The Good Daughter: A Mafia Story Page 2

  “So you’re here to help out an old friend?”

  “That’s one reason.”

  “An old married friend?” He didn’t know why he threw out that comment except the pain of remembering who Sandro had married distracted Dave momentarily from the dark-haired and dangerous woman across from him.

  There was also the fact Marisa and Sandro had once been engaged--something Dave learned on his own. Had Sandro dumped her to marry his wife? If so, why would Marisa help him? Or maybe Marisa dumped Sandro. Dave would love to know the story.

  “I’m aware Sandro is married, Agent Armstrong,” Marisa said at last, interrupting his speculations. “And I said helping him was one reason. I didn’t say it was my only reason.”

  “Which is? Your main reason, that is.”

  Marisa took another drink and surveyed the bar again. “Can you dance like those people?”

  Dave turned and followed her line of view to the small dance floor in front of the stage. “The two-step? Sure.”

  She set the bottle firmly on the table. “Dance with me, then.”

  Her request wasn’t what he expected, but he resigned himself that she wasn’t going to make this as easy as he’d hoped. All in a day’s--or night’s--work.

  There could be worse things besides dancing with a beautiful woman. He stood and held out his hand. “Shall we?”

  She slipped her small, manicured hand into his and let him lead her to the dance floor.

  He turned, and she moved into his arms, closer than he would have liked, her head fitting neatly under his chin. He made himself ignore the erotic feel of her warm, firm body pressed against him, the soft smell of her musky perfume, as he taught her the steps.

  “You think dancing will make me forget what I asked?”

  “Shh, I’m counting so I don’t lose my step.” She stared at the ground. “I like your boots.”

  He led them to a more isolated corner and stopped dancing. “Marisa.”

  Forced to stand still, she looked at him. Her dark eyes studied him with a cool, casual gaze. He was tempted to move closer, see if he could make the coolness melt away.

  He held his place instead. “Why are you willing to help?”

  “Why is it important?”

  “Motivation. Everyone has a reason for what they do.”

  “My reasons are my own.”

  “I need to know you’re trustworthy.” He knew when she narrowed her eyes she understood his meaning.

  “You think I’m trying to set you up?”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  “What good would that do me? If you were removed, someone else would take your place, no?”

  “Maybe this isn’t about you. Maybe I’m causing your father too much trouble. Granted, I haven’t been able to arrest him yet but I will--”

  “You think this is about you? You think I care nothing for my friend Sandro at all?”

  Her regal, indignant tone made him feel like he was getting a dressing down from his superiors.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Dave snapped.

  “Bah!” Her gaze flashed fire. “Sandro must be desperate to use you.”

  “Yes, I believe he is. Quite desperate. I can help.” Dave didn’t want to gloat, because Sandro, a transplanted Italian soccer star who had unwittingly found himself in Carlo’s clutches, was in a desperate situation. Even though it wasn’t so many years back when Dave would have gloated. Would have hoped quite fervently for the downfall of the man he once considered his rival.

  “Maybe you can help him. Maybe you can’t. But I don’t think you can help me, Agent Armstrong.” She released his hands, stepped back, and turned toward the door.

  “Marisa, wait.” How had he lost control of the situation so fast? “Don’t go.”

  She paused, glanced over her shoulder. “Why?”

  “I...um, I apologize. For . . . my naturally suspicious nature.” He held out his hands, hiding nothing.

  She pivoted to face him, gazed at him steadily, as if debating with herself. “This is a dangerous business,” she finally said.

  “Exactly.” Dave kept his tone level, though inside the clamp released around his windpipe. “And of course being suspicious keeps me alive.”

  “What about me?” She moved closer to him.

  He closed the space between them even more, took her hands in his again. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Will your suspicious nature keep me alive, Agent Armstrong?” She squeezed his fingers. “Can I trust you with my life?”

