Shadow Warrior

Book 4: A Shadow Riders Novel

by Christine Feehan

Genres: Romantic Suspense; Billionaires Romance; Science Fiction Romance

Synopsis

Danger inspires fierce passion when a serial killer threatens Chicago's infamous Ferraro crime family.
Vittorio Ferraro is a man whose family loyalty knows no bounds. He would die for his siblings and the people they love, but what he really wants is to start a family of his own. Deep down, Vittorio has always known finding a woman who could ride shadows would be nearly impossible, let alone one who could accept his particular needs, but he never expected to find her in the middle of a kidnapping. Grace Murphy has always been drawn to Vittorio Ferraro; or at least to the billionaire's public bad boy persona. Now that she's under his protection and his sole focus, she can't help wanting to get as close to him as possible. But Grace knows her presence is putting the entire Ferraro family in danger. Her monster of a brother will never let her go, but Vittorio has no intention of losing the woman whose shadow matches his own.

Release date: June 4, 2019

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 432

Sample

CHAPTER ONE
Vittorio Ferraro stood in the shadows, his skin crawling with the need to move. Something was wrong. Not just wrong. Whatever his churning gut was about, he’d never quite felt the urgency of finding the source of the trouble as he did right then.

He’d come home from work exhausted. Work had been in Los Angeles this time. He’d been there numerous times, but this particular one had been a bloodbath. He was a shadow rider, one of the very few in existence worldwide. With that came tremendous responsibilities and absolute secrecy. He’d begun his training at the age of two and con­tinued every day of his life since. Now, after carrying out justice in Los Angeles, he’d been more than happy to get home. His house was his sanctuary, and usually, once in­side, he felt peace, not this terrible sense of impending doom.

He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling, so he got dressed and followed the dark dread that strengthened as he approached the nightclub his family owned. The Ferraro Club was in full swing, the music loud, the laughter and conversation blending with the energy of the music.

The nightclub was the most popular in Chicago and peo­ple stood in lines, sometimes for hours, on the chance of getting in. Celebrities frequented the Ferraro Club, and there was always the possibility that one might catch a glimpse of a member of the famous Ferraro family. Tonight, the place was packed.

As a rule, his family didn’t make it a habit to interfere in the running of the club— hey had managers who ran the place far better than any of them ever could— ut they dropped in when they needed to be visible. The paparazzi always swarmed around them, giving them better alibis for their work than anything else ever could. Right now, visi­bility was the last thing Vittorio wanted. The sense of ur­gency was growing stronger, not weaker, and that meant he needed to find whatever was wrong and fix it before it was too late. That something was here. In his club. Close now.

He moved from shadow to shadow without being seen. It was a slow process and his body was already torn up from doing this very thing in Los Angeles. Still, this wasn’t about work. This wasn’t about bringing justice to criminals no one else could get to. This was about the knots in his gut that coiled tighter and tighter, and felt personal. Very per­sonal. And that in itself was shocking.

Vittorio was the largest of the Ferraro men. He was tall, broad- shouldered and very fit, as all riders had to be. He was also a man who knew himself very well. Every strength. Every flaw. What he wanted in life, what he needed— oth were impossible, and he’d accepted that he would never have a wife and family the way his brothers Stefano, Ricco and Giovanni had. Even Taviano had a much better chance than he would ever have. It was just this growing feeling that this portent of trouble was connected to him personally.

He was a man apart— ven within his family, he stood apart. Maybe they all did. It was possible their women strengthened the connection between them in some way.  

Certainly, Francesca, Stefano’s wife, did. Vittorio loved her— hey all did— ut at the same time, it only empha­sized his loneliness.

He knew it would already be nearly impossible to find a woman he could love the way he needed to love her. Find­ing a woman who could ride shadows was in and of itself extremely difficult, but finding one who would suit his pe­culiarities, that was asking far too much. He knew the odds, and they weren’t in his favor.

Shadow riders were obligated to have children, so if they weren’t married to a suitable woman by a certain age— ne he was approaching— n arranged marriage would follow. For a man like Vittorio, that would be an utter disaster.

