Shadow Rider (47 page)

Still. She ran her hand down her thigh. The jeans were perfect. She wore a T-shirt, equally as soft, that was more fitted than she would have chosen for herself. Her underwear was the best part of the shopaholic who seemed to never quit. The lingerie was absolutely beautiful and she loved the way it made her feel sexy, even in a pair of jeans and a tee.

She made herself a cup of tea, flooded the house with soft music and sank into one of the luxurious, overstuffed chairs to read. She lost herself in a book for a long time, grateful
for the chance to just be still. It was the phone that brought her back from the grand adventure she was on along with the characters in the book. This time it was the Vitale home.

Bruno, Theresa's grandson, told her that Emme had just left and Theresa had taken a fall. She was in the bathroom and refusing to come out. He'd heard her fall but she'd locked him out and was asking for Francesca. His grandmother was crying and upset and nothing he said or did would make her budge. Francesca assured him she would come immediately.

Francesca immediately texted Enrica to let her know that she would be needed after all, and to meet her downstairs. Then she called Stefano and told him what had happened. She was very proud of the fact that she remembered already to have her bodyguard in place so her man wouldn't lose his mind. She promised she'd text him the minute she got to the Vitales' and let him know what was going on.

Enrica was waiting at the elevator and escorted her out to the car. “I don't like driving and watching over you. We should have a two-man team on you,” she said as she slipped behind the driver's seat.

“I could drive,” Francesca offered. She hadn't driven in a very long time and traffic in Chicago was intimidating.

Enrica sent her a look and Francesca grinned at her as her bodyguard started the car. “We could have walked. The house isn't that far.”

“There's a big storm coming.” Enrica indicated the sky. “It's supposed to be bad. Thunder and lightning. Pouring rain. I don't want to get caught in that, but more, I don't want my cousin to kill me, which he would if I let you walk around with only one bodyguard. Believe me, Francesca, he wouldn't like that.”

Francesca rolled her eyes. “He has a serious problem and needs help. I think for his birthday I'm getting him a counselor.”

Enrica laughed. “You're good for him. He didn't smile much before he found you. Now he's more relaxed and he laughs a
lot. I love that for him. I love that he has you. We're hoping the others will find someone to love them.”

Francesca thought it was a very odd way of putting it. “Why do you all guard them so carefully? They're so well trained.”

“So are we,” Enrica said. “Don't you understand how important they are? Not just to our family, but to the world? Things have changed so much, and the laws allow criminals to slip through the cracks all the time. The gangs keep getting more violent and claiming more territory. The cartels are recruiting our young kids and using them to assassinate anyone in their way. The riders can slip in and out of anywhere without being detected. No one knows how they get in or who they are. They can get to anyone at any time. That's important. It's important to someone whose family has been wiped out by the cartel and just as important to someone like Signora Vitale. We
revere
the riders.”

“Every life is important, Enrica, including yours. I'm uncomfortable with having bodyguards. I'm not a rider, you know, and I never will be.”

Enrica pulled the car into the Vitales' driveway. “You're not a rider, but you're going to marry one. You complete his life and can give him children. They sacrifice all choices when they're born. Their lives aren't like ours. I have a choice in what I do. I can marry whomever I please. If they don't find the one they can love, they're forced, through duty, to be with someone they don't. They don't have normal childhoods. Stefano and the others had crap childhoods. So bad. You can't imagine.”

She slid out of the car and went around to the passenger door before Francesca could answer. Francesca knew enough to stay in the car until Enrica decided to open the door. She waited, contemplating the idea of having children and making certain their lives were happy and filled with love. She was beginning to realize she had no real knowledge of what Stefano and his siblings had gone through, but she knew
Stefano was absolutely determined that his children wouldn't suffer the same fate. She loved him all the more for that and for the fact that he trusted her to make his life and their children's lives wonderful. She knew he was counting on her.

They hurried up to the front door, Enrica one step behind her, her gaze on the rooftops, the garage, the street itself. Francesca couldn't imagine what it would be like to be a bodyguard responsible for the safety of another human being. Bruno opened the door and he looked . . . terrible. He was pale and sweating. There was a bruise by his eye and his lip was swollen and cut. He stepped aside to let them in.

“What happened to you this time, Bruno?” Francesca asked. “Where's Theresa?”

Bruno closed the door and turned to face them. “I'm sorry, Francesca. Really sorry. I tried to refuse and they beat the shit out of me, put a gun to my grandmother's head, and Emmanuelle told me to cooperate with them.”

Enrica spun around, her hand going to the gun tucked beneath her shoulder in a holster, but it was too late. A man stepped out of the coat closet behind her and struck her over the head with the butt of his gun. She dropped to the floor like a deadweight. Francesca rushed to her, but the man caught her arm in a tight grip.

