Amaranthe was a good match for him. Geno might be frustrated that she didn’t back down and give him what he demanded, but he knew she was capable—not only capable, there in the shadows—she might just be superior. He didn’t know if she was faster than he was and he didn’t care. It only mattered to him that she stayed alive.
He knew he could easily have been chosen and trained by Jean-Claude to be one of his “police force.” He should have realized one or both brothers would be trained in his place once it was determined his character was a deterrent. Lucca was more like him. He appeared easygoing, but he had a streak of mean in him, just as Geno did.
Geno had always considered Salvatore the best of hisfamily. He had genuine compassion for others. Geno and Lucca had compassion, but it was buried deep, and it took a lot to bring it to the surface. With Salvatore, it was there immediately. He saw the best in people first. Geno and Lucca saw the worst—they expected the worst, and with the people they dealt with—they were usually right. Geno despised that he hadn’t foreseen that Jean-Claude would choose Salvatore in his place.
Salvatore was a natural choice. He would see the need for someone to police the Archambaults. He wouldn’t like it, but he would do it out of duty. He would see the need the council had for someone to go after rogue riders, extremely dangerous ones. Again, Salvatore would view the task as necessary.
Now, Geno could understand why his youngest brother had insisted he wanted to have an arranged marriage and settle with a shadow rider to produce children. Geno wouldn’t be shocked if Jean-Claude and the council had pushed Salvatore in that direction. That was one order he could—and would—counter. Salvatore could wait a few more years on the off chance he might meet a woman and fall in love.
Now that he had a direction the assassin had taken and Geno knew where the other riders were, he stepped off the main tube he was using to follow Amaranthe into a much smaller feeder tube. It was slick as hell and fast as lightning. Instantly, it felt as if his entire body was being ripped to pieces. The faster the shadow tube, the worse the effects on the body. This one shredded, turning the body inside out, tearing the eyes from the sockets and leaking brain matter into the tube.
Geno had been shadow riding from the time he was very young. He’d experienced the various hallucinations produced from riding the more dangerous types of tubes while feeling torn apart. He had experience with every kind of shadow. The fast, slick ones were always the worst. Those were the ones most riders avoided if possible. They were painful, and riders could easily become disoriented andlost. Some lost consciousness. Once that happened, death could occur quickly. Geno’s vision and reflexes always remained steady in the faster, slicker tubes, even when the hallucinations became violent. He never lost sight of his surroundings or the maps in his head. He hadn’t even as a child.
He stepped from one shadow to the next, determined to catch up with the assassin. He was certain the man was heading for an old wine cellar at the far end of the docks that gave access to a storm drain. From there, the man would have a clear path to anywhere in the city.
The man was injured. The blow from Amaranthe had jarred his heart. She had put her body weight behind the double kick. Not only her body weight, but she’d also leapt through the air with good speed, and that had doubled the force of the jolt when she’d kicked him.
Geno made no sound as he came out of the shadows, halting just in the opening of the tube. He got his first good look at the assassin. He didn’t recognize the rider. He didn’t know the family the man came from. He was tall, blond. Now he was facing Amaranthe, his blue eyes narrowed and focused on her. She appeared tiny, a slender ballerina in her sparkling navy tulle dress, looking anything but an elite rider.
The assassin gripped a knife in his left hand, the blade short. Geno had no idea of the material, but it didn’t look like any knife he’d ever seen before, only that the blade was very sharp and looked lethal enough.
“Get on with it, bitch,” the man snarled.
The accent startled Geno. Definitely Australian.
“Who are you?” Amaranthe asked. Calm. Voice low. Compelling. “I don’t think we’ve ever met. If you plan on killing me, the least you can do is introduce yourself.”
“You shouldn’t have interfered.”
No trained assassin engaged in conversation. They got the job done. Geno would have killed Amara without hesitation. This man wasn’t a professional as much as he’d liketo think he was. The plan in the dining room had obviously been worked out ahead of time, but it was amateur hour. Now the Ferraros had two prisoners to interrogate, and Geno would bet neither prisoner had poison capsules to use the way Amaranthe had. They would wish they did by the time Dario finished with them.
“I couldn’t let you kill Stefano Ferraro.” Amaranthe sounded innocent, sweet. Even puzzled. One of her gifts. Her voice continued to be compelling.
She looked smaller and more delicate and fragile than ever. The Australian rider took a step closer to her and she appeared not to notice. She tucked her hair behind her ear. Geno noticed she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring. What had she done with it? She was barefoot. She’d somehow kicked off her shoes when she’d hit the assassin’s chest, leaving the heels behind in the shadow tube as she entered. How many hours had she practiced that move?
“Stefano Ferraro is a traitor to all riders and deserves to die.”
Amaranthe frowned. “Do you have proof? If you do, you need to take it to the Archambault riders in France immediately to have him investigated.”
The Australian halted all forward swaying and remained still the moment she sounded alarmed, as if she were willing to believe him.
“They would do nothing. He’s too powerful.”
Amaranthe bit her lower lip and gave a small shake of her head. “Did you try? If not them, then certainly the International Council would listen. They would have to listen. They govern all riders, including the Archambaults.”
There was a hint of doubt in her voice, masterfully played. Geno focused his attention on the Australian’s posture. He was much more relaxed. He had even released enough tension in his arm that it dropped slightly and the tip of the knife was no longer pointed upward toward Amaranthe’s heart. She needed to keep talking to him in the sweet, innocent way she had, luring him in.
Geno sensed his brother Salvatore in the shadows to the right of him. Lucca was behind him. Both were utterly still, and he willed them to stay that way. The Australian made three of Amaranthe. On one hand, her diminutive size was a major part of the reason the assassin had relaxed, believing he had the upper hand, giving Amaranthe the advantage, but on the other hand, Geno knew if the man actually got to her, sheer bulk would count.
“They won’t listen,” the Australian said decisively.
“Did you already go to them and were turned down? There must be someone who would listen,” Amaranthe returned, frowning, and biting on her lip. “The Archambaults are sworn to be impartial. Why would they be afraid of the Ferraro family?”
“Are you afraid of the Ferraro family?”
“I am just meeting them for the first time really. I met Stefano briefly. We barely spoke. Mostly, I think he wanted to ensure I was good enough to become engaged to Geno. Geno is head of the New York family, but Stefano is head of all the Ferraro families. Everyone defers to him, which you obviously know, or you wouldn’t have targeted him.”
The Australian indicated the shadow behind her. “I’m going to give you a chance to walk away. You aren’t a Ferraro, and you have no part of this. Get rid of his ring permanently and get as far from that family as possible. Go back to being what you’re born to do—dancing.”
