The Good Daughter: A Mafia Story Page 6

  “Still,” Sandro went on, “even if what Marisa says is true, that Carlo will not hurt her, if he doesn’t release her soon, she will try to escape to get to Daniele. She thinks I have left her, and there will be no parent for him. She is fiercely protective of our son.”

  Dave saw a man living with an enormous amount of pain, guilt... and no doubt incredible fear for his loved ones. Damn, this was a mess. He pulled his mind back to focus. “First, we need to find Nia,” Dave said. “Bringing Carlo down can wait. When we get her, all of you will have to go into the witness security program.”

  “No. I must get Carlo.”

  “We will get him. It’s going to take more time now. Until then you have to stay out of sight.” Dave tried to be persuasive.

  “No. There is another way. Marisa and I are working on other plans.”

  Dave looked at Marisa. “You’re still willing to help, knowing attempted murder--make that a likely murder if something goes wrong--will be involved? You found out today how hard it is to make everything go right.”

  “Murder has been a reality my whole life. This is not like the old days where the women were sheltered from the business. I even know of two women in Napoli--grandmothers, both of them--who ran their own families when their men went to jail.”

  “What of your own life?” Dave asked her. “You’re taking a great risk. For now, they believe you’re part of them, but what if they find out you’re helping us?”

  “I want out.”

  Dave had heard enough in the past weeks to know Marisa was speaking of her father’s crime family and not any possible set-up they might devise in the next few days. He still didn’t understand her reasoning, didn’t totally trust her, but he was smart enough to work with what was offered. Catching Carlo Peruzzo would be one step further up closer to Dave’s father’s hallowed reputation.

  A grim look covered Marisa’s face. “If I must die, I have no one to mourn me. Sandro is the one with all to lose.”

  Dave thought it sad Marisa believed no one would mourn her. But he understood. Sometimes it felt like he stood all alone himself, fighting criminals, managing to put a few in jail, only to have more spring up to take their place. It was an isolating job, a lonely life.

  He imagined Marisa probably felt alone as well, surrounded by a family of criminals, trapped, looking for a way out.

  He and Marisa could no doubt have a long, meaningful conversation about the many different ways of isolation and loneliness, over a glass of wine, with soft candles glowing on a table--

  Whoa, where was all this sentimental crap coming from? Now wasn’t the time to get hung up on a romantic fantasy. She’d probably have a nice little stiletto for his back.

  Now was the time to convince the stubborn Italian who thought he was invincible he wasn’t bullet proof.

  “She’s right, Sandro, you have a lot to lose,” Dave said, hoping somehow Sandro would see reason.

  “Exactly why he must be caught for my family to have a normal life. And now we must find a way to get Nia back as well.”

  “We’ll get her back.” Dave hoped if he said it enough it would be true. His team was currently going through traffic light cameras hoping to follow the kidnappers’ SUV electronically.

  “You won’t do anything,” Sandro snapped.

  “Let’s talk more,” Dave urged. They were approaching the parking lot where he kept his car. “Pull over in this next parking lot so you can concentrate on what I have to say instead of driving.”

  Sandro held silent, once again acting as if he were going to ignore Dave.

  “Come on, I’ll pay the parking fee,” Dave added. “Working together we’ll accomplish more.”

  At the last possible moment, Sandro whipped the Buick into the parking lot, stopping to take the ticket from the automatic machine. He parked, but left the engine running.

  “Look, Sandro, after I talked to you, we swept the office, found the bug.” Dave looked at Marisa. “Tell me who dropped the device?”

  “I don’t know his name,” she answered. “His son was in a motorcycle accident and is now paralyzed. He needed the money for medical bills.”

  “Son of a bitch. John Madison. I donated money to help cover the medical expenses.”

  “Perhaps your donation wasn’t enough?” Sandro said.

  Dave ignored Sandro’s sarcasm. “He’s not one of my team, but we’ll be watching him,” Dave promised. “John won’t plant another bug. When we get Carlo, we’ll nail John’s ass right along with him.”

