Shadow Rider (49 page)

The knife retreated and he spun, one hand clamped to the wound, the other clutching the gun. He whirled, cursing. Tears leaking out of his swollen eyes. There was no one there. Nothing but shadow. Breathing heavily he leaned against the wall, trying to think. The stab wound in his leg was the worst. Ricco had really nailed him. Eloisa barely scratched him. Emme's knife hurt, but really, how bad was it? He could still breathe. He had the gun. Fuck the damn Ferraro family.

He just needed to rally his men. Denny and Si were in the poolroom. Lazy bastards. They were always clowning around, oblivious to what was happening around them. He'd shake them up. He paid them damn good money to do what he said. He hurried down the hall, dragging his leg, cursing every jarring step. He slammed his fist on the poolroom door and it sprang open.

Denny was on the floor. He had marks across his face, as if he'd been caned. His pool stick was still clutched like a weapon in his hand. Si was on the table, the same marks on him, his pool stick broken. Barry's heart began to pound. Hard. He tasted terror for the first time in his life. The wind rose and drove the rain at the bank of windows. Outside the trees swayed macabrely, the shadows dancing through the window onto the walls and floors, even across Denny's face as if laughing at him.

“Shouldn't have stuck that knife in her, you fuck,” Giovanni said, and slammed a knife into Barry's good leg.

Up high. In his thigh. Almost an identical wound to the one his brother Ricco had made. Barry screamed. He couldn't stop screaming as he fired the gun repeatedly at Giovanni. But Giovanni had vanished as if he'd never been. As if he wasn't human. A phantom. A ghost. Barry wiped his eyes with his gun hand and slumped against the wall. He had to get out of there. He could hire someone to kill Stefano and his entire family. Wipe them out. He would get satisfaction from that. He didn't need to see it done, just so long as it was done.

He wrapped the wound on his leg and headed for the kitchen, intending to go out the back way. There was a car waiting outside. There was always a car. He'd sent Arnold and Harold out to hunt the women down. If he was lucky, they were still alive and they could get out with him. He stopped just outside the kitchen. There was no door, only an archway. The room seemed quiet—so quiet he could hear the piano. Fang stilled played. He was still alive. The music sounded better than it ever had—but bizarre, as if the drama unfolding in the house was nothing more than a theater play that he was stuck in the middle of.

Arnold sat at the kitchen bar, a sandwich in front of him. There was a whole ham cut into thin slices on the bar beside the plate with the sandwich. Harold was against the wall behind the bar. Barry stepped inside and hurried to them. “Get up. We've got to get out of here. The Ferraro brothers are every . . .” He trailed off.

Arnold was pinned to the chair by a series of knives, his eyes wide open and staring in horror. Harold was held to the wall by knives going from his belly to his chest. Barry staggered back, reaching for the archway to hold his trembling body up. He looked wildly around. There was no one. Only silence. The shadows played across the back door as if daring him to enter them. He shook his head, sobbing. No way was he going out that door, not with the shadows moving across it.

“I like knives, Barry. Learned to cook in Europe when I
was training there,” Taviano said, his voice close to Barry's neck. “And to use knives for all kinds of purposes.”

Barry brought up the gun and Taviano slapped it away. Easily. So easily. Barry closed his eyes, knowing what was coming, trying to steel himself.

“I gave them a little demonstration, but they weren't impressed, or at least they didn't say so. You know you shouldn't have stabbed her. She's ours. Dumb, Barry, but then you always were a dumb prick.”

The knife went in on the other side, in the same spot where Emmanuelle had stuck him. He knew there was no sense in looking for Taviano. He'd disappeared, just as all the other Ferraros had disappeared. Like ghosts. Barry stayed very still, leaning against the archway, sobbing. He had no idea how long he stayed there, blood running down his clothes, his mind uncomprehending.

This couldn't really be happening to him. He always won. He was always in control. Now he was staggering through this mausoleum, bleeding from multiple stab wounds, his men dead inside.