  Chapter 3

  It was well after two a.m. but Marisa went through her normal nighttime routine, even though she felt anything but normal. She tried to deny an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Her body wasn’t cooperating. Her hands shook as she swiped away make-up, her stomach rolled with nausea. Tossing the used cotton pad in the small garbage can, she braced her hands on the sink.

  Today had been a long day, starting out with a visit to her mother. While Marisa no longer lived with her parents, she made a point to stop by and see momma a few times a week. She had some good days. Other times she was unresponsive. Today was one of those unresponsive times. Did her mother realize what that brute who called himself her husband had done to her? Did she ever remember what she’d been like before? Marisa couldn’t tell.

  She stared at herself in the mirror. And just what was she doing?

  She was doing what she had to do. In order to live with herself, she had to bring her father down. Make him pay. What he’d done to her mattered little; what he was doing to Sandro was another thing. And what he’d done to her mother--and Paolo--was unforgivable.

  Tonight she’d set things in motion which could not be reversed. By agreeing to help Dave, she hoped she found a way to accomplish her goals. What she had not intended was her reaction to Dave. Did she simply have a fatal attraction for men in law enforcement?

  No, before Paolo, she’d never associated with cops, went out of her way to avoid them because that’s the way it was in her family. Until Paolo approached her and opened her eyes and stole her heart. She was twenty-one then and while she’d been with men, had been used and abused, she had never experienced the joy of being in love.

  And she would have never allowed herself a chance if Paolo hadn’t gained her trust and then told her what really happened to her mother. It was a tale much different than the version she’d been told.

  Not long after she’d been sent off to school, after the incident with her brother’s teenage friend and the stiletto she learned to carry, her father told her momma had deliberately overdosed on sleeping pills. She’d been revived, but the damage had been done. On her best days, she appeared to be off in la-la land, the land of the happy where nothing bad ever happened. And on her worst days she fell into a near vegetable state, where she sat in a wheelchair all day and had an attendant to take care of her every need. The change in her mother from a vibrant, flamboyant woman to this stranger had been drastic for Marisa, at a time when she desperately needed her mother’s protection.

  But she never had reason to doubt what her father told her happened, and how he let her think she’d been the reason for momma’s overdose. Marisa had kept quiet about the teenage boy she stabbed--like poppa told her--but always thought momma somehow found out and couldn’t accept it. Her father never did anything to make Marisa think differently.

  So the truth, when Paolo at last told her, had been hard to believe, and so much worse. Her mother never overdosed. The changes in momma were not Marisa’s fault. It was hard to let go of her guilt, but Paolo had proof Marisa could not refute. Evidence that made real the fact that her father was a monster, not only for what he’d done to momma but for letting Marisa believe it had been her fault.

  Paolo helped her accept the reality, and his kindness and goodness was unlike anything she’d experienced. And there had been no turning back.

  Until poppa stole Paolo away as surely as he’d stolen her mother.

&
nbsp; For Paolo, for momma, for herself and all those many nameless people her father had hurt so much, Marisa marched on in her quest for some way to right the many wrongs.

  Especially when Carlo turned his greedy sight on Sandro and his uncle and their restaurant. History repeating? No, not this time. No more.

  Which led her to Dave.

  Marisa was skeptical whether Dave could help but she’d researched him well and aside from finding him fascinating, he did have a track record for bringing down mob guys. Maybe he would be successful and she wouldn’t have to utilize “plan B” as they said here in America.

  But going to Dave for help put her at risk for another--unanticipated--problem.

  Dave had felt the same intense feelings as well. From the unconscious way he licked his lips and let his gaze flit across her body, Marisa knew he wasn’t immune to her.

  She wouldn’t allow it to matter. She dressed to distract him, she reminded herself, so she could get a read on him. A slight miscalculation on her part; she had not counted on a reciprocal attraction.

  Hadn’t counted on the spark she’d thought long buried when he took her in his arms. She only asked Dave to dance to reduce the intimacy of sitting directly across from him at that small table. Who knew the two-step could be so sexy?