“Mr. Anthon requests your presence at a very special event, Francesca,” he greeted.

She recognized him immediately and her heart began to pound. She knew she went pale because the blood drained out of her face. “Harold McFarland. It appears Barry can't even come to Chicago without bringing his entire entourage. Where's Theresa?”

“The old lady? Don't worry about her. You should be worried about yourself and your new friends.” He spat on the floor. “I'm going to enjoy burning down that bullshit deli you worked in. Your boss seemed to think you're some kind of saint. And the old lady thinks the same. They haven't seen the havoc you create yet.” He laughed. “I'm going to enjoy showing them just what you're famous for.”

He put a hand to her back and shoved her toward the bedroom. Another man—one she recognized from Barry's crew, Arnold Sumi—thrust Bruno in front of him. As he passed Enrica's crumpled body, he kicked her hard in the ribs.

Harold laughed. “You're such a prick, Arnold. Get Jimmy to tie the bitch up.”

Francesca had seen the blood coating Enrica's dark, sleek hair and had been worried they'd hit her too hard and killed her, but they wouldn't tie her up if she was dead.

“There isn't any need to hurt anyone, Harold. I'll go with you.”

“Damn right you'll go with me,” Harold said. “You don't have any choice, not with a gun to Grandma's head. And then there's your friend. I've had a difficult time keeping the boys off of that one. You don't see bitches like that every day. We're bringing her along. She's going to be the main entertainment for us while you entertain the boss.”

Francesca turned her head to see Emmanuelle slumped over in a chair, hands tied behind her back and blood trickling down her face from a laceration on her temple. There was a bruise on the side of her face and her dark gray shirt was torn beneath her pin-striped jacket, revealing the swell of her breasts.

On the floor, groaning, was another of Barry's crew, Marc Jonsen. He had pushed himself up into a sitting position and was holding his face. Blood poured from his nose and both eyes were swollen. Clearly he'd been the one to tear open Emmanuelle's blouse and she'd head-butted him.

“Are you hurt?” Francesca asked Theresa. The elderly woman was crying and clutching rosary beads. The blanket was pulled up nearly to her neck.

She shook her head. “Bruno . . .” She trailed off with a little sob.

Francesca turned to Harold. “What are you going to do with them?”

“Lucky for them the boss wants a message delivered to your boyfriend. You and the other bitch are coming with us.”

Francesca glanced at Emmanuelle. Her nod was almost imperceptible, but there was no mistaking the wink she gave Francesca. She appeared nearly out of it to their captors, but clearly she wasn't as bad off as she was making herself out to be and that made some of the knots in Francesca's stomach loosen just a little.

T
he wind slammed into the cars as they made their way toward the estate Barry Anthon had rented. Emmanuelle was in the car behind Francesca and that made Francesca very uneasy. She knew Stefano's sister could take care of herself far better than she could in the situation, but Barry wouldn't want Francesca killed, not until he had Cella's cell phone safely in his hands. But Emme was vulnerable.

Stefano and his brothers had humiliated Barry in front of Francesca and Emmanuelle. He wasn't a man who would forgive such an insult. He believed himself to be superior to everyone else. He felt entitled to take anything and everything he wanted. Barry would retaliate against the Ferraro family, and what better way than to humiliate Emme? His men were animals. Monsters. They destroyed lives at Barry's whim and enjoyed themselves immensely while doing so. Francesca had no doubt that those men were tormenting Emme in the car, especially Marc. He would want retribution for Emmanuelle defending herself.

As the cars drove through the heavily guarded gates under the archway, Francesca spotted at least ten more guards roaming around the property. Those were the ones she could see. Her heart sank. Four guards at the gate and ten more roaming just the grounds in the front, how many more were there? Even if Stefano brought his brothers with him, the chances of all of them being able to slip through that many guards unscathed seemed nearly impossible.

They drove right up to the front door. Harold's finger bit deep into Francesca's arm as he yanked her out of the car. As she stumbled out, the dark clouds above their heads opened up and slammed them with rain. It poured down in long silvery streaks, falling from the sky to hit the ground in great splashes. Harold swore and dragged her up the two steps to the wide porch with its marble columns and overhead roof. Just those few steps out in the open had them soaked from the downpour.

Francesca looked back toward the other car. Emmanuelle was pulled out of the car and shoved hard against the hood, Marc behind her. Her hands were zip-tied in front of her and clearly he thought she was helpless. He reached around and caught her breast, squeezing hard through the open jacket, humping her from behind while the others watched and laughed.

Harold paused to watch as well, grinning and rubbing his crotch. “I get a turn at that,” he announced to Francesca. “And if Barry doesn't kill you first, I'll be taking my turn with you, too.”