  “Nailing asses won’t do good now. He has already caused much damage,” Sandro said.

  “Tell him what we have discussed, Sandro,” Marisa encouraged. “He can help.”

  Sandro shook his head. “No, I do not think so.”

  “Che?” she asked, looking obviously frustrated.

  “Why not?” Dave demanded.

  “It is dangerous for too many people to know.”

  “I trust my men, Sandro.”

  “The trust has done me no good.”

  “We won’t make the same mistake twice,” Dave assured him. “I’ll tighten security so much--”

  “My wife is in danger, Agent Armstrong,” Sandro interrupted. “I do not think Carlo will hesitate to kill her in spite of what Marisa says.”

  Dave lost his temper. “Don’t you think I know she’s in danger! That’s why I have to help.”

  “I know you loved her. Maybe you still love her.” Sandro met Dave’s gaze. “But I will save her. She is my wife.”

  Heat rose under Dave’s collar. Marisa sent him a curious look, which he ignored. “Do you plan to turn yourself over to them?”

  “If it becomes necessary.”

  “One man. Against the mob? You plan to live to tell about it?”

  “Marisa will help. We have a plan.”

  “You could be killed.”

  “It is a chance I must take. If I am killed, you must make sure my wife and son are safe.”

  Dave didn’t even want to consider the possibility of Sandro’s death. It was too tempting, and after working years to get over heartbreak, which right or wrong, Dave had blamed Sandro for, it was a road Dave didn’t want to travel.

  “You have no authority to act, Sandro.”

  “Carlo will only recognize authority from someone more powerful. Your laws are not good enough.”

  “That’s bullshit. We have RICO, surveillance equipment. We have men and weapons--”

  “You do not have Carlo.”

  Dave sighed. “You’re bound to be planning something illegal.”

  “Which is a good reason for you not to know. You cannot break your laws. I can.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep you out of jail.”

  “Jail is a minor thing.”

  Under the circumstances, Dave knew Sandro was right. But still, Dave would do his best to keep their plans within the law, so no one but Carlo and his men would be going to jail.

  Dave looked at Marisa. “You’re in this with him?”

  She studied Sandro’s set jaw before she turned back to Dave. She nodded. “Si. I am in.”

  “You want us to secure you a place to stay?” Dave asked Sandro.

  “I will find my own place. I think I will move around often.”

  “And drive different cars, right?” Dave’s attempted humor didn’t even evoke a smile this time. He cleared his throat. “My car’s parked close, I’ll get out here.”

  In the rearview mirror, Sandro met Dave’s gaze. “Keep my son safe.”

  “I will.” Dave laid his hand on Sandro’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Carlo will not get the best of me this time. I will be careful. He will get what he deserves after taking so much from me.”

  Dave couldn’t disagree there. “Keep in touch,” he added before he got out of the car.

  When Sandro and Marisa drove off, Dave’s shoulders slumped as he felt his chance for bringing down the Peruzzo crime family le
aving with them. He didn’t know what Sandro had in mind, but Dave had firsthand experience that it wasn’t easy to outsmart Carlo. Even if Sandro had Marisa’s help. Too many things could go wrong. Today’s big all around fuckup, proved that.

  Dave knew without a doubt he couldn’t let them handle this on their own.

  Chapter 11

  Nia didn’t know where they had taken her. Once they left New York City and headed north, the roads were unfamiliar. They drove forever it seemed. By the time they stopped in a densely wooded area and the New Yorker with the gun dragged her out of the car, tension and fear had been replaced with a growing exhaustion. Her limbs felt heavy, hard to move. At this point, if he shot her, she didn’t know if she’d have the strength to care.

  The red brick house rose in straight, narrow lines, three stories high.

  “Mikey, take her up to the room,” the big Italian whose name she learned was Angelo, instructed the New Yorker.