For a moment he stood in the shadows watching the women dancing, knowing not a single one of them would ever tolerate him as a life partner. He had to find a woman who would have the genetics to produce children capable of riding the shadows and carrying on their work. That was his obligation. He could never simply fall in love; he had to fall in love with the right person. The odds of finding that were so slim, most riders never believed it could happen.

For Vittorio, the odds were even slimmer. He didn’t want a traditional partnership. He didn’t have that kind of personality. He needed his woman to trust him implicitly and allow him to care for her. For every aspect of her life. Where, in the modern world, could a woman like that be found? That would be impossible as well. Two impossibil­ities meant it wasn’t going to happen for him. He would be in a loveless, arranged marriage for the rest of his life.

He sighed and turned his attention back to that whisper of impending danger that had drawn him to the club. The floor plan had three tiers. The top tier was extremely expen­sive but provided the most privacy. Most of the celebrities stayed there to party. Bodyguards were prevalent, and the club’s highly trained security were visible as well. The third tier wasn’t a place Vittorio would expect to have any real trouble, but his every instinct pointed him in that direction.

He waited for the music to change and the light show to begin. The dancing colors cast all kinds of shadows through­out the large club, giving him plenty of choices. He selected a shadow that cut through the bar on the second- tier landing and zigzagged its way up to the highest tier where the Fer­raros kept a table reserved just for family.

He stepped into a thin, dark streak and instantly his body was sucked into the tube, pulled apart and flung through tables and chairs and up two winding staircases to the top tier. Standing in the mouth of the tube, he needed a few seconds for his body to feel as if it had come back to­gether. There was always the sick feeling that came with fast travel, with being pulled apart and put back together.

The moment Vittorio was up on the top floor, the sense of conspiracy, of danger, became overwhelming. He closed himself off from the noise and concentrated on that feeling of trouble. Of a fated doom. At the third table from the Ferraros’ exclusive seating sat three men. He recognized two as enforcers for the Saldi family. Just seeing them in his club caused the knots in his gut to tighten.

No one could keep drugs out of a club, but they didn’t allow sales there. The Saldis, a notorious crime family, brought drugs in and sold them from streets and alleys to the private parties of the rich. Every kind of drug anyone could possibly want, they provided. But not in a Ferraro club. It was one of the few things the Saldis knew the Fer­raros would go to war with them over.

The Saldis were recognized as a branch of the largest crime family in the States. Giuseppi Saldi was the acknowl­edged leader and was certainly the biggest crime boss in Chicago. These particular men worked for his brother, Miceli Saldi. The big question was, why were two of Saldi’s goons sitting in the Ferraro nightclub making a deal with some lowlife junkie? Clearly they were conducting business of sorts. The Saldi enforcers blended in, with their expen­sive suits and Rolex watches, but the man sitting across from them was, by comparison, in disheveled clothes that had seen better days.

Vittorio was going to have to review the security tapes. There were certain protocols in place. Every doorman, every bouncer and every security guard was required to be familiar with the Saldis and their employees. If they en­tered the nightclub, the Ferraro family was to be informed immediately. That hadn’t happened.

The fact that the two Saldi enforcers sat in the VIP sec­tion on the third tier and no one had called a family member to let them know added an additional sin against the club’s security measures— r the Saldis had paid off someone high enough up in the nightclub’s management that they were able to sneak through. If that were the case, who else had they allowed in?

Vittorio needed to move around and listen to the conver­sations. The sale of drugs was always going to be a problem in clubs the world over, but the Saldis blatantly selling in the Ferraro nightclub was going to start a war no one wanted, and it didn’t make sense.

Vittorio stayed in the shadows and moved as close as possible in order to hear the conversation over the pounding beat of the music. He recognized Ale Sarto and Lando Gori, Miceli Saldi’s top enforcers. If either or both showed up at your door, chances were you weren’t going to survive the encounter. They were dressed in suits and looked sharp and handsome, but Vittorio had seen their work. There was nothing remotely civilized or benevolent about what they did to human beings. They wouldn’t be sent on some small errand. Not ever.

