Shadow Rider (6 page)

Ricco always practiced his art of erotic tying away from the camera. Still, the twins talked about how sexy and sensual it was to their friends, who then repeated everything to the paparazzi. Still, no photographer had ever actually gotten a picture of Ricco using the art of Shibari on a woman.

Vittorio was much more discreet. He danced with the Lacey twins' friend, another up-and-coming actress. She was quieter than the twins, but no less willing to be seen. If anything, she was even hungrier for publicity. There were no innocents in their business, and the brothers made certain of that. They didn't romance women. They had their fun, made certain the women they fucked had fun as well, but they didn't date. They didn't make promises. They never, never, took advantage of a woman who didn't know the score or the game.

There were rules. Lots of rules. They lived them to the letter, never deviating. The brothers were highly sexual and they had no compunction about finding women who were more than willing to see to those needs in return for the same, but there were never emotional entanglements. Any woman who looked as if she might be getting ideas, or real feelings toward them, was dropped instantly.

Stefano had more than his share of women. He'd been careful though, mindful of the fact that what was put on the Internet
or in magazines never went away. Any indiscretion could be brought back at any moment. He didn't mind the press printing the truth—that the brothers went through women, that the women were wealthy celebrities or heiresses and that they all partied hard. The brothers and their sister provided alibis for one another. Always. It didn't matter what city, or which state—no job could ever be traced back to them, and though they didn't know it, the paparazzi aided them with those alibis.

Stefano found himself in a residential area, outside the home of his target. The neighborhood was a good one. The home was large, perhaps a good six thousand square feet. Well kept. The yard maintained. Edgar Sullivan resided there. In his community he was known as a hardworking man. An upstanding man. A pillar in his church. He had a wife and two daughters. Few people ever noticed that the women in his home had little to say. Rarely smiled. Jumped in fear if spoken to and looked to him before they answered the simplest questions.

Edgar ruled his family with an iron fist. He did the same with the prostitutes he frequently hired. He was warned repeatedly that the beatings and damage he was doing wouldn't be tolerated, but so far, the pimp had been unable to protect his women. At first the money Edgar had paid for the damages to the women had been enough to keep the pimp quiet, but after a while Edgar's urges couldn't be controlled at all, nor did he bother to try. The pimp had taken his money and Edgar expected him to continue to do so. Two women had been hospitalized. They knew better than to talk, but the pimp had had enough. There was no way for him to get to Sullivan, not without the law finding out. So he'd appealed to the Ferraro family for aid.

Anyone could make the appeal for a meeting. All meetings were conducted in person. Stefano's parents took those meetings. They chatted casually with a potential client. That was always necessary. Every person had a natural rhythm. Patterns of breathing. Of speaking. Heartbeats. Inflections
in their voices. That casual conversation allowed the “greeters” to establish those patterns. From there they could almost always detect lies.

Essentially, “greeters” in the Ferraro family were people born as human lie detectors. That was their psychic gift. They listened to the petition for aid, but that was all. No promises. Just listening. If an undercover cop tried to infiltrate their organization, he couldn't fault the greeter for simply listening. Greeters never responded with any kind of commitment. They mostly remained silent through the entire interview. Once they got the casual conversation out of the way and established the pattern of truth, the greeters simply asked their potential clients to explain why they'd come. Former Shadow Riders often took jobs as greeters when they retired because all were born with the ability to detect lies.

Stefano wouldn't be standing outside of Edgar Sullivan's home now if the greeters hadn't passed on their client to the investigators. Stefano's family had two teams of investigators. His aunt and uncle formed one team, and his cousins, both men, formed the second team. It was the first team's job to find out every possible fact about the client. It was the second team's job to find out every fact about the crime. Both teams worked carefully and quietly. They wouldn't have the job unless, like the greeters, they were human lie detectors, and their voices could also influence others to talk, to open up and tell them anything they wanted to know. To be an investigator, they had to be a family member and also have both specific psychic gifts.

Stefano studied the shadows surrounding the Sullivan home. Lights were on in three rooms on the second floor. Stefano called up a blueprint of the house from his mind. He'd studied the house plans from the data the investigators had turned in. He read every scrap of information provided on both the client and the target.

Greeters, investigators and the shadow rider had to all agree before the job was taken. To do that, the shadow rider needed to know every fact about both parties, where they
lived and who lived with them. Their routines, their friends.
Everything.
A shadow rider had to be able to slide through the portals, have a photographic memory and enough energy to disrupt electrical devices should there be need.

Stefano slid his burner phone out of his pocket. This was one of the very few times he would be vulnerable. He had to be out of the shadow's portal to make the call. That meant, if he didn't blend perfectly with the shadow, anyone could spot him. Like his brothers, he wore the signature three-piece suit—gray, pin-striped, the stripes giving the light-and-dark effect needed. At any given time, they were ready to enter a portal if necessary. The suit was synonymous with the Ferraro name, but it served a vital purpose.

He punched in the numbers and didn't give a greeting when the line was opened. “Do we have a go? Am in ready position.” It was necessary to triple-check everything. The investigators continued to work even after they were certain. No one wanted a mistake. They also didn't do the work, if money was involved, until the client complied and paid.

The money would be deposited first into one of their offshore accounts. Once the money was there, it would be layered through several banking institutions the Ferraro family owned or had interest in, through several countries until the source was impossible to trace. The money came back to them through legitimate businesses the family owned. The family had managed their way for the last couple of centuries, the businesses growing along with their bank accounts.

Even now, with Stefano in place and his brothers partying it up, the transaction could be called off. He waited, uncaring of the outcome. It was a job, nothing more. He was good at what he did, but he could walk away easily if it came to that. The money had to be deposited before the job would be done. The investigators had to be completely satisfied that justice had to be served. No life could be taken lightly.