  With the gun poked into her ribs, Mikey, a slimy little man with dark gel-stiffened hair and an acne-scarred face, forced her to walk up all three flights of stairs. He opened a door and waved the gun. She moved inside.

  It was a bedroom. Brief panic stiffened her spine, penetrating through her tiredness. She didn’t know his intentions. The thought of him touching her made her tighten her muscles, ready to defend herself.

  She turned in time to see the door shut, followed by a distinctive click. Alone--thankfully alone--but locked in. Breathing easier, at least for the moment, she walked to the window. A damn long drop to the ground. A quick scan of the room and a useless shake on the locked doorknob promised no escape anytime soon. She needed a plan.

  First, rest. She sank into a soft overstuffed chair set up beside a small table. Her brain couldn’t function when she was so tired. The bed looked tempting, and she was afraid she’d sleep too long if she lay on the inviting down comforter. It was not a normal condition, this tiredness--usually her energy abounded--but circumstances were not normal.

  And being pregnant sapped her strength, as well. That had been her first clue. Not a missed period like most women. As a professional athlete, she trained so much her periods were irregular anyway. But when her energy level dropped off drastically, she knew. It had been the same way with Daniele.

  Daniele. A pain hit her heart. God, her sweet son. Was he okay? Would she ever see him again?

  Of course she would. No negative thoughts. Positive thinking made her a success. Positive thinking would help her escape. At the moment, her options seemed limited, but she would find a way to get away from these criminals. Then she would find her husband.

  She rested her head against the plush chair. Closed her eyes. Just a little rest.

  * * *

  She was running. Running as if demons from hell were nipping at her feet. If she fell, she was dead. Hurry. Her heart hammered frantically against her ribcage. Her breath labored through her lungs. Move, feet.

  Move, move, move.

  Safety was close. Just a little further. She had to make it.

  Gunshots exploded around her. The noise was deafening.

  Instinctively, she ducked, and urged her churning legs to greater speed.

  Someone hurled a bowling ball into her shoulder. Another loud crack sounded. She went sprawling. She scrambled to stay on her feet, scraping her knees, her fingers clawing at the ground to push her upright.

  Blood dripped from her hand. She followed the red sticky trail up her arm. A bowling ball hadn’t hit her. A bullet. She’d been shot--

  Nia jerked awake, her heart beating furiously as if she’d tried to run a hundred-yard dash in an impossible two seconds.

  The dream. No . . . nightmare.

  It had haunted her for years, but hadn’t bothered her for several months now. Of all times for it to recur. She had enough fear to conquer without her own mind creating horrible scenarios. Even if it was a recurring nightmare, it still had the power to scare her.

  And always before, Sandro had been there to comfort her. Ease the irrational fears. Even the time she first had the dream, he’d been there. The same night she met him . . . .

  * * *

  Ten years earlier

  Italy had been in the states for a friendly soccer match with the USA team. Nia and her former soccer coach Giuseppe Zambrotta had tickets. The day had been magical. Not only did she get to see her soccer hero Sandro in live action, she learned he was Giuseppe’s nephew. Giuseppe and Sandro’s mother were siblings, different last names, which is why she’d never known there was a connection. That, and the fact that her coach had been mysteriously closed- mouthed about his famous relative.

  That night, Sandro would dine at Giuseppe’s and she was invited. From the moment she met Sandro, he stole her heart with as much certainty and skill as he’d ever scored a goal. Even more amazing, he seemed to be as attracted to her--later, he told her about the “thunderbolt”, an Italian man’s expectation of being struck blind with love. For her, he told her, she had been his thunderbolt.

  He even persuaded Giuseppe to let her spend the night, upstairs in the guest room of course, while Sandro volunteered to take the couch. Alone in her room, reviewing the day, she knew she’d never get to sleep. But she dropped right off, awakened a short while later by the nightmare.

  Too agitated to go back to bed, she went downstairs for juice. Only to be scared for real when Sandro, whom she thought was sleeping, whispered in her ear, “It is dangerous to walk in the dark.”

