He turned to face them, his five brothers and one sister, with their faces looking concerned. Grim. But there was Francesca, Stefano's wife. He focused on her and the compassion in her eyes. She had nudged Stefano several times to get him to stop. It had worked both times, but only for a moment or two.
"I'm going to say this one more time and then never again. You don't have to believe me." He spoke to Francesca because, surprisingly, it was Francesca who believed him. They all should have. They could hear lies. That gave him pause. He could hear lies. If no one believed him, it was because he had to be lying to them--and to himself.
He turned his back on them. Just that little motion hurt. His body protested the slightest thing he did. "At least wait until you get the report on the car before you jump to conclusions. I didn't have control. The car's system just shut down." That much he was certain of. He drove at speeds of over two hundred miles per hour and had no trouble; his hand-eye coordination and his reflexes never failed him. The car had failed. He knew that with absolute certainty, so why couldn't he convince his brothers and sister that he hadn't tried to end his life? Why couldn't he convince himself?
It took everything he had to stand there, trying not to sway when his body broke out in a sweat and he could count his heartbeats through the pain swamping his muscles. What had he done to try to save himself? Nothing. He'd done nothing. He'd let fate decide, closing his eyes and giving himself up to the judgment of the universe. He'd woken up in the hospital with needles in his arm and pain in every single muscle and organ in his body in spite of the painkillers.
His room was filled with flowers. There were boxes of cards, all from the people in Ferraro territory, the blocks considered off-limits to any criminal. Their people, all good and decent. He hadn't looked at the cards, but he wanted to keep them. He didn't deserve those cards any more than he deserved the concern on his brothers' and sister's faces, or the compassion Francesca showed. Still, he was alive and he had to continue.
"Something went wrong with the car, Stefano," he repeated, turning back to look his brother in the eye.
"We're checking the car," Vittorio assured. He was always the peacemaker in the family and Ricco appreciated him. "We immediately towed it to our personal garage and it's been under guard. Only our trusted people are working on it."
Ricco flicked his brother a quick glance that was meant to serve as a thank-you. He didn't say it aloud, not with Stefano breathing down his neck.
"You almost died," Stefano said, and this time the anger was gone from his voice and there was strain. Apprehension. Caring.
That was Ricco's undoing. It was impossible to see or hear the stoic Stefano torn up. He was the acknowledged head of the family for a reason. Ricco didn't deserve for them all to care so much. There were too many secrets, too many omissions. He'd put them all in jeopardy and they had no idea. Worse, he couldn't tell them. He just had to watch over them night and day, a duty he took very seriously.
He shook his head, sighing. "I know, Stefano. I'm sorry. I lost control of the car." That was true. He had. He remembered very little of the aftermath, but in that moment when he realized the car wasn't an extension of him anymore, that it was a beast roaring for supremacy, separate from him, he had felt relief that it was over. If he had died, it all would have been over and the danger to his family would be gone.
"Are you convincing me? Or yourself?" Stefano asked quietly. "We're taking you out of here, but you have to pull yourself together. Enough with the craziness, Ricco, or I'll have no choice but to pull you off rotation even after you're physically cleared for work--which, by the way, won't be for some time."
Gasps went up from his brothers and Emmanuelle, his sister. Francesca uttered a soft no and shook her head. Ricco's heart nearly seized. He was a rider. A shadow rider. It was who he was. What he was. A rider had no choice but to do what he'd been trained for from the age of two--even before that. It was in his bones, in his blood; he couldn't live without it.
Stefano stepped directly in front of him, close, so they were eye to eye. "Understand me, Ricco. I won't lose another brother. I'll do anything to save you. Anything. Give anything, including my life. I'll use every weapon in my arsenal to protect you from yourself and any enemy that comes your way. You do something about this, whatever it takes, and that includes counseling. But there aren't going to be any more accidents. You get me, brother? There will be no more accidents."