The sound of the piano penetrated through the lashing rain and shrieking wind. Lightning still lit up the sky, as if the storm stayed crouched over the estate he'd rented.
Fucking Ferraro family. Think they own Chicago.
He pushed off the wall and stumbled down the hall toward the great room and the sound of the piano. Fang was still playing, seemingly unaware of the deaths taking place around him. More, the concerto he played was intricate, difficult, something Barry wouldn't have thought in Fang's repertoire. Barry had gone to several concerts with his mother and heard the greatest pianists in the world play. Fang wasn't one of them, yet his playing now was superb. The beautiful music sounded so incongruous as a backdrop for the ugliness happening inside the house.

Barry burst into the great room and the first thing he saw was George. The man was lying beside the piano bench, his neck at an odd angle, his eyes open and staring in horror.
Fang was facedown, just on the other side of the piano. The man playing was Vittorio Ferraro. He turned suddenly, one hand lifting from the keys. In one movement he picked up the small throwing knife, turned and flung it at Barry, all the while his other hand still played. Then his second hand joined, even before the knife sank into Barry's shoulder.

“Shouldn't have stabbed her, Anthon,” Vittorio said, and dismissed him, keeping his back to him as he played the concerto.

Dismissed
him. As if he were of no consequence. It was humiliating. If he'd still had his gun he'd have killed the son of a bitch. The knife barely hurt, not with the wounds in his thighs throbbing and burning. Not one knife had touched a vital spot. Not one . . .

Barry looked around him, his heart pounding hard. He felt hands on either side of his head. Almost gentle.

“You're dead, Barry. Justice is served.” Stefano broke Barry Anthon's neck. He stepped back, dropping the body to the floor. “Did you call Sal? He'll need to really clean this place.”

“It's done. Get your woman and let's go home.”

Stefano nodded and went back to get Francesca. He stepped into the portal where she was waiting for him with Emme. Emme had wrapped up the wound in Francesca's thigh, but Stefano lifted her into his arms. “Put your arms around my neck and your face into my shoulder,
bambina
. Keep your eyes closed. I don't want you to see any of this.”

“Okay,” she agreed softly.

“It's over, Francesca—he's dead. He'll never hurt another woman.”

“Thank you, Stefano. All of you. Let's go home.”

Stefano stepped into the next shadow and took his woman home.

S
tefano stood at the altar, his heart pounding. He had never really believed this day would come. He glanced at his brothers and saw the same look on their faces that he knew was on his own. Disbelief. Awe. Raw hope. They were shadow riders, men and women with responsibilities that didn't allow them to choose what they wanted. Finding someone who could love them, someone willing to share their lives, was rare and nearly impossible to believe could be true.

But there she was. Francesca. His woman. Walking toward him, looking like a vision, too beautiful and ethereal to be real. Dressed in white lace, her gown clinging to her figure, showing her curves and that ridiculously small waist he liked to put his hands on. Her hair was down, just as he'd requested, when his mother and sister were insistent on her putting it up. She'd done that for him, argued and won just to please him. Her veil was intricate lace surrounding her face. She was on Pietro's arm.

Emilio and Enzo had vied for the privilege of walking her down the aisle to him, but Pietro had asked, and in the end they decided that she needed family of sorts. Joanna stood up for her. Enrica and Emme as well. Enrica's concussion hadn't kept her out of the wedding party. Stefano couldn't see them. Only Francesca. Only his woman, walking toward him, giving not only him, but his brothers and sister the promise of a future.

The church was overflowing. Family. Cousins from New
York and San Francisco. The branch in Los Angeles had drawn the short straw and had to stay away. The entire neighborhood, everyone in their village, had been invited, and most came. He'd even spotted Dina, wearing Francesca's coat, seated at the back of the church.

Nicoletta made her first public appearance with Lucia and Amo, sitting between them, looking pale and a little frightened, but she was there. Still, Stefano could only really see his woman. He took the steps down to her, took her hand from Pietro and tugged until she was beside him, right where she was meant to be.

They turned together and faced the priest, his heart swelling with joy as he said his vows to love and cherish her. He would . . . for all time.