“She’s worth every cent of the money,” the stranger in disheveled clothes assured. He twitched a couple of times but kept direct eye contact.

Anyone sitting with Sarto and Gori should have been intimidated, especially a two- bit pimp who seemed to be talking about his prostitute.

Ale Sarto hitched forward. “You’re pushing your luck, Haydon. Her service is for your past debts, not any new ones you incur.”

Vittorio suppressed a groan of annoyance. The Saldis had stooped to an all- time low, negotiating for prostitutes in the Ferraro Club. He didn’t turn away, his gut still scream­ing at him. Nothing really made sense about the small ex­change he’d overheard. Top- level enforcers like Sarto and Gori didn’t get involved in such mundane matters as acquir­ing another prostitute for the Saldi stables.

“I can get her to see reason and go along with you with­out any trouble,” Haydon responded. “She’ll do whatever I tell her.” He poured confidence into his voice. “That’s got to be worth another two hundred and fifty thousand.”

Lando Gori drew back and pinned Haydon with cold, dead eyes. “You’re really pushing your luck. We’re taking her tonight, and this new crap you’re trying to pull is going to get you killed. Take the deal wiping out your past debt for the woman’s services and walk away. We don’t need you. We can pick her up anytime and just cut you out of the transaction altogether.”

Haydon sat back immediately and threw his hands into the air as if in surrender. “Fine. Fine. But at least talk to him about the possibility of giving me a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand- dollar credit. I brought the deal to him.”

Lando stood up, ending the conversation. “You didn’t bring the deal to him, Haydon. He gave you no choice. The woman, or we break every bone in your body. Personally, I think it should be both, but he’s a compassionate man.”

“Where is she?” Ale Sarto demanded, standing as well.

Haydon flashed a grin, revealing dark, stained teeth. “She wasn’t as cooperative as I would have liked, and I didn’t think she’d sit through negotiations, so I stashed her somewhere safe.”

“You’re a lying asshole, Haydon. You just told us she’d do anything for you. Now she’s not being cooperative. Which is it?” Lando snapped.

Vittorio stiffened. That didn’t sound like the woman was privy to what these men had said. Worse, it didn’t sound as if she was in any way cooperating.

“You’d better not be playing games, Haydon,” Ale warned. “Let’s go. I want to see her right now.”

Haydon’s cocky smile faded as he got to his feet as well. “You don’t understand. Grace would do just about anything for me, but she can get stubborn. Sometimes she needs a little persuasion.”

Lando Gori reached out and jerked Haydon close. “Stop stalling and get walking. We can be very persuasive if the situation calls for it.”

Vittorio rode the shadows down the winding stairs to the main dance floor, keeping the three men in sight at all times. They were clearly headed for the nearest exit. He wove his way through the shadows, choosing to leave through a pri­vate door that spilled him into the darkest corner of the parking lot. The reserved family parking was just in front of him, empty of course, because he’d ridden the shadows there, not wanting anyone to know he was around.

The three men he followed were halfway across the parking lot to his left. They stopped beside an old, beat‑up Honda. Haydon reached down and unlatched the trunk.

Vittorio’s breath hissed out between his teeth. He wasn’t a man to get angry. It wasn’t in his nature. Ordinarily, he was the peacemaker, the solution- finder. He watched as Haydon jumped back. A small ball of whirling fury exploded out of the truck, hitting the man directly in the chest.

The overhead light was out, something not tolerated in any of the Ferraro parking garages or lots, so the figures were no more than darker silhouettes as he neared them.

“What is wrong with you, Haydon? Get your hands off me.”

The woman shoved at the man, but he caught both her wrists and yanked hard. “Stop, Grace. Just listen for a min­ute. I’m in trouble.”

“You’re always in trouble. Always, Haydon. I told you the last time if you kept gambling you were on your own. I can’t take out any more loans. I can’t work any more hours. You messed up, you’re going to have to fix it yourself.”

