Shadow Reaper (A Shadow Riders Novel Book 2)

The scent of blood hit him hard. It smelled like a slaughterhouse. He knew before he even emerged from the shadow tube that he was far too late. He nearly fell over the body of Akiko’s grandmother. Chiharu. She’d been a strict, unsmiling woman, but she’d also been the first legendary female shadow rider. Chiharu was the reason the other girls were given the chance to prove themselves.

She lay crumbled on the floor, looking small. Blood covered her like a bright red blanket. A sword had nearly severed her body in half. Worse, after the initial slice, she had clearly still been alive when another slice had been made up the front of her, spilling her insides onto the floor deliberately.

At fourteen, he’d never seen anything like it in his life. He was still sensitive, an artist, not a killer. Bile had risen, choking him. He heard laughter, and just around the screen, several feet from Chiharu, her two female servants were being hacked to pieces by Eiji and Hachiro. The insanity of the killings made Ricco pause for just a moment, not believing what his eyes were seeing. He’d trained with these boys. They weren’t friends, and he knew they were bullies, but he’d never considered they might be murderers.

For the first time, he realized just what he was born for–what was expected of him–and it was brutal and ugly.

He heard Akiko scream and then Nao telling her he’d killed her grandmother and would kill her, and then her brother and sister. He’d wipe out the entire Tanaka family. But first, she would be dishonored. Nao had raped her while Kenta danced around them covered in her father’s blood.

The memories were all there in Ricco’s head, pouring through the cracks in the walls he’d erected to keep himself from letting them get too close. He’d been carrying the burden of that night alone for so long, protecting his family from the threat hanging over their heads until he was physically, emotionally and mentally used up.

“The Tanaka family only had one child. Akiko,” Mariko insisted, her voice shaking. “There were no other children.”

Ricco realized she was trembling. He reached out and took her hand, holding it tight, pressed against his chest over his heart. “There were three children, Mariko–two girls and one boy. Akiko was ten years older than her next sibling. Her sister. You, Mariko. You were three at the time of the murders.”

She shook her head, blinking back tears. He couldn’t imagine what her life had been like once her family was killed. With the way he’d been treated, he knew it couldn’t have been good.

“Two servants lay just to the right of Chiharu, cut down by Eiji and Hachiro Saito.”

Mariko made a sound of distress. He pulled her closer, sheltering her against his body.

“Osamu hates me with every breath she draws. If what you say is true, I understand so much more,” she whispered. She shook her head. “It can’t be true. The Tanaka family is a legend. They are spoken of with love and respect.”

“What I say is true. I have no reason to lie to you. On the contrary. I don’t come off in the best of lights. I came out of the shadows just as Eiji cut down the second servant. The two brothers came at me. I had no choice but to defend myself. I killed them both.”

“Are you saying that Eiji and Hachiro murdered the Tanaka family?”

He pulled her into his arms and held her. She was shaken. Who wouldn’t be? The official findings of the Tanaka family deaths were very different. She’d grown up believing exactly what the council members wanted her to believe. Those members were the fathers of the boys involved in the murders.

“They helped. Nao was the leader and he planned the entire thing. Eiji and Hachiro killed the servants and Kenta Ito murdered Daiki Tanaka, your father.”

“How could mere boys defeat Daiki Tanaka?” she asked, but he could see she was beginning to believe everything he said.

“Daiki could no longer ride the shadows, and he’d stopped training. He had married an American, a rope model, your mother. When she left him, their shadows were torn apart and he could no longer ride. She couldn’t remember she had a family. That’s the price we pay as riders. We can’t lightly go into a marriage. He wasn’t expecting such an attack on his household. He heard Akiko, his beloved daughter, scream and he rushed to save her, just as they knew he would. Kenta lay in wait for him and cut him to pieces with a sword. Nao had already killed Chiharu Tanaka and then he attacked Akiko.”