Keep reading for an excerpt from the next Carpathian novel by Christine Feehan,

DARK CAROUSEL

Available August 2016 from Berkley
Books

C
harlotte Vintage pushed the stray tendrils of dark auburn hair curling around her face back behind her shoulders and leaned toward her best friend, Genevieve Marten. Icy fingers of unease continually crept down her spine. There was no relaxing, even with a drink in front of her and the pounding beat of the music calling to her.

“We know they followed us here, Genevieve,” she whispered behind her hand. Whispering in the dance club with the music drumming out a wild rhythm wasn't easy, but she managed. They had accomplished what they'd set out to do, but now that they had drawn their three stalkers out into the open, what were they going to do?

“We must have been crazy, thinking we could do this, Genevieve. Because we have no business exposing ourselves to this kind of danger.” Mostly Charlotte didn't think she should have exposed Genevieve to the danger. At least not both of them together. Not when they had a three-year-old to consider.

She made a slow perusal of the club, trying to take in every detail. The Palace was the hottest dance club in the city. Everyone who was anyone went there. In spite of the fact that it was four stories high, every single story was packed with bodies, as well as the basement underground club. Men tried to catch her eye continuously. She wasn't going to pretend she didn't know Genevieve was beautiful, or that she wasn't so hard on the eyes either. The pair of
them together drew attention everywhere they went—which was a bad thing.

“We're acting like normal women for a change,” Genevieve said a little defiantly. “I'm tired of hiding. We needed to get out of the house.
You
needed to get out of the house. You work all the time. Honestly, Charlie, we're going to grow old hiding away. What good has it done us? We're not any closer to finding out who is doing this to us.”

“I can't afford to be bait,” Charlotte pointed out. “And I don't like you being bait either. Certainly not both of us together when we have to look after Lourdes. She can't lose everyone in her life. It goes against everything in me to hide away, but I've got to consider what would happen to Lourdes if I was killed. They already murdered her father. She has no mother. I'm all she's got.” When Genevieve sent her a look she hastily amended, “
We're
all she's got.”

Charlotte wasn't the hide-from-an-enemy type any more than Genevieve was. They'd met in France, both studying art. Genevieve painted and she was good. More than good. Already her landscapes and portraits were beginning to be sought after by collectors. Charlotte restored old paintings as well as old carvings. Her specialty and greatest passion was restoring old carousels.

Genevieve was French. She was tall with long, glossy dark hair and large green eyes. Not just green, but deep forest green. Startling green. She had the figure of a model, and in fact had had several major agencies try to convince her to sign with them. She was independently wealthy, having inherited from her parents and both sets of grandparents.

Genevieve's maternal grandmother had raised her. A few months earlier, that grandmother, her last living relative, had been brutally murdered. Several weeks later, a man Genevieve had been dating was murdered in the same way. His blood had been drained from his body and his throat had been torn out. Charlotte's mentor, the man she was apprenticing under, was murdered a week after that.

Twice, when they were together, the two women had
become aware that someone had tried to enter their house late at night. They'd locked all windows and doors, but whoever was after them had been persistent, rattling the glass, shaking the heavy doors, terrorizing them. The police had been called. Two officers were found dead in the courtyard, both with their blood drained and their throats torn out.

Charlotte received word a couple weeks later that her only sibling, her brother, had been found dead, murdered in the same way. He was in California. In the United States. Far from France. Far from her. He'd left behind his business and his daughter, three-year-old Lourdes. Lourdes' mother had died in childbirth, leaving Charlotte's brother to raise her. Now it was up to Charlotte. Genevieve had decided to come with Charlotte to California. Whoever was after the two of them was in the States, and Genevieve wanted to find them.

Genevieve laid her hand over Charlotte's. “I know Lourdes is your first priority. She's mine as well. She's a beautiful little girl and obviously traumatized by what she saw. Her nightmares wake me up and I'm not even in the same house.”

