The Archambaults had rotated trainers and stayed throughout the years until he was of age, even after his parents opened the doors to their rooms. They never once consulted with his parents, only him. Every decision he made was his alone, but they asked him why he made each decision and discussed the consequences with him after.
They insisted on talking to him in various languages and corrected him on accents. He didn’t have tutors the way his brothers did—the Archambaults tutored him while they worked out. He was forced to do several assignments at the same time to keep his mind working while his body did other things. They wanted certain muscle memory to be automatic, and eventually, even though in his teenage years Geno despised every single Archambault, he had to admit, they knew what they were doing. His brain worked at a high rate of speed even while he was in a fight for his life. He didn’t have to plan his moves ahead of time, his body worked smoothly and efficiently. He still trained every day and left nothing to chance. He paid attention to instincts and every gut feeling. He might have an occasional drink of scotch, but it was rare.
Geno found, as he grew older, that he was grateful forthe men and women who had given up so much of their time to come and train him. In turn, he had trained his brothers and knew they were as safe as he could make them in the shadows. As suspicious as he had become when his parents had been murdered, he acted on his instincts as the Archambaults had taught him.
“You’re worried these killers aren’t just targeting your family,” Stefano suddenly guessed, leaning forward. “That’s why you held a private service for your parents and didn’t even allow me to attend, isn’t it?”
Geno nodded.
His parents were entitled to a show of respect from other riders. Normally, representatives from around the world would come to their funeral. But Geno and his brothers held a private closed service, sending out the word that they would hold a memorial service later.
“I couldn’t take a chance with other riders. Certainly not with you or yourfamiglia. You are like my own. The same with our cousins in LA and San Francisco. I wouldn’t risk you. I worry for Salvatore and Lucca all the time. Someone is behind this.”
“The kills are not the signature kills of a trained rider,” Stefano said.
Geno watched him closely. He always felt like he could learn from his cousin. Stefano was a shrewd man and very analytical. Not only was he a family man, but as head of the riders in Chicago, like Geno, he had carried responsibility from a very young age. He took that responsibility seriously and never stopped trying to do the best for his family. No one would ever have thought a Ferraro would have formed a partnership with a Saldi and yet Stefano had made it work. He changed with the times, but always kept his family safe. He played his hands close to his chest, not always consulting the council for the riders.
The Ferraro cousins were close. LA, San Francisco, Chicago, New York. They relied on one another because theywere cut off from the other riders for the most part. Until Stefano had found his wife, Francesca, the others didn’t believe they had a chance of finding a partner they could love and raise a family with. He had given them all hope. Now his siblings were married. His family had taken in Elie Archambault, and Elie was happily married as well.
“Why do you think they started here, with your family, if you believe their ultimate goal is to draw the other riders in and kill as many as possible?”
This was where he was on shaky ground, and Geno knew it. He didn’t have much to go on, only the observations of a scared thirteen-year-old boy. But this was Stefano. Over their years together, they’d come to respect each other. If anyone would listen to him, it would be his cousin.
“I think these killings might have to do with whatever happened the night my father lost his leg. I know everyone was told he was in an automobile accident, but that wasn’t true. He was wearing his rider clothes. So was my mother. I watched my parents all the time. I was very good at observation; in fact, it was one of the things my father always encouraged. They had been acting strange for a few weeks. They had meetings with other riders, but always denied anyone had come to see them. I heard the lies. I never saw the other riders, but knew they were there in the shadows. That night, other riders were in the room. Someone had carried my father into his room. My father was a big man. My mother couldn’t have carried him.”
“You didn’t see anyone else?”
Geno took another sip of scotch. “No, but they were there. And I believe my father had gone into the shadows with a horrendous wound knowing he was risking losing his leg. He didn’t want to be seen. To him, to keep the secret was worth losing his leg or even his life.”
Going into a shadow tube with even a small wound was taking a terrible chance. The force the speed in the shadows generated could tear open any laceration and pump blood into the tube at a furious rate. If Geno was correctabout his speculation, whatever secrets his parents shared with the hidden shadow riders had been worth his father’s life—at least that is what they all believed.
“How would our enemy find out who was in the room that night other than your parents?” Stefano asked. “If you didn’t know. You said the surgeon, an anesthesiologist, the two nurses, their bodyguards. Anyone else?”
“The riders hidden in the shadows I know were there. The priest. He was giving him the last rites as I was escorted out of the room.”
“No one else.”
“Viola and Noemi had no knowledge of shadow riding. They only knew we had several successful businesses and ourfamigliamade a great deal of money. Most of the family hasn’t a clue about what we do, Stefano. My best guess would be the two of them told their friends about the hasty operation they attended at the home of a very wealthy man related to them, particularly after they had retired. Once they were working in their shops, they most likely got comfortable around their friends and began regaling them with amusing or exciting tales of their time as nurses. They wouldn’t leave out going to the Ferraros’ home for surgery.”
Stefano let his breath out in a long sigh and then finished off the scotch. “If you’re right about this, Geno, and you’ve rarely been wrong with your gut feeling, whoever is behind this has been planning their revenge for a number of years. They’ve had ears and eyes in our territories and in Little Italy. Who knows where else?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I set a trap for a petty thief. I didn’t expect to catch an assassin,” Geno reiterated. “Now I have to figure out how to interrogate her without getting killed.”
“You’re absolutely set on doing this yourself.” Stefano made it a statement.
“I refuse to put anyone else in jeopardy.”
“I think there’s more to it than that.”
Geno shoved his hand through his hair. “Unfortunately,you could be right. I’ll know when I get in there. If I’m right about her and she’s a shadow rider, I intend to compromise her shadow as fast as possible.”
“Geno, that’s dangerous to you,” Stefano cautioned. “By compromising her shadow, you’re jeopardizing your own.”
“I’m aware of the risks.”
Stefano studied his set features for a long time. “If you’re determined, Geno, and I know how fucking stubborn you are, then you’re going to do it my way. You called me here for a reason—that’s to ensure your safety. That means you do what I say. Agreed?”
Geno hesitated. Stefano wouldn’t have a qualm about taking out a gun and shooting their captive if she threatened Geno’s life in anyway.