Ricco had heard Akiko’s screams, the pain and agony in her voice, while he fought off Eiji and Hachiro. He’d managed to kill Eiji first, sliding in around behind him and breaking his neck. Hachiro had been so shocked that the tip of his sword had tilted toward the ground for that one split second. Ricco had struck hard, slamming the flat of his hand on top of Hachiro’s sword hand, going in with three hard chops to the throat.

Hachiro staggered back and lost his footing and then slipped in all the blood on the floor. He went down hard, hitting his head against the ornate woodwork. That, Ricco was certain, was what saved his life. As he went after the other boy, Akiko’s screams, more urgent than ever now, hurt his ears, his foot slipped in the blood and left a long trail as he nearly impaled himself on Hachiro’s sword. The blade sliced across him, a deep, nasty wound that went across his entire chest.

Hachiro gasped and sliced a second time, this time dragging the tip across Ricco’s chest a second and third time before Ricco could catch his wrist, wrench the sword to one side and slam it back with as much of his body weight as possible. Hachiro’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened in a silent scream of protest. Of terror. Ricco couldn’t look away, and to this day, he woke up staring into those eyes.

The sword had nearly sliced Hachiro in two, the sharp blade cutting through flesh and bone far easier than Ricco had expected. Ricco was swimming in blood. He was certain he’d never get it off his skin. Sometimes, at night, when he woke in a sweat, he’d get in the shower and scrub until he was bleeding. He still felt the thick substance coating his skin.

He cleared his throat and looked down at her. This was the moment when she would understand. When she would condemn him for being late. “Akiko had put her brother and sister into a closet in an effort to save them.”

Ricco watched Mariko closely as he told her what her sister had done. Mariko had vaguely remembered being in that closet. With his explanation, she was remembering far more. He saw that the nightmares haunting her were beginning to make sense. She probably remembered bits and pieces of that night, all jumbled together and very horrifying. He hated being the one to tell her what had really happened to her family. Mostly he was ashamed that he hadn’t gotten there in time to save them.

“Akiko was very brave. She turned to fight Nao, but he was carrying a sword. Cheating. She’d defeated him in the trials and he wasn’t going to take a chance that she could fight him off. He was savage, cutting her up, and then he taunted her, told her he was going to violate her–rape her–and then kill you and your little brother. She screamed for help but I was the only one there to hear her cries, and I was fighting Eiji and Hachiro.”

It had taken him so long. Seconds, minutes, he didn’t know, only that he had arrived too late.

“What happened, Ricco? Don’t stop there.”

Her voice was so low he barely caught it. He couldn’t make the hearing of the death of her family any easier. There was no redemption for him. There would be that moment of realization that he could have prevented her family’s murders and then he would lose his chance at having the one woman he could love so much it terrified him.

He couldn’t stop himself. He caught her chin and lifted her face up to his, bending his throbbing head almost blindly to capture her mouth with his. He needed this moment to steady himself. To find the strength to give her the exact truth without trying to make himself anything but what he was: a screwup whose mistake had cost lives–the lives of her family. Nothing was harder to admit, because it meant she would be out of his life, and he’d know, as long as he lived, that he’d lost the one woman he could love through his own mistakes.

He kissed her. Gently. Reverently. Holding back the need and desire so urgent he hadn’t known need like that existed. He licked at her lips, tasting her sweetness. The promise of paradise. He savored her taste, grateful she didn’t pull away. He took his time, coaxing her lips, apart, teasing with his tongue and teeth, with his lips, until she made up her mind.

When her lips parted for him, he took over, elation and passion rising like a dark tide. His hands cupped her face, fingers sliding along the side of her neck, claiming as much of her as he could. He deepened the kiss, finding tenderness when he’d never had such a thing and never knew it was there inside of him all along, waiting for her.