Charlotte knew Genevieve wasn't exaggerating. Genevieve always knew whenever Lourdes had nightmares, even if she wasn't staying with them. At those times, she always called to make certain the child was all right. Lourdes had been present when her father had been murdered. The killer had left the child alive and sitting beside her slain father. She'd been alone in the house with his body for several hours before he was found by the child's nanny, Grace Parducci, a woman who had gone to school with Charlotte and had known her brother and his wife.

“The police aren't any closer to solving the murders, Charlie. Not here and not in France. Lourdes is in danger, just as much as we are. Maybe more.” Genevieve leaned her chin onto the heel of her hand as she hitched her chair closer to Charlotte's in order to be heard above the music. “I've been thinking a lot about this and how it all got started. What we did to draw some crazy person's attention.”

Charlotte nodded. She'd been thinking about it as well. What else could she think about? Both of them had lost every family member with the exception of little Lourdes. Charlotte didn't want to lose her, and lately, in spite of taking every precaution, she hadn't felt safe. At. All. Grace had reported being followed and feeling as though someone was watching her as well.

Charlotte knew there was a part of her that had come with Genevieve to the nightclub in an effort to try to draw the murderer out. She'd certainly come prepared. She had weapons on her. Several. Most unconventional, but she had them. She honestly didn't know if the men stalking them were the same ones that had murdered her brother, but it seemed likely.

Charlotte wasn't the type of woman to run from her enemies, and it upset her to think her brother's murderer was going free—that he or she was trying to terrorize them. No, not trying. She was terrified for Lourdes. She had no idea why the little girl had been left alive, but she wasn't taking any chances with her. Coming to the nightclub without her was a chance to draw the killer out without endangering Lourdes.

“That stupid psychic center we went to together for testing,” Charlotte murmured. “It gave me the creeps.”

Genevieve nodded. “Exactly. The Morrison Center. We went for a lark and it wasn't in the least bit fun. They got interested in us way too fast and kept asking very personal questions. When we left, I thought we were followed.”

Charlotte had thought so as well. The testing site had been a little hole in the wall but in a high-traffic area, so neither thought anything of it. They both often said they were “psychic” and thought it would be so much fun to go in and test, just like having their palms read. Something fun to do. It hadn't turned out to be so fun.

Charlotte looked into Genevieve's green eyes and saw the same pain she was feeling reflected there. Who could have known that something they'd done on a whim would have such horrific consequences? It was like that with them.
They both thought along the same lines, knew what the other was thinking.

“Ever since going there, I feel like we're being watched,” Genevieve said. “And not in a good way. When we were still in France, before
Grandmere
was murdered, a couple of men asked me out and I got this really creepy vibe from them. When they talked I just kept having the image of the testing center crop up in my mind and I couldn't help associating them with it.”

Charlotte nodded her understanding. The same thing had happened to her more than once. And then the murders happened. Since then, they'd been much more careful. No dates. No fun. No strangers in their lives. Charlotte ran her brother's cabinet-making business, and she did a little art restoration on the side, but she hadn't really been working at her own business for months. Not since she'd returned to the United States.

“What are we going to do, Charlie?” Genevieve asked. “I can't live like this for much longer. I know I should be grateful I'm alive, that
we're
alive, and I don't want to do anything that might endanger Lourdes, but I feel like I'm suffocating.”

Charlotte knew how she felt. “We've taken the first step by coming here. We weren't all that quiet about it either, Vieve. We've attracted a lot of attention. Those men, the ones who keep asking us to dance, they give off that creepy testing vibe to me. What about to you? And do they look familiar to you? I swear I've seen them before. I think in France.”

Genevieve followed Charlotte's gaze to the three men who had continuously asked them to dance and sent drinks to their table. They winked and flirted and stayed close all night. They were good dancers. They'd asked other women and Charlotte had watched them. All three knew what they were doing on a dance floor. All three were exceptionally good looking. They seemed like men who frequented the dance club and picked up their share of women there. Still, there was something off about them.