“It is a go.”

There it was. He immediately slid back into the shadows. The phone would be broken and placed in a trash can at the
other side of town, somewhere near the airport. He wore thin gray gloves, of course, never risking a print.

He studied the network of shadows and the tubes they provided. The pull was strong enough that his chest felt as if it were flying apart, his insides coming out. It was an uncomfortable sensation and one that he'd never gotten used to, no matter how many times he'd done this over the years.

Instinctively he chose the longer, narrower shadow, the one that led up onto the back porch and under the door. Inside, a faint light was on over the stove. He could use the shadows cast along the floor to find his next ride. The wrenching in his body was hard as the ride took him fast, nearly throwing him out of the portal and onto the kitchen floor. He stopped his forward momentum and took a moment to breathe and get his bearings. The narrow tunnels were always a difficult traveling experience because they acted like a slide, the body moving at such tremendous speeds. The strips of light and dark were fused closer together, providing a kind of rail that felt like greased lightning. He preferred the larger, darker shadows, and a slower, but more sustainable ride.

He stood very still just inside the tube, listening to the rhythm of the household. Every house sounded and felt different. Outside, chimes blew a soft melody into the night. A few insects made their presence known. Inside the house, it was eerily silent. The two daughters were teenagers and yet there was no television, no music. Just silence. He kept listening. Eventually, someone would make a noise. It was late, but he knew from the lights in the three rooms, that at least those rooms were occupied with someone awake.

A board creaked overhead. That would be in the smallest room upstairs. That one had a soft glowing light, as if a lamp rather than an overhead fixture illuminated the space. The footsteps were very light. The girls then. Not their bedroom, but the little room they used as a library.

He studied the shadows spreading out from the pale light source over the stove. Most were too short for what he needed, but two tubes went off in different directions.
Stefano chose the one that reached toward the darkened hallway. It ended just by the stairs in the family room. Another portal took him up the stairs and beneath the door of the library, where Edgar's daughters were.

He expected them to be quietly reading. They weren't. One lay on a short couch, her face distorted with swelling. The other girl leaned over her, pushing back her hair with gentle fingers and applying ice. Neither made a sound. Silent tears tracked down both faces, but not a single sob escaped. He stood just inside the portal, waiting to get the ice back in his veins. Deliberately he flexed his fingers, keeping from rolling them into a tight fist. He'd seen countless such things, most much worse. He wouldn't be standing in the house if there weren't a good reason. He could only put down his unexpected reaction to the fact that his woman's shadow had touched his and made him more susceptible to emotion. He couldn't have that—not while he worked.

He found the place in him that was dead—a place inside that could look at two young girls and feel nothing at all. He needed that, needed balance. He didn't try to comfort them, or soothe away those hurts. He wasn't there to do that. He was there to make certain it didn't ever happen again. Warm feelings weren't wanted or needed. Only ice. Only dead space that couldn't ever be filled because that was what allowed him to retreat to the other side of the door and find the slide to the room where he was certain Edgar Sullivan sat behind his desk, feeling powerful now that he'd beat up his thirteen-year-old daughter.

The slide took him under the office door. It was a plush room. The furniture was good leather. Sullivan sat drinking whiskey out of a cut-crystal glass. It wasn't good whiskey, Stefano noted, but then Sullivan probably didn't care about the actual taste. His hand, wrapped around the glass, dripped blood from scraped knuckles. He looked over papers and muttered to himself, clearly not happy with whatever report he was reading.

The shadow tubes radiated through the room in a starburst pattern. The light overhead, as well as the lamp on the
desk, threw shadows all over the floors, and more climbed up the walls. Two went directly behind Sullivan. Stefano chose the larger of the two and rode it through the room, past the desk, between the chair and the wall until he stood behind the man. He stepped out of the portal and caught Edgar's head in his hands.

“Justice is served,” he whispered softly and wrenched hard. He heard the crack, but still he waited, making certain.

He dropped the body back into the chair and slid back into the portal. In a matter of minutes he was riding the shadows back outside the house. Only then did he emerge from the slide in order to make a call.

“It's done.” He ended the call and was once again inside the portal, riding toward the airport.

His brothers would be apprised of the status of the job. Stefano would sleep on the plane and they would continue with their outrageous behavior, following through until they could safely get back to the plane and all three could return home.

Franco Mancini waited for him. The door to the plane was open, Franco inside, lying on one of the beds. He sat up the moment Stefano entered, his eyes moving over his cousin to ensure he was unharmed.

“Quiet tonight,” he informed Stefano. “I haven't heard from your brothers.”

“Don't expect to. Vittorio might show up around four or five, but Ricco is with the Lacey twins again. He'll be wallowing in his rope art and sex.” Stefano didn't bother to keep the worry out of his voice. Ricco walked the edge of control lately and nothing his brother had said to him seemed to rein him in.

Franco was silent a moment as Stefano removed his shoes and sank down into a plush seat. Franco poured him a drink and handed it to him. “Ricco is careful. Always. I know he seems reckless, Stefano, but he's never failed to do his job. He's quick and clean and never has a high afterward.”

Stefano sighed, pressing the glass of Scotch to his forehead. It was true. Ricco, when sent on a job, performed like
the well-developed weapon he was. He didn't hesitate, and he certainly didn't fuck around. He got the job done. It wasn't about Ricco's work. It was about the way he played.
That
bordered on out of control.

Stefano couldn't help but worry. He knew what it was like to live in a world of unrelenting violence with no way out. They'd been born shadow riders. They'd been trained for one thing from the time they were toddlers. There was nothing else for them, and there wouldn't be until they were too old to ride the shadows and perform their duties. They would be regulated to other jobs within the family. There was no way out for any of them.