The pounding in his head receded. The rage in his gut subsided. Peace slipped over him. A new hunger rose, something sharp and terrible in its intensity, tapping into a well of passion so deep he was nearly destroyed by it. He’d had his share of women and had treated sex so casually. Now, suddenly, there was nothing casual about the way he felt toward Mariko. Nothing casual about his kisses, or the way he held her.

He poured what he felt into her, hoping she understood the truth of his feelings–that he even had them was a miracle. It was all Mariko. He’d been alone so long, fighting to keep everyone around him safe, believing he had no chance at anything more than just existence, and then she was there. Out of nowhere. The one he knew would be the center of his world.

But he had to tell her the truth about her past. He had no choice. Reluctantly he lifted his head, his thumb brushing a caress over her lips. Her gaze clung to his, a little shocked, dazed and definitely aroused. He hated to see that leave her, knowing she would never be able to look at him in the same way.

“I have to tell you the rest, Mariko. I don’t want to, but you have to know. Your family would never have deserted you. They would have been proud of you. You’re a Tanaka, of the legendary Tanaka shadow riders and every bit as good as the best they ever had.”

She shook her head, but he knew the denial was more automatic than anything else. She was confused, but not utterly rejecting his account.

“You were that little girl in the closet. Nao pulled your little brother out first, threw him and began stomping on him, over and over. You came flying out just as I rushed in. You hit him hard with a perfect flying kick, right in the groin. When you came down you slipped in Akiko’s blood nearly at Nao’s feet. Do you remember?”

Tears were running down her face and he used his thumb to brush them away, bending to kiss her temples and then her eyes as if that could make it all better. As if that would somehow ease the terrible tragedy of losing her family to murder.

“You were so brave. Kenta was there and he attacked me. He had a sword. I should have kept Hachiro’s sword, but I couldn’t take all the blood, and I never wanted to hold a sword again.” He had since then. He’d trained year after year, but it had turned his stomach. He touched the long scar on his face. “He did this to me while I was trying to get in a position to keep Nao away from you and still get the sword from Kenta.”

Mariko nodded several times, her fingers trembling as she pressed them against her lips. “My nightmares,” she whispered softly. “I saw these things in a nightmare.”

“Because you lived through them,” he assured. “Not nightmares, reality, so imprinted on your brain you can never rid yourself of the sights, sounds and smells.” It was like that for him the moment he closed his eyes. He could smell the blood. Hear Akiko’s screams. The cries of the little boy, and the sound of his bones breaking as Nao stomped on him over and over.

Ricco couldn’t get to Nao and the little boy or girl because he was fighting for his life, trying to get past Kenta, who wielded his sword with the beginnings of expertise. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nao smirk, deliver another kick to the girl and then go back to the boy.

“Nao bragged that Kenta would kill me, but not before I witnessed what Nao planned to do to your brother and you.”

She nodded, her entire body shuddering. “He said they would blame you, a devil from another country. I remember that. I remember him saying that.” She looked at him with stricken eyes. “It’s true then. I couldn’t stop him from hurting Ryuu. He kept stomping on him over and over until he broke so many bones that Ryuu grew up twisted.” She put a slender hand to her throat, as if she needed to defend herself and that was all she had.

“You tried, Mariko. At three years old, with only one year of training, you tried. I could hear the bones breaking, and then you went after Nao a second time. Kenta turned his head to laugh. He was covered in blood, and as he stepped, his body turned toward you and Nao. His hand slipped on the hilt of the sword. I took advantage and went inside, hitting the sword aside. He’d gotten me in the face already and there was so much blood I had a difficult time seeing.”

The pain had been agony, but he set it aside, hearing the cries of the toddler on the floor, so broken, a maddened teenager attacking the boy so viciously. “It was you, Mariko, who saved the day. If you hadn’t found the strength and courage to go after Nao a second time, I wouldn’t have managed to kill Kenta.”

“I jumped on his back,” Mariko whispered. “Kicking and hitting him, pulling his hair. I think I even bit him.”

