Shadow Warrior

by Feehan, Christine

  Standing across the street, Vittorio studied every shadow leading to the house. The dog had settled down and was very quiet. He didn’t want to chance disturbing it. Sometimes, when they moved past, even though an animal couldn’t actually see them, the sensation was so disturbing, the dog would bark ferociously, or in some cases, fearfully.

  There were several shadows leading to the front door. He couldn’t chance being seen; he would have to ensure whichever shadow he took would take him into the house. The blinds were drawn so there was no way of seeing inside. From across the street, inside the mouth of the tube, he couldn’t hear anything that was going on in the house.

  Making up his mind, he took a breath and stepped into the largest shadow cast from a tree in the front yard. At once the tube pulled him into what felt like pieces, his body flying apart. The sensation of the dark cylinder spinning around him, over his head and under his feet as he streaked through, added to the sickening feeling.

  He shot through the tube, the speed hurling him through so fast it was difficult to see. They’d trained from the time they were little to see under dizzying conditions, a glimpse enough for their brains to catalogue and sort out where they were and what they actually saw. Right now, he was across the street, over the lawn, up the side of the porch to the front door and inside. Abruptly the shadow ended, and he was forced to put the brakes on too fast as he was nearly hurled onto the floor of the front room.

  Vittorio waited until his body adjusted to the motionless position after the wild ride. He listened for a moment. The house was eerily silent. Once he heard a creak, but it wasn’t overhead, as it should be. The noise sounded like it came from the back of the house. It was possible Phillips was moving around, making himself at home, now that the family was gone.

  Vittorio stepped into a shadow that led from the front room to the hallway. The tube extended nearly to the back of the house, thrown by an overhead light left on, illuminating the way. He rode the shadow as far as possible and took one that brought him to the kitchen. The room was empty, but he could see this was where one of the entrances to the attic was. A trapdoor was built into the ceiling overhead. He could see the frame cleverly concealed by the design painted on the ceiling.

  Vittorio took his time, ensuring that Phillips was in the attic and not somewhere in the house itself. He had already chosen his entry point for the attic and it wasn’t from inside the house. He retreated, going back to the front and then traveling around the house to a side yard, away from the dog and herb garden. A tree cast a perfect shadow going up the side of the house to a large grate that vented the attic. He rode straight up and into the large area without hesitation.

  Phillips had made himself at home up there. There was furniture, overstuffed chairs and a low couch that had seen better days. Food wrappers were scattered on the floor, and a half-opened cooler had food items in it. Water bottles full and empty were near the couch. Phillips lay on the sofa with his back to Vittorio, curled almost in the fetal position.

  Vittorio stepped from the mouth of the shadow he was in to a smaller one that took him right up to the sleeping serial killer. This man, wrapped in rags, had killed several people, torturing them first. He had impacted Grace’s life severely, terrorizing her deliberately. Vittorio stood in the shadows, hearing the sounds of the outside world, the cars going by. A lawnmower. Someone calling out a greeting to someone else. The world kept moving, but here in this attic, time had slowed.

  He studied Phillips. He wasn’t moving at all. Not a single muscle. There was no restless turning over. Strangely, he’d just arrived, not more than a few minutes before Vittorio and yet he was already asleep. Soundly. Vittorio started to move forward out of the mouth of the shadow, but an alarm skittered down his back and he locked himself into position, carefully studying the body.

  The body. Phillips was dead. There was no rise and fall of the rags around him to indicate he was breathing. There was no sound to give it away. Vittorio took a careful look around the attic. There was no one else there, he was certain of it. He was alone with the body. He rode the shadow that would take him closest to Phillips. Out of habit, he didn’t step from the mouth of the shadow, not wanting to leave any trace of his existence there behind.

  He got very close, but stayed concealed, taking his time, examining the body. He leaned over it. Phillips’s face was grizzled, his jaw covered in gray and black stubble. Lines creased his skin. Wrinkles. His nose was large and mottled from far too much alcohol. Vittorio’s heart jumped. This man was definitely not Haydon Phillips. More, he had just died.

