"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.
Still the van hadn't moved. Needing an outlet for the adrenaline and grief, Terry screamed at the driver. "Move this fucking van now, Danny, or I'm going to shoot you. Brady, you drive." He lifted his weapon half-heartedly as a threat toward the driver.
Brady sat a few feet away, slumped over, looking peculiar. Something was off about the way he was sitting.
"Brady?" Terry lowered his gun. "Danny, something's wrong with Brady."
Danny turned his head to look. "He's dead. That's what's wrong."
The voice didn't sound right. Staring at the driver, frowning, trying to figure out what was wrong with all of them, Terry scooted toward Brady on his hands and knees. It hit him then. The driver wasn't Danny. It was Taviano Ferraro. Whipping his head around, he tried to think what he'd done with his gun even as he knew it was far too late. Hands were on his head. There was a terrible wrenching. Pain flashed through his body. Excruciating. The wrenching happened a second time and then he was gone.
Taviano leapt from the van just as Giovanni did. They raced back toward the club, one hand sending alert texts to their families. They'd already called 911 and asked for ambulances and cops. Tomas and Cosimo were theirs. They had to know if they had survived and, if so, how badly they were injured.
Eloisa Ferraro hurried outside, nearly forgetting to set the lock on her door. She was tired of Phillip playing around with all his young girlfriends, making her out to be the psycho wife to extract himself when he got bored with the relationship. She'd contemplated divorcing him for some time. A rider didn't do such a thing easily. If she divorced Phillip, she could never ride again. Their shadows had tangled together, and if torn apart, she'd lose her ability to ride, and Phillip would never remember a single thing about the Ferraro family. He'd taken the name and he wouldn't even remember that.