Ricco nodded. “I slammed the edge of my hand into Kenta’s throat with every bit of strength and adrenaline I had.” All the fear. All the rage. All the knowledge that he was a shadow rider and this was what he was born to do. He might have been late, but Nao would not have his last two victims.

“I had a pen I’d picked up off the floor and I jammed it into Kenta’s eye. A horrible rattling noise emerged from his throat, as if the sound was being squeezed out.” He shook his head. “It was a horrible sound. I picked up his sword and hit Kenta in the head and then turned toward Nao. He had you in his lap.”

Mariko touched her throat. “He had a knife.”

Ricco had to keep going, to get it all out so she would know the details in her dream were real. “In one move, still spinning, I cut through flesh and bone with Kenta’s sword. I wasn’t trying to

cripple him for life. Only to keep him from killing you and your brother.”

Nao screamed, the sound high-pitched, mixing with Ryuu’s cries until Ricco couldn’t tell them apart. He still remembered those desperate sounds every single night. Sometimes they were so loud he sat in his bed, hands over his ears, trying to drown them out. Behind him, Kenta had crumpled in slow motion, his eyes rolling back in his head so only white showed. In front of him, Nao collapsed, falling into Akiko’s blood, his arms thrashing as his legs lay useless. Those images were locked in his brain as well, the artist in him seeing the blood as red ribbons, as crimson rivers, as dark wine pooling below the bodies.

“I ran to Ryuu,” she whispered. “His body was so crushed and twisted I just held and rocked him. I remember blood getting onto my clothes and hair.”

He nodded. Tears were running down her face, just as they had when she was that little white-haired girl. “Ryuu and Nao were still alive.” In shock he called the number to bring the council members to the horrific scene. Then his nightmare had really begun. He supposed hers had as well, and she’d been so much younger. He had his family; she had no one.

“Osamu Saito raised us. Ryuu and me. She hated me with every breath she drew and it got worse every year.”

Ricco had felt sick with grief and anger over what the council members had done to him. Forcing him to stay in Tokyo, enduring their threats of telling others he’d murdered an entire family if he didn’t cooperate. Afraid they would carry out their threats of killing his family if he told anyone what had happened. He’d felt so alone even in the midst of family who loved him.

Now the rage roiling inside him like dark ominous clouds threatened to spill over, fed by what Mariko had gone through. The men had known how Osamu had treated her, but they’d done nothing in order to protect their reputations. He moved again, closer to her, wanting to hold her, offer her comfort. She moved away from him and he froze, everything inside him going still.

“I need to be alone,” she said. “This is a lot to take in.”

Her body language screamed not to be touched. To be left alone. What could he say to that? She was asking for space. He knew all about that. He also knew she was separating herself from him. She was rejecting him as surely as he’d expected her to. He nodded and watched her leave his bedroom. She walked away from him without once looking back. Not once. He didn’t try to stop her. What was there to say? He’d told her the truth. She knew she was a Tanaka and that her family had been brutally murdered and her brother stomped on until his body was deformed. She knew he had been late. He’d gotten lost.

No way was he ever lost now. He kept a map in his head at all times and he rode the shadows tirelessly every new place he visited until he was familiar with every block. Every rural area. That didn’t make up for being late; it would never make up for being late due to him not studying hard enough, but it would ensure it wouldn’t happen again. Unless . . . He sighed and lay back down on the bed, his head throbbing again in protest of movement. Unless he was late because he was caught up in something else–someone else–like Mariko.

He had to help her. No matter how she felt about him, he had to help find her brother. They needed a place to start. The investigators were already on it, and as soon as Vittorio was out of the woods, he’d ask his brothers and Emme to help. He called Stefano to check on his brother’s condition. Stefano would be sitting right there, guarding Vittorio and making certain he didn’t slip away.

“Stay home tonight, Ricco, and rest,” Stefano said when he offered to take a shift watching over his brother.