  Haydon Phillips had known the photographs he’d sent to Grace would lead back to his hideout. He was certain the police would find his home in the Fieldses’ attic. He had deliberately lured a homeless man to the house and then killed him, leaving the body for the police to discover when they got there. He had no idea the Ferraros were the ones tracking him.

  He’d been there minutes before Vittorio, waiting for the homeless man, leading him up to the attic and then killing him quickly. Vittorio smelled blood mixed with alcohol. He leaned closer and immediately saw that blood had pooled beneath the victim, soaking into the couch cushion. His throat had been cut. Caught between his right sleeve and the back of the sofa was something that looked like a piece of paper, or a photograph. Vittorio debated, but then, because he wore gloves, removed the item.

  Flipping it around, his heart dropped. The photograph had been taken at the Ferraro Hotel. It was taken in the foyer of the penthouse. Stefano’s penthouse. Haydon Phillips had been inside Stefano’s home.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Idon’t like this,” Vittorio said for the tenth time to Emilio. “There are too many people and no way to cover everyone.”

  Emilio looked at him with cool eyes. “My worst nightmare,” he admitted. “I don’t like that Stefano insisted I come to help protect the family here, when he’s a sitting duck with Francesca in the hotel. She can’t move fast. I doubt she would agree to make a run for it. And where is safe? That little bastard seems to be able to go anywhere he pleases without getting caught.”

  Vittorio took a slow look around him. Midnight Madness felt just as if it had been aptly named. The huge ballroom was decorated like the outdoors, the ceiling covered in stars, the heavy drapes covering the walls midnight blue with stars scattered over the tops of them like gems in the night sky.

  Doors stood open in order to allow guests to spill outside onto the enormous patio where food and drink had been set up. The inside and outside areas merged seamlessly, and the music poured into both spaces without intruding. Vittorio knew it was that way because Grace had spoken to the band several times until she got exactly what she wanted.

  Couples danced under the artificial stars with their luminous lights beckoning. He wasn’t entirely certain how Katie and Grace had pulled it off, but the décor was elegant and beautiful, carved ice sculptures and flowing waterfalls with the same luminous lights as the stars had pouring into fountains.

  The event was in full swing. Vittorio recognized most of their guests, celebrities from movies and television to powerful political figures. The Saldis had a presence. Of course they’d been invited. Midnight Madness was an annual charity event that raised several million dollars each year. Teodosiu Giordano was there as well, but he had merely said hello and drifted off with the lady he’d brought with him. Eloisa wouldn’t leave out major contributors, although Giuseppi and Greta couldn’t come due to Greta’s illness taking such a toll on her.

  Watching his woman work behind the scenes so that everything ran smoothly for their guests was an eye-opener. Grace didn’t miss a beat. She was always polite. Always. She started with a smile, but when things didn’t go exactly as she had specified, things quickly got done under her watchful eye. She orchestrated dozens of things for the guests, making certain their names were at the right table and they were seated beside those they particularly liked. She made certain enemies were tables apart. She had an eye fo
r developing trouble and stopped it before it got out of hand.

  “I’ve checked with Stefano numerous times,” Emilio continued their conversation. “He says he’s fine. He claims he doesn’t believe Phillips made it into his home.” There was a note of worry in his voice, something unusual for Emilio. “I personally went over the security measures at the hotel. If he did get in there, and the photograph was clearly of Stefano’s foyer, he’s much cleverer than I am. I couldn’t figure out how he did it.”

  “They are being especially careful of anything Phillips might put in the vents that they could breathe in,” Vittorio responded. His gaze remained on Grace as she talked animatedly with the caterer. Twice she clapped a hand on his shoulder and laughed, the sound even prettier to him than the music playing. “He thinks Phillips bribed one of the hotel maids into taking a picture of the foyer. Stefano is still investigating, but it sounds plausible, given all the security measures we put in place.”

