"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 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 fact 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'd 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 had been trying to make peace with Eloisa, but his mother didn't have one maternal instinct in her body. He couldn't care less. They'd had Stefano growing up, and he'd watched out for them--just as he was doing now. His oldest brother might be annoying, but Stefano 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, turn 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 away, but the paparazzi, several rows deep, had flashes already 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.
He was afraid he would fall before he reached 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 complete with bodyguards, but that hadn't stopped the madness of the press or his 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 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.
"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 his first cousin was driving the vehicle and Emilio was in the front seat didn't matter.
Ricco laid his head against the cool leather. "I'm listening."
"I've been patient since you returned from Japan."
Ricco stiffened despite all his training. It was the last thing he expected Stefano to bring up. He'd been 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. His brother couldn't possibly be saying what he 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. Ricco 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 brothers 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 the length of time 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 the wall and his body felt as if he'd 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 must 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 it.
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 need 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 just 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, but there was no just falling in love and getting married to anyone. That was one of the prices they paid being shadow riders.
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'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." Ricco felt grounded when he practiced rope art using the human body as a canvas.
Stefa
no blinked, his only reaction.
Ricco nodded. "I know I can't be protected in the kinds of clubs I'd have to frequent. Sooner or later the paparazzi would find out and it would be in every magazine from here to hell and back. But if I find a good rope model, one I can work with in the privacy of my home, I can photograph my art. I've always wanted to do that. I have my own darkroom and can develop the photographs myself. You know I'm a good photographer. Eventually I can put the photos on canvas or in book form. I just need to find the right model. I'm hoping if I do, I'll feel a strong connection with her."
Stefano rubbed the bridge of his nose as the car slowed and then turned through the heavy throng of paparazzi standing on the sidewalk nearly blocking the drive leading up to Ricco's home. Both men ignored them as the driver inched his way through the crowd to the high iron gates. "It's a risk, Ricco. Not the art. The woman."
Ricco nodded. "I'm aware of that. I want to find someone I can fall in love with. Someone who could love me and maybe understand if I have to be with another woman."
"That's highly unlikely."
"I know. I know that. I just can't live like this anymore." Staying up all night, drinking himself into a stupor or partying until the sun came up with multiple women at the same time. Never feeling anything. He watched as the gates swung open to allow them inside. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until they closed behind the car, locking out the paparazzi.
"Someone threatened us, didn't they?"
Stefano asked it quietly--so quietly Ricco almost missed it and almost asked what he meant. Stefano said it like he already knew, that he was just confirming. Of course he would figure it out. He'd been the head of the family for years, since he was a teenager. He'd taken care of them all when he was even younger than that. He would know. He'd probably considered that possibility all along.
"I can't talk about it." That was confirmation and it wasn't.
Stefano swore, a long tirade of Italian. He kept his voice low, vicious, and Ricco heard the promise of retaliation there.
He shook his head. "Just let it go."
"Let it go?" Stefano looked at him as if he had grown two heads. "They threaten my brother, a fellow rider, and you want me to let it go. We have a council--"
"Don't. I mean it, Stefano. Let it go. There are reasons."
"There are never reasons for one family of riders to threaten another family."
"It was a long time ago. I'm asking you to let it go." He didn't allow desperation to show on his face, no matter that he was feeling it. Stefano would go to war in a heartbeat over him, but there was no way to know how many families in Japan would unite against them. Ricco wasn't willing to risk his brothers, sister, or cousins.
He'd remained silent for years. They'd been long, hard years of always looking over his shoulder and training harder than ever. Often, when he couldn't sleep, he'd go to one of his brothers' homes and watch over them, paranoid something might happen to them. After several years had gone by, he was certain they were safe, and he didn't want Stefano to stir up trouble.
"I think finding a partner for your art is a positive move, Ricco." Stefano switched subjects again. "Looking for a woman to be your partner when you know you'll have to walk away later is something else altogether."
Ricco already knew that, but he was losing too much of himself. Going too wild in a desperate attempt to feel something. Anything. He was already too far gone and didn't know if there was anyone who could bring him back. He'd deliberately separated himself from his family, spending less time in public with them and more time racing or partying in the hopes that others would think he didn't care about them. He must have done a good job for Stefano to ask him if the family mattered to him.
Ricco dropped his hand to the door, needing to escape. Stefano shifted in his seat as if he might follow him. "I need to lie down," he said, knowing his brother would hear the ring of truth. He did need a bed and fast or he was going to topple right over.
Stefano subsided. "Angelina Laconi is going to come check on you, and don't give me any trouble over it. She's a nurse."
"She makes eyes at me." Now she'd have excuses to touch him. Life sucked. He wasn't going to get out of having a nurse drop by, he could tell by Stefano's expression.
"Live with it. Emmanuelle made certain your fridge was stocked and Francesca made several meals for you. They're in the freezer. One's in the fridge."