“I was late,” he confessed. “I was busy with Mariko and I didn’t relieve Vittorio.”

“You were three minutes late, Ricco. You used the shadows to get to him and that made up the time. We’ve all been three minutes late.”

“I’m never late. He was counting on me.”

“He told me he noted the time because Nicoletta had twice come to the window and retreated. He was certain she was vacillating between staying and leaving.”

If Vittorio was talking, he was doing a lot better than the last time Ricco had seen him as they loaded him into an ambulance.

“It doesn’t make sense that they were outside Nicoletta’s home. If they’re our enemies, why target her?” Ricco had asked himself that question dozens of times.

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Stefano asked. “They weren’t members of the Demons, nor did they have New York accents. I’ve reached out to our cousins there, and although the gang is actively looking for Nicoletta and the answer to who killed her step-uncles, there was no flurry of activity as if Valdez knew where she was.”

No one but Benito Valdez, head of the Demons out of New York, would be looking for Nicoletta. So why were the assailants outside of her home?

“I think at this point we all have to be very careful and vigilant,” Stefano added. “Until we know who our enemy is, we can’t take chances.”

He hesitated for just a moment and Ricco knew what was coming.

“Are you certain Mariko isn’t involved?”

“I hear truth the same as you,” he assured. “The connection between us is very strong and when our shadows connect, it’s unbelievable. There’s no way she could hide anything like that from me.” He was silent for a brief time. “She’s a good fighter, Stefano. Fast. Efficient. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t have to give herself away. She had no way of knowing I was on to her, but she followed me there and then jumped right in. I don’t know what would have happened without her.”

“You would have killed them all, Ricco, because you wouldn’t have had a choice,” Stefano assured. “This woman. Are you certain of her?”

“I’m certain she’s the one for me. I don’t know that she’ll stay with me.”

“Because of your reputation?”

He sighed. Stefano didn’t pull his punches. “I wish it were that. I was late that day, Stefano. I hadn’t studied hard enough and I got turned around trying to get to the Tanakas’ home. I had to tell her. She had to relive the nightmare of her family dying, knowing I didn’t get there in time.”

Stefano erupted into a long litany of swear words. Ricco remained silent while he assured him in his usual foul way that he wasn’t to blame. He’d been fourteen, and the council was going to have to make amends to the Ferraro family and Ricco especially before this was over. He’d already made inquiries about all the men and their families holding council positions. The New York cousins were investigating, as they were spread thin, but Stefano never wanted Ricco to say it was his fault again.

“Murdering little bastards, their families made them into tragic heroes, pretending they died in a car crash. What a load of shit. Their parents were fucking cowards not to tell the truth and to put it on you to stay quiet. Threatening us?”

Stefano was on a roll and clearly angry. Ricco’s head pounded more. “I need to rest for a while if you don’t need me at the hospital,” he interrupted the colorful tirade. Retribution would take place now that Stefano knew what had happened to his younger brother. Ricco didn’t envy the present Tokyo council or the international one.

Stefano instantly cut off the rest of his evaluation of the three families involved and told him to get some sleep. Ricco ended the call and closed his eyes. It was already morning and light was pouring through the long bank of windows, revealing the garden in the courtyard. He had loved the gardens in Japan for their beauty and peace. Right now the light only added to the throbbing pain in his head.

“Drapes.” He spoke the word and the thick, dark drapes that covered the window began to descend from where they were rolled up near the ceiling above the glass. He had blood on his clothes and needed a shower, but he couldn’t find the energy to get up.

He just lay there on his bed, drifting off, trying not to think about Mariko and the fact that he lost her before he ever had her. At least he’d managed to save her life and he knew she was in the world. Not with him, but alive and a damn good rider. She just wasn’t ever going to be his, but that was beside the point. She lived. She deserved to be happy, and he could give her that. He could find her brother for her and make certain

they were both safe.