“Same here. The one named Vince, Vince Tidwell, touches me with one finger every time he gets close enough. He just
runs it over my skin. Instead of giving me any kind of cool shiver, I get the creeps and the image of the testing center is right there in my mind. I keep telling myself we tested in France, so would they really follow us here? But I'm fairly certain they did.”

“So maybe we should leave and then wait for them outside and try to follow them,” Charlotte suggested. “Lourdes is safe for tonight. I've called half a dozen times and Grace assures me all is quiet on the home front. We could track them tonight and find out where they're staying and who they really are. Maybe we'll find out what they want from us.”

Genevieve's vivid green eyes lit up. “Absolutely. I need to do something to make me feel like I'm not sitting on my thumbs just waiting for someone to murder me. I have to do something positive to help myself.”

Charlotte nodded. She knew better. She had Lourdes. Responsibilities. One
huge
responsibility. She'd always been adventuresome. She pursued her dreams with wide-open arms, rushing headlong where others were afraid to go. She hadn't stayed home with her brother. She'd worked hard from the time she was very young so she could finance her trip to France, where she'd always wanted to go. She'd learned French early, and worked hard at it until she could speak like a native. She'd left behind her brother and only come back to help him when his wife died. And then she'd left again.

“Selfish,” she murmured aloud. “I've always been selfish, doing the things I wanted to do. I want to go after them too, Vieve. I swear I do.” She had to put her mouth close to Genevieve's ear to be heard over the music. She wasn't the type of woman to hide in a house with the covers over her head, but what was the right thing to do? She honestly didn't know.

“Lourdes would be a lot safer if we figured this out, Charlie,” Genevieve pointed out.

She wasn't saying anything Charlotte hadn't already told herself, but she still didn't know if she was making excuses to jump into action because she wanted to justify taking the fight and shoving it right down the throat of their enemy.

Charlotte made up her mind. She couldn't just keep hiding. It wasn't in her character, and Genevieve was so right—Lourdes needed to settle into a normal life. They couldn't keep moving and trying to cover their tracks. “Let's do it then, Vieve. We can follow them and see if we can find out what they're up to. You can't look like you, though. You draw way too much attention.”

Charlotte risked another quick look at the three men. The one named Daniel Forester appeared to be the leader. His two friends definitely deferred to him. He was tall and good looking, and he knew it. He was staring at her even as he danced with another woman. The woman looked up at him with absolute worship and he was ignoring her to look at Charlie.

She raised an eyebrow at him to let him know she thought he was being rude. He grinned at her as if they shared a secret. “He is an arrogant prick,” she hissed.

“So are his friends. Players. All three of them,” Genevieve said. “They know they look good and they use their looks to pick up women.”

Charlotte couldn't help it; she laughed softly, breaking the stare with Danny to look at her best friend. Genevieve was in full makeup and looked like a runway model. “Seriously? We're really getting bad here, Vieve. We both know we look good and we came here hoping for a little fun.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Charlie,” Genevieve protested, all haughty. “I look like this all the time. Waking up, I look like this.”

Charlotte blew her a kiss. “Truthfully, you do look like that when you wake up. It makes me sick.”

“Uh-oh, here they come. They're bringing drinks. Vince and his friend Bruce at your nine o'clock. They're carrying one for their friend Danny as well.” Genevieve lowered her voice until Charlotte could barely make out what she was saying over the music.

Both women plastered on smiles as the two men toed chairs around and sat at their table without asking.

“I know you must have missed us,” Bruce Van Hues said.
“So we came bearing gifts.” He put the drinks down in front of them, flashing them smiles as if that would convince them he was merely joking.

“Pined away,” Charlotte said. “Could hardly breathe without you.”

Vince laughed, nudging Genevieve playfully with his shoulder before pulling his chair very close to hers, making a show of claiming her. Charlotte saw Genevieve's eyes darken from her normal vivid emerald green to a much deeper forest green, like moss after a rain. That was always, always a bad sign with her best friend. Genevieve had a bit of a temper. She flashed hot and wild, but it never lasted long. Charlotte could hold a mean grudge. She wasn't happy about it, but if she was honest, she could. For a long time.