Shadow Reaper
Page 47

 
He was a selfish man, a womanizer, and the shadows represented a way for him to carry out his affairs. He’d never once been decent to Eloisa. He knew what she went through, she’d tried to open up to him, tried to make their marriage real, but he had only thought about the fun he could have. Even after they lost their son, Ettore, and Eloisa had needed him, he had turned away from her. He regretted that. He regretted so many things.
 
I’m dead and I never told her I loved her. He attempted to rise, but he couldn’t feel his legs or arms. He could only watch as the man slowly squeezed the trigger and then there was nothing.
 
The party was in full swing at the Windship Club, one of the most prestigious in Chicago. The event was all about wining and dining the local celebrities so they’d write fat checks for the latest charity Windship was backing. Taviano and Giovanni Ferraro knew it really was about the women, drugs and drink. Vittorio lay in a hospital bed, cut up all to hell, and they were supposed to be snorting coke off a woman’s belly, drinking champagne and taking the women into the next room for a quick blow job, or worse, having one crawl under the table and go for it right there in the plush lounge.
 
Harvey Windship was a sick prick with far too much money. Taviano had never liked the man and Giovanni had a terrible aversion to him. More than once throughout the last hour, Taviano had to be the one to restrain his brother when Giovanni wanted to kick Harvey’s ass – and Taviano was known for his bad temper. He couldn’t wait to see his brothers and point out just which Ferraro had had to be the peacekeeper.
 
Laughter erupted all around them and Taviano made certain to put a fake smile on his face. He was good at that. All the Ferraros were. They played out their lives in front of the paparazzi. Very early they learned the art of smiling at parties they didn’t enjoy, surrounded by people who weren’t their friends.
 
Harvey flung his cut crystal glass into the fireplace and laughed loudly as it shattered, the remaining alcohol making the flames flare for just a moment. “Gina, get over here,” he called.
 
His wife giggled drunkenly and obeyed, her stiletto heels clicking loudly on the marble floor. She teetered and then fell into her husband’s lap when he grabbed her wrist and yanked her down to him. “Having a good time, honey?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.
 
Harvey was a drunk. He liked his booze, and the more he drank the more amorous he got. He thought of himself as a player, although Taviano knew he genuinely loved his wife. It was his one saving grace. He put on lavish parties and raised millions of dollars for charity, so he wasn’t all bad. It was just that his parties were… disgusting. Everyone attended of course. The cream of Chicago. Mostly, Taviano was certain, to see what Harvey would do next.
 
This party was the most garish of all. His wife liked furs so, to thumb his nose at those protecting wildlife, he had decorated the entire club in big-game trophies and real fur rugs and throws. It turned Taviano’s stomach just a little, and when Harvey suggested to one of the girls to “do Giovanni” on the leopard skin rug in front of the fireplace, he almost let Gee hit the man. Instead, both laughed, playing their roles for the press. Giovanni declined and they wandered away to give themselves a respite from the man.
 
Now they were back in the lounge, once again seated in the plush chairs. “Have to go, Harv,” Giovanni said. “Vittorio is in the hospital and we’re each taking shifts with him.” That was a lie and then it wasn’t.
 
Stefano never left the hospital and wouldn’t until Vittorio was completely out of danger, but the others came and went. They took care of business while Stefano and Vittorio were out of commission. Still, it was a good excuse and one Harvey would accept. The man was just drunk enough that he might make a scene, and that was the last thing either of the Ferraro brothers wanted.
 
Both men stood and Harvey tried to get to his feet, too, pushing his wife off his lap. She fell on the floor, landing on her butt. Harvey laughed, subsiding in his chair, his eyes on his wife as she struggled into a full sitting position, her legs sprawled out in front of her. She glared at her husband, who pointed and laughed more.
 
“Come on, Harvey,” Taviano said in resignation. “You don’t want to get locked out of your bedroom for a week, do you?” He leaned down to extend his arm to Gina.
 
Giovanni stepped forward as their two bodyguards turned toward the door where four men had attempted to enter but were stopped by the bouncers. They wore ill-fitting suits and long trench coats over the cheap material.
 
Two men in the chairs closest to Harvey snickered. “Look at those clowns. Think they can crash the party.”
 
Simultaneously, Giovanni’s and Taviano’s phones vibrated in the complicated pattern Taviano had devised to alert each of his brothers when an attack on a family member was imminent or happening. Taviano was already leaning down. He dove toward the shadows under the coffee table, slamming Gina back down to the floor with one ruthless arm hooked around her neck.
 
Tomas and Cosimo Abatangelo, first cousins and bodyguards for the Ferraro family, both shoved Giovanni toward the shadows as they turned, pulling weapons, putting their bodies between the riders and the threat.
 
Gunfire erupted as the four men pulled automatics from under their coats and sprayed the room with bullets. Screams, cries of agony and the sounds of shattering glass along with the thundering roar of guns filled the room. Tomas leapt for the thick lounge chair as he fired at the man on the outside of the group. Fire raced up his leg and chest as holes blossomed there. He saw his target fall as he hit the floor.
 
His brother, Cosimo, landed hard just feet from him, his weapon still barking. The assailants separated, came around from all sides, clearly looking for the Ferraros, who were long gone. Tomas stared at the ceiling, waiting for the bullet that would end his life. Cosimo’s gun had gone silent, and Tomas could hear him struggling for air, his lungs laboring.
 
When they couldn’t find their targets, the three remaining men turned and hurried out of the club into the parking lot. In the distance was the sound of sirens. Clearly several people had called 911 from their cell phones to report the attack and they’d done it very quickly. The assailants raced toward their van. The driver brought the vehicle beside them, the sliding door open. One by one they dove inside, rolled to make room for the next one and sat up.
 
“Move this thing, Danny,” Brady, the acknowledged leader, yelled, slamming the door shut.
 
He turned back to see Sean, the youngest of them, lying still on the floor of the van. He kicked at him with his foot. “What the hell. You hit?”
 
Terry turned his head to observe his younger brother, Sean. He crawled over to him. “Get going, Danny,” he added his command to Brady’s. “The cops will be here any second.” He leaned down to listen for a heartbeat and straightened up quickly. “Shit. He’s dead. I didn’t even see him take a hit.” He scrambled away from his brother until his back hit the wall.