"Please thank them for me." Ricco shoved open the door and forced his legs to work. It wasn't easy, but he had discipline in abundance, a trait every rider needed. He was very, very aware of Stefano's eyes on him as he made his way up to the door.
*
"Francesca." Ricco bent his head to brush a kiss along his sister-in-law's cheek. The weeks of healing and physical therapy had helped. Pain didn't crash through him every time he took a step, and he'd begun training again, although Stefano watched him closely. His older brother was still unaware of the training hall Ricco had installed in his home a few years earlier. Most gatherings were in Stefano's penthouse in the Ferraro Hotel.
"Ricco." Francesca flashed her amused smile, the one that mocked him a little for his greeting.
He rarely said hello or good-bye. He said her name, and she retaliated by saying his. He loved that about her. He loved everything about her, mainly that she loved his brother more than anything or anyone.
He'd never learned the art of relaxing. He could play his part out in public, but at home, with his brothers and sister, he had always been the one to pace around, help Taviano, his youngest brother, in the kitchen, or find his way to the training room and work out while the others conversed. Since the accident, he'd made a few attempts at being better.
"Smells good."
"I hope it tastes good. I've been working with a few new recipes for the artichoke sauce you said you liked and I think I've got it for you now. I'm serving homemade pasta with artichoke sauce, zucchini flan, guinea fowl and stuffed flowers fried. Oh, and for dessert, tiramisu."
"Nice. I've never had anything you've ever cooked that I didn't like." It was the truth. He wasn't into flattery, but Francesca was truly the nicest woman he'd ever met. She loved and accepted them all right along with her demanding husband. "Where's the boss?"
She laughed. "He only thinks he's the boss. I still have my job at the deli, don't I? You know how much he hates me working."
"Here's a little news flash for you, honey," Ricco said. "We all hate you working. We've got enemies."
"I don't."
They'd taken care of her enemy. Permanently. "They can get to us through you," he pointed out. It was an old argument and one he was certain Stefano had tried many times. Francesca might be the sweetest woman he knew, but she was no pushover.
The fact that Francesca still had her job surprised him. He couldn't imagine his oldest brother allowing his woman to put herself in danger, and Stefano had no trouble bossing all his siblings around.
Ricco shrugged out of his jacket and let her take it to hang up along with his tie. "Just us tonight?" He was already unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirt.
"Yes." She made a face at him. "Family business."
He found himself relaxing. He was good at family business. Francesca would have told him if Eloisa was present. As a rule, his mother didn't show up for family events at Stefano's--which meant she was almost never present.
Taviano had come to him three weeks earlier with his findings. A casing had cracked on the shock absorber. Stefano had yet to talk to him about it, so he was fairly certain that was what this night was all about. He didn't really care what it was that brought the family together, only that they were together.
"Stefano told me you're advertising for a rope model," Francesca continued. "How's that coming?"
"There's a lot of fucked-up women in the world," he replied.
She laughed. "You're just finding that out?"
"Since meeting you, I had high hopes." That was partly true, but mostly he was
teasing her. Something new for him with an outsider, although he'd never considered her that. Francesca fit right in with his brothers and Emmanuelle. She was family, and every one of them would lay down their lives for her.
She gave him another smile. She really was a beautiful woman. Stefano was lucky to find her. Not only was she sweet, intelligent and beautiful, but she also could have been a rider, had she been found and trained from the time she was a child. She was rare. Very rare. She had accepted their way of life, shrouded in secrecy and living outside the accepted laws of the land.
Ricco sighed. He'd secretly hoped that by advertising for a rope model, the woman of his dreams would appear. She would be tall, with red hair, because he liked that look, slim like a model and very willing to accept him as the focus of her life. More, she would be an untrained rider, one who could give him children so his family would be happy. So far he'd gotten every body type, hair color and a variety of curves, a lot of women willing to do kink and more who wanted money. A lot of money. He hadn't connected with any of them--not even physically.
He hadn't conducted the interviews, but he'd been there, in the shadows, watching where the parade of women couldn't see him. He was determined to find one woman that aroused him at least emotionally, if not physically, but nothing happened. It was depressing.
He'd always liked women--especially when he came out of the shadow tubes after a job. He never connected with them on any level but physical. He never wanted to spend any time with them outside of having sex. He was adventurous sexually and surrounded himself with women who were the same way, but he played and he left. He always made that clear. He wasn't a man who stayed. Lately, even that was fading. He played with the Lacey twins occasionally, but he wasn't into it anymore.
He envied Stefano his ability to have a relationship. He wasn't certain he could do it. Now that he'd been in on the interviews with the various women applying to be a rope model, he was fairly positive he would never be that man. He wanted it, but he just felt indifference or annoyance. None of the women knew who the rope master was, but they'd tried to find out. He'd been careful to have Emilio conduct the interviews in a neutral location--the conference room of the Ferraro Hotel where many interviews for a variety of jobs were often conducted.