Vittorio’s breath left his lungs in a long rush of shock. Something tight in his chest loosened. Someplace vulnera­ble. Someplace guarded and protected. He pressed his hand tightly over the spot, feeling as if that voice had been a key, fitting perfectly into the lock and turning it before he had a chance to react— nd he had lightning- fast reflexes.

“I’m done with you. With your gambling and debts. I’m out of it, Haydon. I mean it. You’ve had more chances than anyone in life should expect to have.” Grace threw her hands into the air and turned away from him.

She was small. Vittorio would have been surprised if she was much more than five feet or five one. She had a figure, full breasts and a very nice ass on her. He appreciated that. He could see why these men would be interested in her. Her skin was very pale, and her hair was a true red. She had it pulled back in a long ponytail. There was something about that thick length of hair that got to him. The woman, as small as she was, standing valiantly in the face of the threat the Saldi enforcers presented, sent heat rushing through his veins.

Lando blocked her exit, stepping directly in front of her, a solid mass of muscle. “You’re going to have to come with us. The car is right over there.” He pointed to a town car with tinted windows.

She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I have nothing to do with his debts. Nothing at all.”

“You’re his sister. Family pays debts.”

“I’m not his sister,” Grace denied, sending a furious look at Haydon. “We were raised in the same foster home. That’s our connection. Whatever he’s into, he’s in it alone.”

“Really?” Ale whipped out a gun, pressing it against Hay­don’s temple. “You want me to kill him right now? That’s the second option.”

“Gracie.” Haydon squeaked her name.

Vittorio could see Haydon wasn’t worried in the least. He didn’t believe Ale would kill him. Vittorio knew better.

Grace froze when she saw the gun, turning slowly to­ward Ale. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” She whis­pered it. “Put that away.”

Lando grinned at Ale. “I think she’s beginning to get the picture. Your friend Haydon made a deal. You pay his debts for him. You’re going to come work for us. A close friend of our boss wants you as his companion for a few weeks. Maybe longer. You make him happy and the debt goes away. It’s that simple.”

Grace’s gaze flicked to Haydon. “You sold me into pros­titution? For your debts?”

Lando’s fingers settled around Grace’s arm. “Get in the car.”

“I’m not a prostitute.” She stubbornly refused to walk.

“I don’t give a damn what you are. The boss says bring you to him, you go to him,” Lando said. His fingers tight­ened like a vise and he yanked her toward the car.

Vittorio rode the shadow that would bring him straight to Ale Sarto. He wrenched the gun from Sarto’s hand and flung it away from them, so that it skittered across the park­ing lot, coming to rest under a BMW some distance away. He slammed his elbow into Ale’s jaw, breaking it, and swept his legs out from under him, stomping on his ribs to keep him down.

He leapt for the shadow, let it sweep him straight to Lando, and was on him so fast, Lando hadn’t had time to react to seeing his partner put on the ground. Vittorio wrenched Grace from Lando’s grip and thrust her behind him, out of harm’s way, as he attacked. Vittorio, always the one to seek solutions verbally, had no middle gear. Either he was talking logically, or he was acting, and when he went into action, he made every blow count.

He wasn’t trying to kill Lando Gori, but he wanted him down and out. Every punch, every kick, every single blow was a punishment. Vittorio was strong, and he trained every single day, as did the other riders. They trained against one another, and that meant speed and strength as well as tech­nique. They all studied anatomy so they knew exactly where to strike to do the most damage. He broke bones when he hit or kicked, and Lando was on the ground, trying to reach inside his jacket for his weapon within seconds.

Grace tried to call out a warning, but Vittorio was al­ready on it, kicking the gun from his hand.

“You’d better stop while you can, Lando,” Vittorio cau­tioned, using his soothing voice. He could calm with that voice and he did so now. “You know the Ferraro Club is off- limits. You were out of line, and you don’t put your hands on a woman on our property ever. You got your ass handed to you and you deserved it.”

Grace cried out. “Haydon, don’t. He helped us.”

Vittorio spun around to see the woman in motion, racing to get between him and Haydon. The gun from under the BMW was in his hand and he was aiming at Vittorio. Not at either of the Saldi enforcers, but at Vittorio. The bullet slammed Grace back into Vittorio and he caught her, turn­ing so his body protected her against another shot.