  “Yikes! Sandro.” Her shoulders slumped as the tension eased from her muscles. “I thought you were asleep.”

  He turned her to face him. “I pretend. In case it was Beppe or Luciana.” He picked up the juice glass from the countertop. “You have trouble to sleep? Drink latte…milk.” The glass made a soft clink against the marble counter as he sat it down.

  “I wasn’t having trouble sleeping, not at first. Then I had a bad dream. I don’t like milk, but I thought juice would help.” Realizing she was inanely chattering, she turned the question to him. “Haven’t you been able to sleep?”

  She felt him studying her. In the dark, she couldn’t clearly make out his features, but she felt his intense look, his warm breath stirring the air between them.

  “No. Sleep does not come to me tonight.”

  She wanted to ask him if he couldn’t sleep because he was thinking of her, but to her shame, just the thought made her tremble. Coward, she scolded herself. He’s years older and totally experienced. The last thing he wants is a nervous virgin.

  His hand slid from her shoulder, up her neck to cup her face. “You are shaking. Because the dream frightened you?”

  No, not the dream. Her feelings for him. “It was very bad,” she agreed, while wondering if she should rub against his hand, which felt so nice and strong against her cheek.

  “Vieni qua. Come. Tell me. I will hold you.” He took her hand and led her to the gray-and-blue plaid sofa, gently illuminated by a lamp turned on dim. He sat on the hide-away mattress, and gently tugged her down beside him, not giving her a chance to resist.

  Nestled in his arms, her cheek pressed against his warm bare chest, she felt safe and secure. The dream seemed less frightening in the telling especially when he kept rubbing her back and dropping soft kisses atop her head as she spoke. She was having more trouble by the minute remembering terror pulled her from sleep.

  “Someone shot you? This is very bad.”

  His whisper-soft kiss brushed her hair. Beneath her cheek, his heart beat strong and steady while hers was bouncing all over the place. “Just a dream though.”

  “But still enough to frighten.”

  His warm, masculine scent filled her nostrils. “Yes, it was scary.” She finally looked at him. “But I’m not afraid now.”

  Their gazes locked; the moment dragged out between them. She became aware of the bulge in his fitted boxers growing larger, harder. Unable to stop herself, she glanced down. Oh, wow. When she looked back at him, she saw
him swallow. Hard.

  “It is time for you to go back to bed,” he said, his voice tight with strain.

  A surprising thought practically knocked her upside the head. “Come to my room with me,” she blurted before she chickened out.

  He stared at her, the moment stretching to infinity, before he finally said, “This is bad idea. Is better we watch television instead.”

  She was inexperienced, true, but surely she hadn’t misread him that badly. “You don’t want . . . ? ”

  “Si, I very much want. You need your sleep.”

  “I’ve heard sex makes you sleep better.” God, where did that come from?

  “Is true then, you are innocente like Beppe says.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

  “Beppe said that?” she gasped. Heat rose up her neck. “How could he?”

  Sandro chuckled. “Because he knows the way a man’s mind thinks.”

  Beppe and sex. That was not an image she wanted to consider.

  “Is true?” he repeated.

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Do you never answer a question?”

  “Why should I answer if it doesn’t make a difference. Does it?” She held her breath as he stared at her.

  “No,” he answered at last. “Innocente or not, is best we watch the television.”

  She sighed. “It figures I’d fall for a lady’s man with scruples.”

  He chuckled again. She settled back against him while he punched on the remote, lowered the volume, and flipped channels on the wall-mounted flat screen television, one of the first she’d seen at the time.

  “Stop,” she said. “I like this movie.” It was The Bodyguard, one of her mom’s favorite movies, and Kevin Costner had workmen ripping up Whitney Houston’s estate, installing security measures. She explained the movie to that point, well aware of what would happen later. Hoping the growing attraction between Whitney and Kevin might persuade Sandro to change his mind. Nia never realized she was so devious.