He drifted but he didn’t fall asleep. The events of his past were far too close. He had tried to close those doors, but when he lay in his bed, they persistently creaked open. He had thought about the council members so many times over the last years. They probably had been good men at one time, but grief and shame wore them down.

They wanted him to fail. Each time he took the tests, all the instructors were present. Ricco had been so determined to be fast and strong that he worked out from morning to night, doing every chore required, but doubling his practice time. He defeated every opponent in the trials, and his times in the shadow tubes were significantly faster than anyone else’s, but it didn’t matter.

The council members berated him, beat him, used canes and continually jerked him from his bed, throwing him on the floor, kicking and punching and telling him he should have been aware of their presence. None of the other trainees reported they’d been awakened from sleep, but it didn’t matter. He trained himself to sleep light, to be prepared for any attack, night or day.

They took his phone from him, had eyes on him at all times. When his family called, they were right there to listen in on every word. The threats against his family were continuous. If he talked, they would kill them all–wipe out the Ferraro family, and no one would ever know who did it.

He needed them. His family. Stefano. He had a poet’s soul and the grief-stricken fathers were ripping it to shreds. They had interrogated him for days. Asking the same questions over and over. Wanting the answers to be different. They had talked to little Mariko, and she gave the same answers over and over in spite of their directions to answer differently.

A well of rage inside of him began to form and grow deeper and deeper until it all but consumed him. When he knew he couldn’t stay quiet and he was about to erupt into a furious frenzy of anger, playing right into their hands, he went to the training room and spent hours beating on the heavy bag until his hands were bloody. The blows shocking his arms, his body, the pain smashing through his knuckles to his hands steadied him. Grounded him.

That was when Master Kin Akahoshi decided to intervene. He was the martial arts instructor as well as the hojojutsu instructor. He had seen the treatment of Ricco, as had all the instructors, but none wanted to go against the powerful council–especially after the “car accident” that had killed their children. Everyone knew they were grieving, but no one knew why they had singled out Ricco for the treatment they gave him.

Master Akahoshi came into the training hall to find Ricco pounding the bag, his knuckles, wrapped as they were supposed to be, bloody right through the wraps. He stood there for a long moment, just observing him, and then he stepped in close and ordered him off the bag. Ricco had whipped around, prepared to fight for his right to use the equipment in off hours, but Akahoshi had held up his hand and simply said, “Come with me.”

For some reason he never really understood, he followed the instructor to his home where his private training hall was located. Ricco had known he was the best in the class at hojojutsu. He was fascinated with the art and the knots. The tying. The way they looked on his opponent. He began to learn more and more intricate knots and how to lay them perfectly against skin. Immediately he had excelled in his anatomy class, because he needed to learn how to lay the ropes without hurting–or to cause the greatest discomfort possible.

They never talked about the three council members or why they were so hard on him, but his going to Akahoshi’s home and being accepted there sent a message to the three men that someone, at least, would hold them accountable. The beatings weren’t stopped, but they were fewer. In the meantime, Ricco continued learning the art of Shibari.

Each time he picked up a bundle of ropes, he felt completely grounded. When he tied, he was so utterly absorbed in his art, the anger and fear drained away, leaving him relaxed and at peace. It was the only time he felt that way.

Akahoshi had moved to the United States, specifically Chicago, following three other family members. He had contacted Ricco to see if he wanted to continue with his instructions and of course Ricco had. Now the rope was a part of him and he exceeded his master in training. Still, he returned to compare knots, to talk to the man he credited with saving his life. The council might have driven him to suicide had it not been for Akahoshi.

He’d been conditioned to believe the murders were his fault for being late, for getting turned around. The lives of his family depended on his silence and his skills. He continued to train daily, and at night he haunted the homes of his brothers and sister in order to protect them. He’d developed a thin razor-like strip to attach to the bottom of the door, blocking out all shadows, so no rider could slide through and surprise his family in their sleep. It was easy enough and fast to remove with a single touch, making it possible for them to escape if necessary via the doors.