Emmanuelle kicked up hard between Marc's legs, driving the heel of her boot into his balls and then slamming her head backward to smash his nose again. He screamed, a high-pitched shriek that had his friends howling with glee as he dropped straight to the ground. Arnold, the man who had driven the car Francesca has been in, bent over Marc to try to help him to his feet. Marc shoved at his hand and continued to writhe on the ground.

Jimmy stepped over him and grabbed Emmanuelle's arm. “Come on, wildcat. Let's get you out of here before he can move. He'll shoot you, and we've got plans.”

If anything, the rain came down harder, making it difficult to see through the silvery bands. The wind howled an ominous warning, sending the sheets of rain straight at the house. It blew so hard the windows rattled and the porch itself was instantly drenched in the downpour.

Harold cursed more and thrust the door open, nearly
running through it and dragging Francesca with him. “I hate this fucking place,” he snarled. He hadn't taken the time to wipe the soles of his boots and he nearly slipped on the marble tiles. He had to let go of Francesca in order to keep from falling.

She stopped where she was, just inside the door, holding it open so she could keep her eye on Emme. Jimmy was hurrying her up the steps, head down to keep the rain from his glasses. Francesca didn't have her hands free, but she stuck out her foot and tripped Jimmy as he hurried inside. Stepping close to Emme, she looked her over carefully for signs of abuse.

Stefano would lose his mind if he could see his sister. Emme was very small, and the men had clearly slammed her around. One eye was showing signs of swelling shut and there were two more cuts on her face, one on her right cheekbone where someone had hit her with a fist and the other on her chin.

“I'm okay,” Emmanuelle assured her. “Just getting to know them.” She flashed a wan smile. Her bound hands were up by her breasts her and her jacket was once more in place, covering her tattered shirt and what lay beneath it. “He'll come, Francesca.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.” Because Stefano would walk into a lion's den for the people he loved, or the ones that needed his protection—or justice.

They were taken through the great room, and it was enormous. All marble floors and hanging crystal chandeliers. The furniture was velvet, and a gleaming grand piano sat at an angle, dominating one side of the room. A man played, the music swelling through the house, a haunting melody that seemed obscene as a backdrop for what Barry and his men had planned. The piano player looked up and winked as they were shoved past him. His leering grin revealed two metal teeth shaped like fangs. Francesca recognized him as one of Barry's immediate crew that had destroyed her apartment when she lived in California. Everyone called him Fang for obvious reasons.

They moved through a wide hallway with wainscoting and arched doorways opening into other various rooms. Two men played pool and both straightened from where they were bent over the table and smirked at the women, all the while rubbing their crotches grotesquely, deliberately showing both Francesca and Emmanuelle what was in store for them. She knew them from San Francisco when they'd helped destroy her apartments. Denny and Si were brothers and notoriously nasty.

Francesca glanced at Stefano's sister. She appeared completely calm and she made no move to wipe away the blood on her face or mouth. She kept her head up, but her gaze took in every detail of the house and the men in it as they passed. Francesca followed her lead, although her heart pounded like mad. Barry had a crew of ten men that he kept close to him. She'd recognized seven of them so far. That meant the other three had to be close. If so, that was ten men used to killing for Barry. There had been too many guards to count outside and she assumed they were local muscle Barry had hired.

Barry's right-hand man, Del Travers, stepped out of a room as they passed. He was dressed in his suit and tie. Francesca knew he was a lawyer and he'd gone to school with Barry. He stared at Francesca without expression. That was one of the things she always detested about him. He was cold, like a fish. She always wondered whether or not under that perfect suit he had scales.

Harold shoved her hard in the back, making her aware as she stumbled forward that she'd stopped for a moment to stare at Del. A slow burn of anger began to rise in her. She was tired of Barry taking her life apart piece by piece. She didn't want them touching Emmanuelle. They were sick, perverted men and they had no business being close to a woman like Emme. She hated that they'd put their filthy hands on her, that they'd slapped and punched her.

Barry Anthon had surrounded himself with men just like him. He walked over people, a monster, charming those he wanted to manipulate, and hurting those he thought he
could. And he did it for fun. Emmanuelle bumped her slightly and she glanced at Stefano's sister. Emme shook her head, as if reading her thoughts of open rebellion.

“Don't provoke them,” she whispered.

Francesca clamped her mouth shut and continued down the hall into a large room where Barry sat at a bar, waiting for them. The last two of Barry's crew were with him. All ten men. Stefano would have to face them all if he came for his sister and her. And he would come.

Larry Fort was behind the bar. He was one of the worst. He'd laughed when he'd shoved her to the floor and torn the sink out of the wall so water sprayed throughout her apartment. Then he'd smashed the toilet and systematically shattered everything she owned. His partner, George Hanson, stood to the back of the room, his gaze immediately going to Emmanuelle. He glanced at Francesca and then at his boss.

