A shadow moved on the floor where the body swung and once again those strange feelers reached toward him like arms. A knife plunged into his thigh, a fist around the hilt. It emerged from the shadows just as the one before it.

Then Ricco was there, shaking his head. “Shouldn’t have touched her with a knife, Barry. You’re not going to be in one piece by the end of this.” Then he was gone.

Gone. Disappeared. The knife was still in his leg, blood bubbling around the blade. Barry was afraid to pull it out, but it was grotesque there. He was losing his mind. There was no other explanation. Still, he was bleeding from two knife wounds, but shadows didn’t come alive. That couldn’t happen. Not in real life. Was he hallucinating?

“George! Arnold!” He called out for the two men who had been with him the longest other than Del. Del was a great lawyer and he loved to indulge himself with women, but he wasn’t as good at kicking ass as George and Arnold.

No one answered him. Other than the howling wind and the sound of the piano, he couldn’t hear a sound coming from any room. No one was coming to help him. He had to jerk the knife out of his leg on his own. Taking a deep breath, he wrapped his fingers firmly around the hilt and yanked hard. For a moment the world spun and was edged in black. The pain was excruciating, worse than when the blade had gone in.

Barry dropped the knife and ripped his shirt to wrap the wound up. It hurt like hell but there were no signs of arterial bleeding. The stupid son of a bitch couldn’t even find an artery. How stupid were the Ferraro brothers anyway? Bringing a knife to a gunfight? He tossed Ricco’s knife away and then his own to pull his gun from its holster under his arm. He’d all but forgotten it. He didn’t generally do any of the strong-arm stuff—those were his men’s jobs—but he could if he had to. This was a case of if he wanted the job done right, he’d have to do it himself.

Del. Del was close, in the next room. His lawyer didn’t want any part of what was going to happen to Stefano. He didn’t like getting his hands dirty. He claimed he was the law and he needed deniability, but he was a fucking coward. He liked to participate with the women. In fact, he was one of the worst, beating the crap out of them while he fucked them before going home to his wife and children. He especially liked young girls. Teens. More than once Barry’s men had had to clean up his messes, but he was a damn good lawyer so Barry kept him around. This time, the bastard would use a gun.

Barry pushed himself to move. He was shaking and that just pissed him off more. The door to Del’s room was open and he stepped inside. Del had draped himself on the bed, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The rain slammed against the window so hard the window rattled. Shadows played along the walls and across the bed.

“Get up, you lazy fuck,” Barry snapped, impatient with the way Del always chose to stay out of the muck with the rest of them.

“He can’t, Barry,” Emmanuelle’s soft voice said in his ear. She was right behind him. Close. He could feel her breath against his neck. “He’s dead. So sorry. His neck broke when he tried to rape me.”

Before he could turn, before he could make a move, a hot blade sank into his side. Low. Between his ribs. Fire flashed through him. His breath left his body in a concentrated rush or he would have screamed the house down.

“You shouldn’t have stabbed Francesca, Barry. It was very stupid of you.”

The knife retreated and he spun, one hand clamped to the wound, the other clutching the gun. He whirled, cursing. Tears leaking out of his swollen eyes. There was no one there. Nothing but shadow. Breathing heavily he leaned against the wall, trying to think. The stab wound in his leg was the worst. Ricco had really nailed him. Eloisa barely scratched him. Emme’s knife hurt, but really, how bad was it? He could still breathe. He had the gun. Fuck the damn Ferraro family.

He just needed to rally his men. Denny and Si were in the poolroom. Lazy bastards. They were always clowning around, oblivious to what was happening around them. He’d shake them up. He paid them damn good money to do what he said. He hurried down the hall, dragging his leg, cursing every jarring step. He slammed his fist on the poolroom door and it sprang open.

Denny was on the floor. He had marks across his face, as if he’d been caned. His pool stick was still clutched like a weapon in his hand. Si was on the table, the same marks on him, his pool stick broken. Barry’s heart began to pound. Hard. He tasted terror for the first time in his life. The wind rose and drove the rain at the bank of windows. Outside the trees swayed macabrely, the shadows dancing through the window onto the walls and floors, even across Denny’s face as if laughing at him.