Sighing, he sat up. When he was like this, restless and unable to sleep, he often visited Akahoshi. His former master always had rope models available to work with and he could lose himself that way. He didn’t want to bring trouble to Akahoshi’s door, suspecting that because he took Ricco’s side and protected him all those years ago, the council members had made it difficult for the instructor to remain in Tokyo.

He could insist that Mariko join him in the studio. He was not 100 percent yet when it came to working out, and his head was still giving him trouble, but although he was paying her, he would never ask her to join him. Not when he was so edgy and moody. His sister Emmanuelle always called this side of him his “dark, scary and very dangerous.” No one wanted to be around him when he was like that. If he went to Akahoshi, he usually was brutal in his ties, laying rope in the more traditional punishing knots.

He would never take a chance of accidentally hurting one of the female rope models, let alone Mariko. She needed care. It wasn’t that she was fragile, far from it, but she’d obviously never known kindness. She still wasn’t opening up to him and he’d practically shoved his entire history down her throat.

He groaned as he sat up, pushing both hands through his hair. The room spun for a moment and then righted itself, letting him know he was a mess. Of course, he’d have to be at his worst when he met Mariko. He prided himself on his abilities, and already she’d had to save the day.

He stripped, tossing his clothes in the vicinity of the hamper. He had bad habits from living alone so long. Emmanuelle told him he was a slob every chance she got–although he knew he wasn’t. He just never picked up his dirty clothes until it came time to wash them–something he’d have to get over if he could ever convince Mariko to forgive him and to take a chance on him.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he stepped into the double shower. His chest was scarred and he touched one of the long streaks the tip of the sword had left behind in his flesh. His shame was carved into his skin for everyone to see. The number-one question always asked by any woman he was with was how he got those distinctive scars. He made up outrageous stories, turning the moment to laughter when that well of rage always opened up inside of him at the question.

He’d been unarmed and all four boys had extremely sharp swords. The scars should have been badges of courage, but they represented failure to him. He stepped under the pouring hot water and let it ease the pain in his tight muscles. What he wouldn’t give for a decent massage. He never could relax enough to get one. He was too busy looking over his shoulder. Even in the shower he felt vulnerable and always faced out toward the room. It was an insane way to live, but he’d been doing it for so many years, he wasn’t certain he could live any other way.

He rinsed off the soap and shampooed his hair. It was getting too long. He rarely bothered to have it cut by a professional. He just had Emme chop it off for him. It grew thick and wild, and when it annoyed him, he handed her the scissors. She always shook her head, but she did as he asked and cut it for him.

He pulled on loose-fitting pants, tightened the drawstring, pulled on a tight T-shirt and walked barefoot down the hall into the training room. The moment he set foot inside, he allowed himself to acknowledge his state of mind. This edginess wasn’t all about the memories so close, although that was a good part of it. He had lost her–Mariko. And what kind of fate had dictated that the little girl he’d saved would be sent to kill him and he’d fall like a ton of bricks for her.

He pulled on thin leather workout gloves while he contemplated the irony of his fate. He wasn’t a man who felt sorry for himself. He got angry, but he didn’t wallow in misery. He lived his life in the fast lane to escape the ever-present rage and fear that his family would become a target. He had considered returning to Tokyo and getting rid of the threat, but he knew that would bring disgrace to his family.

Stefano had ways of dealing with threats, and more than once, especially lately, Ricco had contemplated telling him the entire mess. He wasn’t all that sorry that Mariko had provided him with the catalyst to do so.

He settled into a rhythm, pounding the bag, moving around it while he jabbed and punched. The sound of his fists hitting the heavy bag along with the jolt of pain as his knuckles slammed over and over into the bag. After a while his thoughts faded from his mind, allowing the craziness to disappear for a short while. He ignored his body’s protest. Sometimes the pain in his body was worth the way his mind quieted.