Ricco nodded his head. What else could he do? When Stefano laid down the law he meant every word he said. It wasn't often that Stefano spoke like this to them, but no one would ever defy him, including Ricco. He loved his brother. His family. He'd sacrificed most of his life for them gladly, but Stefano was more than a brother. He was Mom, Dad, big brother, protector, all rolled into one.
It was Stefano who had always been there for him. His own mother hadn't even come to the hospital to visit him after the accident, but Stefano had barely left even to eat. He looked haggard and worn. Every time the pain had awakened Ricco from his semiconscious state, Stefano and his brothers and Emmanuelle had been right there with him. They'd stuck by him throughout those long six weeks. That solidarity only reinforced his decision to keep them safe. They were everything to him.
"I get you," he assured softly.
"It's done, then. You don't train any more than the regular training hours, and that's after you've done your physical therapy and the doctors okay you for training again. You sleep even if you have to take something to get you to sleep. You stop drinking so fucking much and you talk to me if you are having trouble doing those things."
His heart was pounding overtime now. He couldn't promise Stefano that he would stop with his extra training hours once he was cleared. He had to make certain he was in top form. That he didn't--couldn't--ever make a mistake again. That was part of him as well. But how did he explain that to his brother when he couldn't explain why? He just nodded, remaining silent so no one could hear his lie.
He drank sometimes to put himself to sleep; he could stop drinking with no problem, he just wouldn't be able to sleep. He wasn't about to say anything more to Stefano. It was impossible to lie to him and he didn't want his brother to worry any more than he already was.
Staring into the mirror as he finished buttoning his dove gray shirt, he looked at the vicious bruises and the swelling, at the side of his head that felt as if it had nearly been caved in, causing the severe concussion. Beneath the shirt his muscles rippled with every movement, a testimony to his strength--and he was unbelievably strong. According to the surgeon, a miracle and his superb physical condition had saved him from certain death. His frame was deceptive in that his roped muscles weren't so obvious the way his cousins' were, but they were there beneath the skin of his wide shoulders and powerful arms.
He reached for his suit jacket. The Ferraro family of riders always wore a pinstriped suit. Always. It was their signature. Even Emmanuelle wore the suit, fitted and making her look like a million bucks, but then she could wear anything and look beautiful. He sent his sister a reassuring smile because she looked as if she might cry. He knew he looked rough. He felt worse than rough, but his sister didn't have to know that.
"I'm fine, Emme," he reassured softly. He wasn't, but then, he hadn't been for a long, long time.
"Of course you are," she said briskly, but she looked strained. "Walking away from a crash like that is easy for a Ferraro."
He hadn't exactly walked away from it, but he was standing now, and that was what counted. He forced himself not to wince as he donned his jacket. Once the material settled over his arms and shoulders, he looked the way his brothers looked--a fit male, intimidating, imposing even. No one could see the bruises and internal injuries, or inside his head where someone was taking a jackhammer to it.
There was a rustle at the door. His brothers Giovanni and Taviano moved aside to allow the doctor and nurse to enter. The doctor glared at all of them. The nurse kept her eyes on the floor. He noted her h
ands were shaking. She didn't want to confront the Ferraros, but had no choice when the surgeon insisted on saying his piece.
"You shouldn't be up, Mr. Ferraro," Dr. Townsend said. "You were in a coma for three weeks and your operation took hours to repair all the damage to your organs. You need rest and extensive physical therapy."
"I've done nothing but rest for the past six weeks."
"You're going to have headaches, blurred vision, dizziness on and off for a while. You need care."
"I'm fine," Ricco assured. "And very grateful to you." That had to be said whether or not it was a lie. And it was a complete lie. He had the headache from hell, was dizzy and his vision was blurred, but he was leaving.
"I refuse to release you. You could have blood clots, an aneurysm, any number of complications," the doctor continued.
"I won't," Ricco said, giving them the look every Ferraro had perfected before their tenth birthday. His eyes were cold and flat and hard. Both the doctor and nurse immediately moved back. That, at least, was satisfying. He took another step toward them and they parted to allow him through. He might look like hell, and feel worse, but he was still formidable.