Haydon threw the gun and ran. Vittorio dropped down on one knee, taking Grace to the asphalt. She was fully awake and looking at him. She had green eyes, the color of jewels, although shock was wearing off and excruciating pain settling in.

“Don’t move. Just let me handle this.” He gave the com­mand without thinking, already mass texting his family and calling for an ambulance. “I’m going to take a look at the wound. Keep looking at me. At my face.” He could al­ready see the bullet had done damage. His worst fear was that it had severed an artery and she would bleed out before help could get there.

She swallowed hard. Her lashes fluttered, but she was definitely courageous. Tears swam. He leaned closer, keep­ing his hand over the wound.

“This isn’t anything we can’t deal with. I’m Vittorio Fer­raro. You are?”

Her lips trembled. She opened her mouth twice to try to form words. He would have told her to stay quiet, but he was a little terrified of her losing consciousness. “Grace. Grace Murphy.”

“An ambulance is on its way. I’m going to tell them you’re my fiancée, just to make things easier in the ER. We’ll get faster results that way. Let me take over for you and get this done.”

Vittorio stared down into her eyes, willing her to stay alert, to stay alive. He needed her to live, more than he needed to breathe. Very gently he pushed the hair spilling into her eyes from her face, his thumb as soothing as his voice.

“Just stay with me, kitten. I’ll get you through this.” She was writhing, her feet pushing up on the asphalt, trying to get away from the pain. Every movement only made it worse.

“You have to stay still, Grace. You can do that. I know it’s hard, but look at me. I’m right here with you. You can do it because I’m asking you to. Just stay still. Don’t let your body move.”

Every nerve ending had to be screaming at her. There were broken bones. His hand pressing on the wound couldn’t be helping. In the distance he heard the scream of the siren, but the ambulance wasn’t coming fast enough.

Her gaze jumped to his and stayed there. She swallowed hard, but he could see her make a brave attempt to stop the fight her body was making to run. He smiled at her. “That’s my girl. Keep breathing for me. They’re on their way.”

His oldest brother, Stefano, emerged from the shadows first, took in the scene with a quick look and then was on the other side of Grace, leaning down with his Ferraro smile and that way he had with women.

“This is Grace,” Vittorio said. “My fiancée.” That should tell his brother everything, and it did. Stefano glanced at him sharply and then down at the woman lying on the ground, trying desperately not to move in spite of the ago­nizing pain because Vittorio had asked her not to.

“What the hell are the Saldis doing here? The cops will be here any moment.”

Ricco and Taviano converged from two different loca­tions in the parking lot. Both scanned their brother first to ensure Vittorio was free from wounds and then took in the entire scene.

“They do this?” Ricco demanded.

Vittorio shook his head. “His gun.” He nodded toward Ale Sarto. “It’s over there. Her foster brother, Haydon— don’t know his last name yet— ried to sell her for his gam­bling debts. Had her in the trunk of his car. They were going to take her, too. Haydon tried to shoot me after I dealt with Ale and Lando. She stepped between us. Her last name is Murphy. She was raised in a foster home with this Haydon. Check the trunk of the Honda for her purse. Get this information to Rosina immediately. As her fiancé I will be expected to know everything about her.”

Taviano was already up, on his phone and hurrying to the Honda where he recovered Grace’s purse. Vittorio kept his eyes locked with Grace’s. Shudders went through her body. Tears tracked down her face. Several times she started to move, but the moment he murmured softly to her, she fought back the urge.

“That’s my girl. Stay with me. You’re doing great. They’re here.”

She looked desperate. He felt that way. He wasn’t about to be separated from her. “No matter what, I’ll be with you,” he promised. He glanced at his brother. Stefano made things happen, even impossible things.

His oldest brother was on the phone to Giuseppi Saldi and the conversation wasn’t pleasant. Stefano was pissed as all hell and the cold, clipped way he was talking to Giuseppi let the man know there were going to be repercus­sions.

