Still the van hadn’t moved. Needing an outlet for the adrenaline and grief, Terry screamed at the driver. “Move this fucking van now, Danny, or I’m going to shoot you. Brady, you drive.” He lifted his weapon half-heartedly as a threat toward the driver.

Brady sat a few feet away, slumped over, looking peculiar. Something was off about the way he was sitting.

“Brady?” Terry lowered his gun. “Danny, something’s wrong with Brady.”

Danny turned his head to look. “He’s dead. That’s what’s wrong.”

The voice didn’t sound right. Staring at the driver, frowning, trying to figure out what was wrong with all of them, Terry scooted toward Brady on his hands and knees. It hit him then. The driver wasn’t Danny. It was Taviano Ferraro. Whipping his head around, he tried to think what he’d done with his gun even as he knew it was far too late. Hands were on his head. There was a terrible wrenching. Pain flashed through his body. Excruciating. The wrenching happened a second time and then he was gone.

Taviano leapt from the van just as Giovanni did. They raced back toward the club, one hand sending alert texts to their families. They’d already called 911 and asked for ambulances and cops. Tomas and Cosimo were theirs. They had to know if they had survived and, if so, how badly they were injured.

Eloisa Ferraro hurried outside, nearly forgetting to set the lock on her door. She was tired of Phillip playing around with all his young girlfriends, making her out to be the psycho wife to extract himself when he got bored with the relationship. She’d contemplated divorcing him for some time. A rider didn’t do such a thing easily. If she divorced Phillip, she could never ride again. Their shadows had tangled together, and if torn apart, she’d lose her ability to ride, and Phillip would never remember a single thing about the Ferraro family. He’d taken the name and he wouldn’t even remember that.

Vinci Sanchez, their lawyer, would help the Greco family plant a lifetime for Phillip. He’d have money and a past, but wouldn’t remember a single thing about being associated with the Ferraro family. Not her. Not his children. It was a high price to pay for divorce, but it was time.

His latest mistress was twenty-five years old. Confronting the women for him was becoming harder and harder. She just didn’t have the energy or will. So screw him. She was going to divorce him. She’d call Vinci that afternoon, as soon as she got back from visiting Melani Barone, a woman she’d known for years. Massimo and Melani owned Luna’s, a favorite restaurant the Ferraro family frequented. The note from Melani sounded very urgent but off a little. Stilted and unlike her. That only served to alarm Eloisa more.

She’d called Henry, the man who had grown up in her family and worked for them for longer than she’d been alive. He took care of their cars. The cars, as a rule, were stored in a climate-controlled garage. Henry kept them in good shape and was extremely loyal to the Ferraros. But he did everything at his own pace and was bossy as hell. Especially to her. The car wasn’t waiting in the driveway for her. That annoyed her to no end. Everything seemed to annoy her these days.

Vittorio was in the hospital. Why? No one knew. Probably the teenage girl Stefano and Taviano had insisted risking their lives as well as the family for. Nicoletta something. Who even knew what a girl like that would be like? Slutty no doubt, like that awful Teresa Ventura. Now Lucia and Amo Fausti were at risk as well just because they were sweet enough to foster the girl. By all accounts, the teen had been with so many men already and she wasn’t even eighteen, no doubt exactly like Teresa Ventura.

Eloisa glanced at her watch, stomped her foot and glared down the driveway. What was holding Henry up? She detested being late to anything. With Vittorio in the hospital, Stefano was in a bad mood, giving her nasty looks just because she wouldn’t visit him there. She couldn’t, but she wasn’t about to try to explain why. Not to any of them. She didn’t owe them an explanation anymore, and she didn’t care if she was never going to win a mother-of-the-year award.

In the distance, she saw the car coming toward her. Henry was driving very fast. Unusual for him. No, impossible for a man like him. He babied the cars. He would never, not in a hundred years, drive like that. She stiffened, took stock of her surroundings and waited until the car was almost in the driveway. She stepped into the shadows, feeling the familiar pull on her body as she was torn apart to become nothing but molecules. She was whisked from one tube to the next, circling around behind the car as it came to an abrupt halt in her driveway.

Three men leapt out of the still-running car, leaving the doors wide open. A fourth sat behind the wheel, a gun in his hand, tracking the yard. The three men all carried semiautomatics, and they sprayed the shadows along the house and across the wide lawn. She rode the shadows behind the assailant closest to her, sliding out of the tube right behind him, snapping his neck and catching the gun before it – or the body – hit the ground.

She’d been at this far too long to let four idiots take her down. She might be old enough to have grandchildren, but she hadn’t lost her skills. And what had they done with Henry? He might annoy the holy hell out of her, but he was family, and if they touched one hair on his head, even after she killed them, she’d come back and chop them into pieces. She found her stomach lurching at the idea of Henry being killed by these men. He was ex-CIA, and before that Special Forces. She had known him since she was a little girl and he was the one constant in her life she could count on.

She shot the two men in front of her in the back of the neck, using the gun she’d taken from their fallen comrade. Mercenaries. Not very good ones. Whoever sent them probably viewed her as the least of their threats. A society woman. Mother of a bunch of playboys. Old. Damn it all, she wasn’t that old. She wasn’t twenty-five like Teresa Ventura, but she damn well refused to be old. She shot the driver just as he turned his head toward her, realizing his friends had stopped shooting.

She walked up carefully to each of the fallen men, checking to ensure they were dead. Her car was a mess. Blood all over the windshield and seat. She really liked that particular car. Another vehicle approached, lights flashing, and she knew that was Henry just by the way he drove. She was shocked at the relief she felt that he was alive. Her knees turned to rubber and she almost went down.

He jumped out of the car, a semiautomatic in one hand and a shotgun in the other. “You all right, Eloisa?” He was on her in seconds, kicking one of the bodies out of the way to get to her, running his hands over her to ensure she wasn’t hurt.

“I’m fine,” she assured.

There was a lump on his temple and another on the back of his head, both bleeding. She touched one of the cuts. It was deep and bleeding profusely. He’d come for her though. As hurt as he was, he’d come for her.

“You don’t have your phone on you, Eloisa.” It was an accusation. “Ricco sent out a warning that the family was under attack. Everyone tried to reach you, but you didn’t cue in the code that you got the message.”