  “This is the perfect place for Phillips to hit, far less risk. I wouldn’t put it past him to go at Stefano and Francesca in the penthouse, but it is far riskier, especially now that he warned us. And why would he warn us?” Emilio asked. “He’s tipping his hand. Why? Just to be able to thumb his nose at us? To show us how smart he is? Uh-uh, the slimy bastard is up to something.”

  “I think so, too,” Vittorio said, frowning as Grace shifted closer to the caterer. It was very obvious she knew him well. He wasn’t used to sharing her company with anyone, let alone other men. He’d never been a jealous man. He didn’t think it was an attractive trait. To him, jealousy said one didn’t trust one’s partner. It also said the person feeling that emotion had little confidence. He was a confident man, but honestly? He didn’t like the close proximity his woman was sharing with the man who had brought the food and beverages.

  Vittorio began drifting toward Grace and the caterer. “Haydon Phillips is an intelligent man. He’s astute and calculating as well. He wouldn’t taunt us without a reason. He left that picture for us, not the cops.”

  “How did he expect you to see the photograph immediately? The cops might have played it close to their chests and not even showed you right away,” Emilio pointed out. “Why would he think you’d get the message, whatever he was trying to tell you?”

  “He called the murder in anonymously. He even reported a strange car in the neighborhood and gave the license plate of Raimondo’s truck. Luckily, Raimondo had a real reason for being there. His mother knew one of the women living in that gated community and she’d called to ask if our family knew anyone willing to do some yard work. She couldn’t afford the price the gardener was asking and her yard needed work. Raimondo said the gardener was price gouging the elderly in the community.”

  A muscle ticked in Vittorio’s jaw. He detested when anyone took advantage of the elderly. “I’ll make certain the gardener knows not to do that again.” He would pay the man a visit personally and the interview would be quite pleasant the first time. He would make it clear if he had to come back, it wouldn’t be so pleasant the second time.

  He studied the dancers as they whirled past him. He knew them all and nodded several times as he made his way to Grace’s side. The moment he was there, he swept one arm around her waist, pulling her beneath his shoulder, even as he turned her to take her mouth with his. It didn’t matter that she had perfect makeup and lipstick. He kissed her like he owned her. Hard. Hot. Possessive. She didn’t fight him. She surrendered. The instant she did, he found himself caught in her spell and he gentled the kiss.

  When he finally lifted his head, he didn’t know who was more bemused, Grace or him. Either way, the kiss had done the trick. Those who witnessed it knew he was staking a claim on her. He wasn’t the type of man to act in any way possessive toward a woman, not the way he was acting with Grace.

  “Vittorio, this is Rene Bisset. He’s one of the best chefs in Chicago.”

  Rene caught her hand and pressed his lips to it. “One of the best? I am the best. Don’t let her fool you. She is trying to keep my ego from inflating my price.”

  “That’s because your food is amazing, and you keep pricing yourself out of the running for my events and you’re always my first choice.”

  Vittorio reached out, took Grace’s wrist from Rene with exquisite gentleness and pressed her palm over his heart deliberately. “The food is delicious. It would be such a shame to lose you.” His tone implied even more than his words.

  The Frenchman snapped to attention, a smirk on his face. “I see this ring. It has blinded me.” He reached for her hand again and this time, just studied the ring. “Magnificent. A ring befitting our girl.”

  Vittorio couldn’t help smiling at Bisset’s audacity. “Is everything the way you wanted it, Grace?”

  “Of course. Rene never disappoints.” Grace stroked the caterer’s ego even more.

  Bisset beamed. Vittorio, for no good reason he could think of, clenched his teeth. Rene reminded him of a slick shark, circling his woman. Instead, Vittorio gave him a charming smile and leaned down to look Grace in her eyes.

  “Are you finished here, mi vida? Perhaps you have time to dance with your man.”

  Grace rubbed his chest, right over his immaculate tux. The one with the thin stripes. It was a distinctive design few wore—mainly the Ferraro brothers and Emmanuelle. Tonight, his sister wore a beautiful gown from one of the leading designers. It was made of a special fabric and had the same thin strips running through the black. The dress clung to her figure, and the fabric moved with every step she took, as if alive.