Barry sat in a high-backed chair, much like a throne, a glass of bourbon in his hands. He looked terrible, his face swollen and distorted so that his usual good looks were impossible to see. He had stitches in three places. On his cheekbone, above his eye and along his jaw, all on the right side of his face. His lips were grotesque, triple their normal size. Both eyes were black and his nose had tape over it where it had been broken.

He stood up slowly, every movement stiff. “Put them in those chairs.” He indicated two straight-backed wooden chairs. One was set in front of his “throne” and the other was toward the end of the room, back in the shadows. The room was well lit with bright overhead chandeliers, just like in the great room. The floors were the same marble, but this room was quite a bit smaller in size.

The lights flickered several times as the storm raged outside. The rain beat continuously at the window and the wind shrieked in fury. Harold dragged Francesca over to the chair, pushing her nearly up against Barry, who stood very close—on purpose, she was certain—staring at her through the slits of his eyes. Yellowish goo clung to the corners of his eyes
and up close, he looked even more ghastly than he had from across the room. Harold shoved her hard and she fell back into the chair. It nearly went over backward and neither man lifted a hand to keep her upright. She was just lucky that the chair didn't go all the way over.

“Welcome to my home away from home, Francesca,” Barry said. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair, bending down to peer at her closely. “It's a far cry from what you're used to. That pissant Stefano doesn't know how to live with all the money he's got. You shouldn't have crossed me and neither should your bitch of a sister. I would have had more fun with her, showed her the good life before I turned her over to my boys. They're patient. Aren't you, boys?” He lifted his head to look at the men in the room.

Six of them. The four that had brought them from Theresa Vitale's home and the other two waiting with Barry. His other men were still scattered throughout the house. Francesca kept counting, hoping for better numbers, but any way she looked at it, Stefano was going to be in trouble because he wouldn't bring his cousins to this fight. Just his brothers. She knew that instinctively.

She didn't look away from Barry or react to his vile statement. She didn't doubt for a moment that Cella would have been turned over to his men after Barry was done with her. She was certain he'd done that very same thing to countless other women. They feared him too much to ever testify against him in court.

“I would have taken you in front of her. Her baby sister, so sacred, yet you gave yourself to the highest bidder at the first opportunity. I should have offered you money. You're a slut just like all the rest of them, aren't you? You'd do anything for money.”

She lifted her chin. “You know better than that, don't you, Barry? You know Stefano will come for me because he loves me, that's what you're counting on. The fact that he loves me. And he loves Emme. You don't have that and there's a part of you that hates everyone because you don't. You're not
capable of real love, Barry. You're just not. You'll never know what Stefano has. I love him unconditionally. With everything I am and I'd do anything for him. What woman will ever give that to you? You pay these men to be loyal. They aren't loyal out of love. You trick women and then you throw them away because you can't feel anything. Ever. I'm sorry for you.”

As she talked his face reddened, the stain spreading across the swollen bruises. “I'm not the one sitting in a chair, tied up like a fucking turkey, dessert for the men after they kill Stefano Ferraro.”

“He's hard to kill,” she said softly. “That's what you're worried about, isn't it? You have ten men inside this house, maybe more. You have another dozen outside. What does that say to your crew and me? You're terrified of Stefano.” She leaned closer to him, her gaze steady on his. “And you should be.”

“He's going to find his sister and you the center of attention. That should distract him just a little if he has such love for you both.” He sneered at the word
love
.

She didn't answer him. Just watched him and prayed Emmanuelle wouldn't draw attention to herself. If she did, Barry would do something terrible. She felt the hatred pouring off of him every time he made a reference to Stefano. More, he was just a little insane. There was something very scary in his eyes.

Thunder roared outside, close, shaking the house, rattling the windows. The lights flickered again and went out, the room going dark. Barry swore. “What the hell?”

“The generator will kick in, boss,” George assured. “Give it a minute.”

There was a short silence. Francesca could hear Barry's labored breathing. He was much more afraid of Stefano than he wanted anyone to believe. When the lights flickered back on, dim and yellow, casting shadows all over the room, she could see sweat beaded on Barry's face.

“I want you two guarding the door,” Barry instructed, waving his hand at Marc and Jimmy.

“I've got a score to settle with that little bitch,” Marc said, indicating Emmanuelle with a chin lift.

“Yeah, boss, his balls are swollen,” Harold said gleefully. “She dropped him twice. Smashed his face. With her hands tied.”

“Little thing like that and he's not man enough to handle her.” Arnold took up the taunt.

“Shut the fuck up,” Marc raged. “I'll show you I can handle her.”

“Get out and guard the door. Do it now before I put a bullet in your head. I said you'd have your chance at her, all of you, and I meant it. Her fucking brother will come. He'll want to look like the brave hero for his fiancée. I want you waiting for him. Kill him on sight.” As he issued the order, Barry kept his gaze fixed on Francesca's face.