Shadow Rider by Christine Feehan Page B

private hangar, where their jet was already fueled and ready. A couple of paparazzi had followed them, snapping pictures, just as the brothers had intended.
    Stefano arrived by helicopter and strode over to them, intercepting them before they could board the plane. They’d appeared to argue long enough to have several pictures of them taken, the big brother giving his younger brothers a lecture. He’d stalked away, shaking his head, back toward the helicopter. Except he hadn’t been the one to go back to the helicopter. For one split second, Ricco and Vittorio had blocked views of Stefano and he’d entered the shadow and his brother Taviano had emerged, dressed exactly as Stefano was dressed. He shoved his dark glasses over his eyes and stalked back to the helicopter while Stefano used the shadows to board the plane.
    Always, always, they had alibis. There was never a connection between them and the target. Nothing personal. Still, they lived in that world. Violence. Blood. Death. It was their world. Ricco and Vittorio were seen in public coming and going to the airport. They would be in the clubs all night, openly partying with a couple of movie stars and their friends. As far as anyone knew, no one else had flown with them and they were in Los Angeles to have fun.
    Stefano had to shut out all thoughts of Francesca Capello and get the job done. Ricco stood, then Vittorio. Stefano last. Ricco put his hand out. Vittorio put his on top, and Stefano covered both hands with his. They never said anything. There was nothing to say. They just touched. Letting one another know without words they were a unit. A family. They had one another’s backs. They loved.
    Ricco went first, the door opening, throwing the shadows into stark relief. Stefano felt the pull of each of the shadow tubes. Openings he could slide through. The pull was strong on his body, dragging at him like powerful magnets, the sensation uncomfortable, but familiar. Stefano was one of the more powerful riders. Even small shadows drew him, pulling his body apart until he was streaming through light and dark to his destination.
    He carried little equipment with him. Light. That was more essential than any weapon.
He
was the weapon. His body. His mind. Sometimes he thought his very soul. Weapons weren’t as necessary as a light source. If there were no shadows, he could make his own.
    He stepped into the opening of the largest shadow. He would move from one to the next, never seen, going to his destination. He knew he’d need most of the night for traveling, but he had the coordinates and he could find his way unerringly, even in cities he’d never been to.
    It was always cool in the shadows. He moved fast, sliding, a rider of the shadows, slipping through the city unseen. In contrast, Ricco and Vittorio entered the latest hot spot, a club catering to the very wealthy. The music was loud and pounding. The lights dazzling. They wore their three-piece suits. The Ferraro family always, always, dressed for any occasion. They were famous for the look. The gray suits with the darker pinstripe, or the darker suit with the lighter pinstripe. Either a dark gray shirt or a lighter one with a tie just the opposite of the shirt.
    On Ricco’s arms were the Lacey twins. They snuggled close to him, their blond hair falling over his arms, theirslender bodies pressed close to his sides. They stayed that way all night, the three of them blatantly dancing together, Ricco sandwiched between the two women. They moved against him seductively, suggestively. As the night wore on and the beat pounded, the liquor flowed and his hands were all over both of them.
    All three of them knew the paparazzi had managed to sneak in. The twins liked the publicity and being seen with a wealthy Ferraro. They didn’t mind if they were secretly photographed, not even later when the three retired to the twins’ home and swam naked together in the covered pool or even