  Vittorio could see Emmanuelle in the distance, making the rounds as he needed to be doing, making a point to talk to those with large bank accounts in the hopes that they’d open their pocketbooks and support the Ferraro causes. He didn’t wait for Grace’s reply but turned her toward the crowd milling around their assigned tables and making trips to the dance areas.

  Inside the ballroom, nearly every couple was dancing. A few stood around the edges watching, but most took the opportunity to dance with one another. The music was upbeat but deliberately romantic, calling to anyone listening to get on their feet. Vittorio thought Grace may have put some form of compulsion in the décor and music because the night took on a magical quality as he walked with her through the crowd and out to the patio to get to his brother Taviano.

  A tall blonde, a notable actress, stood close to Taviano. He had his arm around her waist and he bent down often to hear what she had to say. The two of them laughed often and naturally. They looked very much like a couple who were comfortable with each other.

  “Anne Marquis looks stunning tonight,” Grace said. She waved at several other couples, murmuring her hellos and calling them by name.

  He should have known his woman would know the identity of every person attending the event. It was her event and her guest list. She had to have gone over it a hundred times. Not to mention, Eloisa tended to invite the elite every time, so her charity made a lot of money, but it narrowed the guest list.

  “Anne has always been a favorite of our family,” Vittorio said as they neared the other couple. They were stopped numerous times, and he knew that was because everyone wanted to see that it was true—he was engaged to Grace Murphy. “A really good friend.”

  “I’m glad Taviano is escorting her. They look so good together.”

  Vittorio scanned the patio in an effort to catch a glimpse of Anne’s ex-husband. She’d been so in love with him and his betrayal had nearly wrecked her. She’d called Emmanuelle, who had gone over to her house and removed any pill that might tempt her to do something crazy in her grief. Then they’d stayed up for two straight nights talking. When Anne had fallen asleep, Emmanuelle had guarded her, taking phone calls and redirecting them to Anne’s agent.

  Her ex-husband, Moritz Mischer, the owner of a famous winery, had a piece of eye candy on his arm. The girl couldn’t hold a candle to Anne. She was wearing a gown cut in a vee down the front all the way to her n
avel. The back had a similar cut to the very middle of her buttocks, but the back had thin strips of material, a ladder holding the back in place. Her laugh was overly loud, and she clung to Mischer and sent Anne poisonous glares.

  Anne didn’t look across the patio at them. She seemed completely absorbed in her conversation with Taviano. Emmanuelle made her way to the couple and the two women hugged. Vittorio noted with satisfaction that Mischer couldn’t take his eyes off his ex-wife, who looked elegantly stunning as usual.

  Candy Chardonnay had been the model Mischer’s winery had hired to do commercials and posters. She’d legally changed her name to Candy Chardonnay when she’d begun her acting career in the porn industry. Moritz spent a good deal of time with her and when she’d offered him all kinds of favors he’d taken her up on them. Unfortunately, for him, Candy had also arranged a very public way for Anne to find out. The paparazzi just happened to be there when Anne opened the door, exposing Candy on her knees, her head in Mischer’s lap. She had looked up and smiled for the cameras, a very distinct and iconic contrast to Anne’s sorrow and horror and Mischer’s shock. That contrast ensured the photograph was in every tabloid possible.

  Mischer was unaware Candy was behind the exposure, but the Ferraro family, at Anne’s request, had done an investigation. Rigina and her sister uncovered the phone calls Candy had made to the paparazzi, promising them a very juicy story on Anne and her husband. She had called Anne anonymously and told her she had to hurry to the winery, that Mischer was hurt. Anne had rushed there.

  Vittorio continued moving Grace expertly through the crowd, winding his way toward his brother and Anne, all the while scanning every possible hiding place and checking out the caterers in their uniforms, balancing trays as they moved around the people, offering hors d’oeuvres. No one bumped into Grace. Vittorio protected her shoulder at all times.