  With a sigh, she turned on the faucet to wash the last of the make-up from her face. Dripping water, she reached for the towel when her cell phone rang. Patting her face dry, she glanced at the caller ID and stiffened.

  Gigi. She wanted to ignore his call, but that would be stupid.

  Marisa wasn’t stupid. She pushed the button.

  “Ciao, gorgeous.”

  He sounded chipper, must have been a good night. She tried to make herself sound tired and sleepy in contrast. “Ciao.”

  “Why don’t you grab a cab to the ristorante and let’s have a late dinner. I feel like celebrating.”

  Never mind that it was closer to breakfast time, and going to eat was the last thing she wanted to do with him. Next to last thing, rather. Worse would be if he wanted to take her to bed, and if she met him tonight, bed would be inevitable. One day, one day, she’d be past having to use her body as she’d been taught. But today was not that day. Nor tomorrow. But only a little longer. She clung to that thought.

  “Have a good night?”she asked. He and his friends often got a private room at Sandro’s restaurant for all night gambling.

  “I’m on a hot streak and now I’d like to spend some time with my hot Italian woman.”

  This, on top of the day she’d already had. No. No. “Amore mio, I am already in bed,” she lied.

  “Bed. Just where I like you best.”

  He must’ve been drinking heavily, that’s when he got all sexy--or what he thought passed as sexy. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so distasteful.

  “But come here first,” he continued. “Let’s eat and then we can go back to my place.”

  “Gigi. Did you hear?” Her temper flashed but she tamped it down. “I’m in bed. I’ve already taken off my make-up.”

  “Can’t you just slap some back on?”

  She heard the irritation rising in his voice and debated whether she had the energy to fight. Yes, she decided. She hardened her voice. “No, I can’t ‘slap some back on.’ I was asleep, I’m tired. I’m going back--”

  “Wait,” he cut her off. “Why don’t I have Georgio pack us a meal and you meet me at my apartment? You can go there without getting dolled up. Don’t even bother getting dressed, just throw on your coat.”

  “Gigi, I--”

  “Or…” he cut her off again and added slyly, “I could bring the food to your place.”

  No! She deliberately kept Luigi away from her apartment, wanting her own space. She had conceded by renting the apartment from him in a building he owned in the first place, a calculated move on her part to appease him, but she had never invited him over to stay the night. This was her private haven. He knew her rules and only presented the option to provoke her.

  It worked. “Va bene. I’ll meet you at your place in a half hour.” As much as she didn’t want to she resigned herself to spending the rest of the night with Luigi, knowing she had to keep up this charade for her plan to work.

  At least by going to his place, she’d be able to add the new snooping software to his phone. No, Dave didn’t know about it, but there was a lot he didn’t need to know.

  He didn’t know all the things that’d been forced on her. The men she entertained because of her father...and her brother. And that Luigi was another one poppa had set her up with. Although this time she knew enough to turn the tables on them both. Without having to use her stiletto. She hoped.

  Dave didn’t know the things she’d seen. Whole fingernails lying on a table, acid poured on a widow’s legs, a man’s tongue cut out. Dirty old men’s shriveled--.

  She cut that thought short. If Dave knew those things, he’d realize she was slowly losing her humanity. And that her biggest fear was that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from becoming an animal like everyone else in her family.

  Chapter 4

  FBI headquarters, New York City, two weeks later

  “Damn, Tony must’ve made the coffee today.” Dave grimaced as he forced the sludge in his cup down his throat.

  “Hey, be grateful I got here early enough to make it.” Tony shoved more paper into the printer. Always such a mother hen, Tony was.

  Dave walked back toward his office through a row of desks in the main room. “That’s something to be grateful for?”

  Two other men chuckled, but Dave saw a third man hadn’t cracked a smile. Frankie sat at his desk, headphones on his ears and a cup of coffee, probably long forgotten, placed to one side. Beneath his hand lay a notepad, the page nearly full of scribbled notes as he translated last night’s tapes.