"I want the boxes of cards, but you can distribute the flowers to other hospital patients," Ricco continued, ignoring Stefano's frown. He knew what that meant. Stefano would want to talk to his doctor. A shadow rider could hear lies and compel truth--even from someone in the medical field. He kept walking, knowing his brother would never let him walk out to face the reporters alone.
"You're leaving against medical advice," the doctor reiterated.
Ricco didn't slow down. Immediately, his brothers and Emmanuelle fell into step around him. Surrounding him. Shoulder to shoulder. Solidarity. The moment he was one step outside his hospital room, his cousins, Emilio and Enzo Gallo, moved in front of them. Tomas and Cosimo Abatangelo, also first cousins, dropped in behind. The cousins always acted as bodyguards for the Ferraros, and Ricco knew he needed them. He might say he was ready to leave the hospital, but he wasn't. His body needed rest desperately, as well as time to heal. He just couldn't do it there.
The press had been all over the accident, trying to sneak into the hospital and get photographs of him covered in bandages. One nurse had been suspended while they investigated the allegation that she'd taken numerous pictures of Ricco unconscious and sold them to the tabloids. There had been several other attempts by orderlies and a janitor. Anyone getting a picture of playboy billionaire Ricco Ferraro after he crashed his race car in a fiery display stood to make hundreds of thousands of dollars.
"Did Eloisa come to visit you?" Stefano asked, walking in perfect step with him.
Ricco glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "I crashed, Stefano. Not perfect. Why would you think our mother would ever come to visit me when I showed the world I was less than perfect?" Stefano had raised them, not Eloisa.
Stefano glanced at Francesca. "I thought she was attempting to turn over a new leaf. Guess I was wrong."
Ricco didn't answer. He knew Francesca, Stefano's wife, had been trying to make peace with Eloisa, but his mother didn't seem to have one maternal instinct in her body. He couldn't care less. They'd had Stefano while growing up and he'd watched out for them--just as he was doing now. His eldest brother might be annoying, but he loved his siblings. A. Lot. And he looked after them. It was something they all counted on.
Ricco hated that he'd caused his brothers and sister so much concern. He knew he had to change his life around. It was time. He just didn't know how.
"Ready?" Stefano asked as they approached the double doors leading to the parking lot. No one broke stride, all moving with the same confident step. The town car had already been brought to the entrance. It was only a few feet, but the paparazzi, several rows deep, already had flashes going off.
"Yeah," Ricco said. He wasn't. He could barely walk upright. Every single step jarred his body and reminded him he was human.
The doctors had told him that if he hadn't been in such good shape physically, he wouldn't have survived. That was both a blessing and a curse. He knew more sweat dotted his forehead even before he could reach the privacy of the car, but he kept walking. He had to get out of the hospital before he lost his mind. He'd had his own private wing paid for by the Ferraros, complete with bodyguards, but that hadn't stopped the madness of the press and the fear that they'd catch him at his most vulnerable.
Stefano and the rest of his siblings had stayed the three weeks he was kept unconscious; at least that was what Francesca had whispered to him. They only left if a job was imperative. Once he was awake, it was mainly Stefano with him while the others took care of work. He felt their love, and in that moment, facing the paparazzi with his siblings surrounding him, he knew it had all been worth every sacrifice he'd made to protect them. He'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.
Ricco kept his head up as they moved as a single unit to the town car with its tinted windows. Emilio and Enzo cleared a path through the reporters. None of the Ferraros even looked at them. Ordinarily they were friendly with the paparazzi. They needed the reporters and photographers to provide alibis for them. Today, the family just wanted to get Ricco home.
To his dismay, Stefano slid into the car with him. Ricco sighed and shook his head as Tomas shut the door on the frantic cameras and shouted questions. Enzo slipped behind the wheel.
"Stefano." God, he was tired. He lifted a hand to wipe at the beads of sweat dotting his forehead. "You don't have to escort me home."
