The shadow riders kept the family’s enemies from attacking them. No one outside the family knew just how Stefano and his brothers carried out their lethal work and because there were other branches of the family in other cities that also had a reputation for cleaning up messes, no one ever dared openly come after them.

In the underworld, where crime was a daily occurrence and enemies thrived on violence, no one ever dared to touch any member of the Ferraro family. Not gangs, not crime lords, not their bitterest enemy, the one they had a long-standing feud with dating back to the early 1900s in Sicily.

The Saldis had been the deadliest family in Sicily, and they soon realized that people went to the Ferraro family for aid against them. They had demanded the Ferraros join forces with them, and when their invitation was refused, they sent their soldiers to wipe out every man, woman and child in the family. Only a few escaped and went underground. Those who had managed to escape had been mainly shadow riders, and they vowed such a thing would never happen to any family member again.

Stefano was a throwback to those first men and women fighting so hard to keep their family alive. Maybe all the shadow riders were like him, with a will of iron and the guts to fight against impossible odds. That made them both dangerous and extraordinary.

“Stefano, she’s all right,” Franco reiterated. “We’ll get you back as soon as possible and you’ll be able to see for yourself.”

Stefano couldn’t break the rules and call Emilio directly. He was supposed to be in Chicago, not Los Angeles. Even for his own peace of mind over Francesca, he wouldn’t take a chance. The rules had kept them all alive and away from law enforcement. Those guidelines were in place for a reason.

Most people believed they were mafia, members of organized crime. Many, many times, they had been investigated, but of course nothing could ever be found. No matter how many times the businesses were looked at, the Ferraro books were in order. They had never had an indictment against them.

Three times, undercover cops had managed to infiltrate deep enough to gain an audience with the greeters. All three times, the greeters had known they were being lied to and played their part beautifully, acting as if they had no idea what was being asked of them, suddenly realizing and immediately acting shocked, horrified and outraged. Each time the undercover cop had been sent on his way.

“There’s no point in trying to call Ricco and Vittorio back early,” Stefano said, a resigned sigh slipping out. “Francesca had better be all right, Franco, or Emilio and Enzo will be answering to me.”

Franco sent him a faint grin. “Emilio and Enzo already know they’re going to be answering to you. They aren’t looking forward to it, but they expect it.”

“I’m not that bad,” Stefano lied. His eyes met his cousin’s and he found himself smiling ruefully. “Okay, maybe I am.”

He was silent a moment. “Did Emilio say what she was shopping for?” He was inexplicably pleased that she was using his money. He hadn’t thought she would. He’d worried she would hand it all to Dina and the homeless woman would kill herself with alcohol poisoning.

“I believe it was shoes,” Franco said.

Stefano nodded. Francesca needed a good pair of shoes—several of them, but he couldn’t exactly buy her a new wardrobe right away. He’d had a hard enough time forcing his coat and the money on her. He had to be patient. In the same way he prepared for a job, he had to formulate a plan of attack. He was in for the greatest fight of his life, and he had to win. There was no other option.

“I’m thankful to Dina. She had a coat last week, and you know how she is, Franco: she loses one every month. Grazie Dio. I love that Francesca gave Dina her coat.” He took another sip of Scotch. He especially loved knowing that Francesca was wrapped in his coat.

CHAPTER FOUR

Stefano stood very still, looking into the window of Masci’s. Francesca was at the counter, smiling at old man Lozzi. She looked beautiful—and alive. Real. Not the fantasy he’d feared he’d made up in his mind. The tension, coiled so tightly in his gut, eased just a little. He had needed to see for himself that she was unharmed. The glass was tinted and he couldn’t see details, but she moved easily. She was friendly, but she didn’t actually engage in informative chatter.

“Satisfied?” Giovanni asked.

“Not yet.” Stefano turned to face his brother, his features set and hard. “Let’s go home. I want to see those fuckers and find out what the hell they thought they were doing.”

Giovanni slid back behind the wheel of their Aston Martin while Stefano climbed in on the passenger side. Both were used to high-performance luxury and neither noticed the smooth, purring ride as the car glided from the curb and into traffic.