  “How’s it going, Frankie?” Dave tapped the frowning man on his shoulder.

  “Hang on a minute, boss. This isn’t looking good.”

  While waiting, Dave loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt. As much as he’d wanted to be an FBI agent, following in his father’s footsteps, Dave had never gotten used to feeling choked.

  “So, what do they say?” he asked, drumming his fingers on the edge of Frankie’s desk. “Has our bug paid off already?”

  Though Marisa had been cantankerous and elusive, she’d finally come through. She hadn’t offered many specifics about Carlo’s business ventures, claimed to know nothing about the alleged weapons smuggling to the drug cartels beyond the border, but she did tell him where her father held his private meetings. It was a place Dave and his team had been trying to find for several months since previous wiretaps had netted them a big fat zero.

  This new tap had been up and running less than a week. The fact Carlo and his men spoke in Italian, as Marisa had warned Dave, proved no challenge. Frankie had grown up in a traditional Italian-speaking home.

  Dave looked around the room at his men, working in sync like any well-tuned machine. It had taken him eleven months to put together the original Organized Crime Task Force, but they’d worked side-by-side five years now and could read each other’s body language, perceiving unspoken codes in eye contact.

  He’d snatched Steve, a fellow Texan, just out of the Academy. Standing over six feet tall, with strawberry blond hair and blue eyes, an east-Texas accent and cowboy boots, Steve stood out among the dark-haired Italians they stalked. But he was quick-witted, easy going and strong as a draft horse. He could easily bench 450 pounds and yet charm the most hardened mobster with no one the wiser. Dave was happy to have Steve in his corner.

  And Frankie . . . steady, dependable Frankie. He and Tony, Italians both, had been childhood friends in Brooklyn. They both knew all the goombas and spoke the language like natives. Good guys, both of them.

  And last, but not least, the newest members of the team, Roberto and Greggorio, aka Bobby and Gregg. They’d come on board right after the big organized
crime bust three years ago when Dave had lost one member to retirement and another to a long-term injury. They were the youngest, least-experienced and therefore the weakest link. But they worked hard to earn their spot, and Dave trusted them.

  Dave’s attention turned back to Frankie when he pulled off his headphones and read his notes aloud. “‘This is no good,’ Carlo says. ‘I want him. First thing in the morning.’

  “Now Angelo’s talking,” Frankie went on to explain. “He says, ‘You want him dead or alive?’ And Carlo answers, ‘Alive for now. There is much I want to tell him first.’”

  Dave set his coffee cup down and peeked over Frankie’s shoulder. “Do they ever say who they’re talking about?” Dave asked, though he knew the chances were slim. Carlo’s guys were always careful, even when they thought they were safe. “Damn, I’d love to catch him in a slip.”

  “Afraid not this time. There’s no mention who they’re talking about, but I have a feeling they’re onto Sandro.”

  Frankie’s softly-spoken words rang ominously in the suddenly quiet office.

  A burning lump which had nothing to do with the coffee he’d ingested settled in Dave’s stomach. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Well, Carlo goes on to say nobody ever sets him up and lives to--”

  “Shit!” Dave sorted through the information, couldn’t deny the facts. “You’re right. He has to be talking about Sandro.” From all they knew, it couldn’t be anyone else. How could Carlo have found out? They had been so careful when Sandro offered them his help after Carlo had found Sandro’s family-owned restaurant in Little Italy an irresistible place to launder money.

  “Damn, that bastard’s slick. Gregg, call Sandro’s house,” Dave ordered.

  Greggorio obligingly picked up the phone. “He’s probably already left for practice.” He punched in the numbers, waited a few moments. “No answer.”

  A new panic hit Dave. Sandro’s wife. “Where’s Nia? Why isn’t she picking up the phone?” Dave had known Nia longer than he’d known Sandro. Since she was in diapers, to be exact. They’d grown up next door to each other in Dallas. Now, in a strange twist of fate, they both lived in New York with Nia married to someone else instead of him.