 couldn’t explain why? He just nodded, remaining silent so no one could hear his lie.
He drank sometimes to put himself to sleep, but he could stop 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, the side of his head that had nearly been caved in. Beneath the shirt his muscles rippled with every movement, a testimony to his strength—and he was unbelievably strong. It had been his superb physical condition that had saved him from certain death—and least that was what the surgeon said, his strength and a miracle. 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.
He hadn’t exactly walked away from it, but he was standing now. 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.
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 hands 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.
“I’m fine,” Ricco assured. “And very grateful to you.” That had to be said whether it was a lie or not—and he honestly didn’t know if it was.
“I refuse to release you. You could have blood clots, an aneurism, 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 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 Eloise 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 Eloise.
Ricco didn’t answer. He knew Francesca, Stefano’s wife, had been trying to make peace with Eloise, but his mother didn’t have one maternal instinct in her body. He could 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, 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.
The doctors had told him, if he hadn’t been in such good shape physically, he wouldn’t have survived. That was both a blessing and a curse. 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 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 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. 
Evidently the fact that his first cousin was driving the vehicle and Emilio was in the front seat didn’t matter.
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.
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.
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 rate of 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