"I wanted a private word with you."
Evidently the fact that Enzo was driving the vehicle and Emilio was in the front seat with him didn't matter.
Ricco laid his head against the cool leather. "I'm listening."
"I've been patient since you returned from Japan. More than patient. You've not been the same since Japan and I've waited for you to tell me what the hell happened to change you, but you pretend it's all good. It isn't, Ricco."
Ricco stiffened in spite of all of his training. It was the last thing he expected Stefano to bring up. He was barely fourteen when he'd been sent to Japan and had just had his sixteenth birthday when he returned. It seemed a lifetime ago. He'd tried to bury those memories, but nightmares refused to go away. They haunted him no matter how much liquor he consumed.
"You have to talk to someone about what went on there. It's colored your life. You're the best rider we have, Ricco, but you're too reckless. You don't care about your own life, and that's something I won't allow you to risk. You've gotten worse, not better."
He couldn't deny that. "I've never once failed a mission. Not one single time, Stefano." Ricco could barely breathe when he told that truth that wasn't the entire truth. The thought of having his legacy--what he'd been born to do--taken from him was enough to kill him. He wouldn't survive. Doing his job kept him alive. His brother couldn't possibly be saying what Ricco thought he was.
"No, but you don't give a damn about whether you live or die."
It was the fucking truth, and if he opened his mouth, Stefano would hear it. He forced air through his lungs and stared out the window at the buildings as they drove through the streets of Chicago. Outwardly, he looked calm. Confident. There was one truth he could give his brother. He turned back to face him. "There is no surviving without being a shadow rider. You take that away from me and I've got nothing to hang on to."
Swift anger crossed Stefano's face. "That's fucking bullshit, Ricco. You have us. Your family. How do you think I will do without you? Or Emme? The rest of them? You're important to us. Do you even give a damn about us?"
He loved his brother and sister fiercely. Protectively. He'd alienated himself from them--for them. Fury burst through him, that rage that sometimes threatened to consume him. "What does that mean? You think I would do this if I had a choice . . . ?" He broke off. That was a mistake, and shadow riders didn't make mistakes. He couldn't afford to have Stefano launch an investigation. It was the painkillers, loosening his tongue when
he knew better.
Stefano fell silent. That was a really bad sign. He was highly intelligent and little got by him. Ricco tried desperately to think of something that might distract his brother, but nothing came to mind. He hurt too much. Every muscle. Every bone.
Most people didn't realize how physically demanding it was to race a car for as long as a race took, let alone wrecking at such a high speed. Even with all the safety measures built into the car, the jolting and spinning on one's body was incredible. Add an actual crash into a wall of thick concrete and metal, and his body felt as if it had been beaten by an assembly line of strong men with baseball bats--or run over by several very large trucks.
"I get what you're saying to me, Stefano, and I'll do something about it. I have to be a rider. You won't have to replace me in the rotation. As soon as I'm healed, I'll be back to work." He poured truth into his voice, knowing his brother could hear him.
That wasn't going to be enough and he knew it. He made a show of sighing, so it would be more believable when he caved. "I need to change my life." There was nothing truer than that. "I can't wait for a woman to walk down our streets throwing shadows out like Francesca did. I have to find someone now. I've been giving it some thought, but I had decided it wouldn't be fair to find someone, allow them to fall in love with me, and then have to give them up to marry a rider so I can produce children."
All riders were expected to marry another capable of producing riders, even if that meant an arranged marriage. Emme had it the worst because she was a woman, and if she didn't find her man by the time she was thirty, her marriage would be arranged. The men had a few more years before they were forced into an arranged marriage, but there was no falling in love and getting married to just anyone.
Stefano's dark gaze never left his, and Ricco forced himself to continue. "I've thought a lot about this. I'm an artist. I know I need physical therapy before I'm ready for work again, so I think now would be a good time to work on my art. I've continued studying Shibari, and I love the artistic elements, but the only place to actually display or practice my art is in one of the clubs."