Shadow Rider
Page 18
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, their slender 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 later still, in the hot tub on the open deck, where a zoom lens could find them.
Ricco always practiced his art of erotic tying away from the camera. Still, the twins talked about how sexy and sensual it was to their friends, who then repeated everything to the paparazzi. Still, no photographer had ever actually gotten a picture of Ricco using the art of Shibari on a woman.
Vittorio was much more discreet. He danced with the Lacey twins’ friend, another up-and-coming actress. She was quieter than the twins, but no less willing to be seen. If anything, she was even hungrier for publicity. There were no innocents in their business, and the brothers made certain of that. They didn’t romance women. They had their fun, made certain the women they fucked had fun as well, but they didn’t date. They didn’t make promises. They never, never, took advantage of a woman who didn’t know the score or the game.
There were rules. Lots of rules. They lived them to the letter, never deviating. The brothers were highly sexual and they had no compunction about finding women who were more than willing to see to those needs in return for the same, but there were never emotional entanglements. Any woman who looked as if she might be getting ideas, or real feelings toward them, was dropped instantly.
Stefano had more than his share of women. He’d been careful though, mindful of the fact that what was put on the Internet or in magazines never went away. Any indiscretion could be brought back at any moment. He didn’t mind the press printing the truth—that the brothers went through women, that the women were wealthy celebrities or heiresses and that they all partied hard. The brothers and their sister provided alibis for one another. Always. It didn’t matter what city, or which state—no job could ever be traced back to them, and though they didn’t know it, the paparazzi aided them with those alibis.
Stefano found himself in a residential area, outside the home of his target. The neighborhood was a good one. The home was large, perhaps a good six thousand square feet. Well kept. The yard maintained. Edgar Sullivan resided there. In his community he was known as a hardworking man. An upstanding man. A pillar in his church. He had a wife and two daughters. Few people ever noticed that the women in his home had little to say. Rarely smiled. Jumped in fear if spoken to and looked to him before they answered the simplest questions.
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, their slender 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 later still, in the hot tub on the open deck, where a zoom lens could find them.
Ricco always practiced his art of erotic tying away from the camera. Still, the twins talked about how sexy and sensual it was to their friends, who then repeated everything to the paparazzi. Still, no photographer had ever actually gotten a picture of Ricco using the art of Shibari on a woman.
Vittorio was much more discreet. He danced with the Lacey twins’ friend, another up-and-coming actress. She was quieter than the twins, but no less willing to be seen. If anything, she was even hungrier for publicity. There were no innocents in their business, and the brothers made certain of that. They didn’t romance women. They had their fun, made certain the women they fucked had fun as well, but they didn’t date. They didn’t make promises. They never, never, took advantage of a woman who didn’t know the score or the game.
There were rules. Lots of rules. They lived them to the letter, never deviating. The brothers were highly sexual and they had no compunction about finding women who were more than willing to see to those needs in return for the same, but there were never emotional entanglements. Any woman who looked as if she might be getting ideas, or real feelings toward them, was dropped instantly.
Stefano had more than his share of women. He’d been careful though, mindful of the fact that what was put on the Internet or in magazines never went away. Any indiscretion could be brought back at any moment. He didn’t mind the press printing the truth—that the brothers went through women, that the women were wealthy celebrities or heiresses and that they all partied hard. The brothers and their sister provided alibis for one another. Always. It didn’t matter what city, or which state—no job could ever be traced back to them, and though they didn’t know it, the paparazzi aided them with those alibis.
Stefano found himself in a residential area, outside the home of his target. The neighborhood was a good one. The home was large, perhaps a good six thousand square feet. Well kept. The yard maintained. Edgar Sullivan resided there. In his community he was known as a hardworking man. An upstanding man. A pillar in his church. He had a wife and two daughters. Few people ever noticed that the women in his home had little to say. Rarely smiled. Jumped in fear if spoken to and looked to him before they answered the simplest questions.