“Two of your men are here in my parking lot. My broth­er’s fiancée has been shot with one of their guns and the cops are crawling all over my club. What the fuck, Giuseppi? You making a move on my family?”

There was silence. Vittorio continued to murmur to Grace as the ambulance screamed into the parking lot.

“Some asshole threw her into the trunk of his car, her foster brother or something, and these two clowns were go­ing to take her as payment for his gambling debts. Since when has that been going on? Just letting you know, they’re both going to the hospital and then to jail, and if I see them on the fucking street, they’re dead. You get me, Giuseppi? You come at my family, we’re coming back at you and yours. And we’ll come back hard.”

Stefano ended the call and strode back to Grace and Vit­torio. The EMTs were already running IV lines to Grace. Stefano was back on the phone, calling their surgeon, de­manding he get his team ready and be waiting for Grace when they brought her in. Then he was diverting the police, while Taviano and Ricco kept a loose barrier between Vit­torio and anyone coming into the parking lot. Bodyguards showed up. Three carloads, led by Emilio and Enzo Gallo. They were out and taking charge of the entire lot.

Two detectives arrived, and Stefano beckoned them through the security line. Art Maverick and Jason Bradshaw had investigated the Ferraro family on more than one occa­sion. Vittorio, like the rest of his family, considered them fair and decent men. They weren’t egotistical, and they al­ways remained polite, even when frustrated. The family tried to cooperate with them as best they could. When the Ferraros had evidence involving a crime that they could pass on, they always saw to it that the evidence ended up with Maverick and Bradshaw.

“Who beat the shit out of Gori and Sarto?” Art Maver­ick asked. There was a trace of amusement in his voice that he tried his best to hide. EMTs were working on both men.

“Vittorio,” Stefano said immediately. “He came out into the parking lot to see Grace’s foster brother dragging her out of the trunk of the Honda.” He indicated the car with the open trunk. “Apparently, Haydon was going to sell her to the two morons in exchange for his gambling debt. In other words, sell her into prostitution.”

Art and Jason exchanged a long look of smoldering an­ger. “Are you certain about that?” Jason asked.

“Vittorio overheard them, and Grace can verify if she lives through this.”

“Who shot her?” Art directed the question at Vittorio.

Vittorio was on his feet following the gurney to the am­bulance, grateful for the information coming so fast to his phone. “Haydon Phillips, her foster brother. Ale put a gun to Haydon’s head to scare Grace into complying. I knocked it away, beat the crap out of him and then went after Lando because he had his hands on Grace. While I had him down, Haydon picked up the gun and went to shoot me, and she took the bullet.” He pushed past the detective and slid into the ambulance. No one tried to stop him.

As the door was being closed he spotted his sister, Em­manuelle, running across the parking lot toward the ambu­lance. Then the door was slammed shut and the ambulance was moving fast through the streets of Chicago toward the hospital. His phone was blowing up with information re­garding his woman. He didn’t glance down, not yet. Her eyes were locked with his again and he wasn’t about to let her down.

“I’m with you, baby,” he said softly. “The OR is set up and our surgeon is standing by. He’s the best and his team are miracle workers. You’re going to be fine.”

She tried to form words, but he leaned in close, staying out of the EMTs’ way in the tight quarters. “Don’t talk, Grace. Save your strength. I’ve got this. All you have to do is stay alive for me. I’ll take care of everything else. Will you do that for me? Just stay alive.”

Her nod was nearly imperceptible, but it was there. He was a complete stranger to her, but he knew that connection between them had started there in the parking lot, their shadows touching, coiling together, their eyes meeting. His hands buried in the blood and massive damage to her shoulder. His voice connected them. His compelling prom­ises. He meant every word he said, and she had to feel that. It was all he could give her before she went alone into that cold operating room.

Her foster brother had betrayed her. No matter that she’d known he was a gambler and a drug addict, he still had meant something to her. That had been clear. She’d taken out loans to pay his debt. Took on extra work. He’d heard that very clearly. This was a woman who knew what it was to be loyal, and yet someone close to her would have sold her into pros