Emilio stepped back and Tidwell exploded into action, rushing Stefano, trying to wrap him up with both arms. Stefano stepped to the side and slammed his fist deep into Tidwell's ribs. He felt the satisfying give beneath the devastating punch. Tidwell grunted. Turned white.

Stefano had trained from the time he was two years old.
He'd never stopped training. His four brothers and sister had all been put through the same regimen as he had. They were pitted against the best opponents the family could find until they moved like lightning, smooth and fast, each punch or kick penetrating the body with such force, it shook up the insides, broke bones and damaged internal organs. They still trained every single day.

His cousins, although not riders, were all proficient as well. They worked together for the good of the family. It was drilled into them from birth. There was no other way of life but that constant training of the body, turning it into a weapon, and the education of the mind.