The Good Daughter: A Mafia Story

by Diana Layne

  “She didn’t overdose.”

  “No? And she didn’t have a stroke? Then, what--”

  “She had a lobotomy.”

  Dave went rigid. “A . . . a . . .” Surely he didn’t hear correctly. “A lobotomy?”

  Marisa’s nod was barely perceptible, but tears silently leaked out of her eyes.

  Dave automatically passed her a tissue from the box on the end table, while his mind struggled through the chaotic jumble of his thoughts. It was an old procedure, once quite common to treat mental illness and other conditions, of cutting the frontal lobe of the brain. “Do they even do those anymore?”

  “Obviously.” She sniffed. “Yes, they still perform them occasionally if that’s the only treatment the doctors feel they are left with.”

  “Your mother, she was crazy then?”

  “No.” Marisa’s head shake was emphatic. “My mother was vibrant. Fun. Maybe a little selfish, but she had a good heart. People liked being around her, they all wanted to be her friend.”

  “Then . . .this was done as some form of punishment at your father’s wishes?”

  Surely he was wrong with that guess, but Marisa’s nod said otherwise.

  “Did she . . . cheat on your father?” He was reaching for motivations for such a barbaric action. “Try to leave him?”

  Another slight nod. “She tried to leave him, yes. But not for another man.”

  “Another woman?”

  Marisa laughed, a quick, startled sound.

  “It’s been known to happen,” Dave defended.

  “True. And maybe in a way . . . ” She sighed, then stared off again.

  Dave waited.

  While Marisa warred with herself. Should she tell him? Not even Paolo had known the truth; the police, of course, had the same theories as Dave. But once Paolo told her what had been done to momma, Marisa knew the reason why. And she couldn’t tell him. No, she’d rather pretend it never happened, be happy that Paolo loved her and believe that a new life was possible.

  Now, she knew fairy tales were lies and only nightmares were true.

  She needed Dave to stay away. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice, endanger someone else. Laying here in nothing more than a robe was a really bad idea. It was too hard for her to fight her attraction and his, too, and nothing good would come from it if they gave into temptation. When all was said and done, he would despise her, so it was best to keep him away now. The few minutes’ pleasure would not offset the pain later. And there would be plenty of pain.

  “Marisa?” he said gently.

  She glanced at him and braced herself. Steadying her nerves, she began, “From the outside, we looked like the perfect family. Sunday mornings we went to mass. And Sunday afternoon we had a big family dinner, typical Italian. Poppa would sometimes entertain friends during these dinners. I was precocious as a little girl. Poppa’s friends, all men older than him as he was still working his way up in the family, delighted in bouncing me on their knee.”

  He smiled slightly. “I bet you were an adorable little girl.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “But that was not a good thing.”

  Confusion clouded his eyes, and in a minute she knew she would see horror, disbelief. She plunged ahead.

  “My father was ambitious. He would do anything to get ahead. Anything.”

  Dave opened his mouth. To question? To object? She didn’t know. She placed two fingers across his lips to keep him silent.

  “Anything,” she repeated. “I was nine when my father struck the first deal. My virginity was the price.”

  Dave squeezed her arm tightly, almost painfully. She didn’t mind. No matter how much the pain, it was nothing compared to the terror of a wrinkled old man stripping off her clothes, roughly fingering her and then shoving his penis inside her. His slobbery, smelly tobacco-and-espresso breath mouth cut off her scream.

  She clenched her teeth. “Afterwards, the fat old pig had patted me on the head as my reward.”

  “My God,” Dave exploded. “I can’t bel--”

  The look she shot him silenced him immediately. Clamping down on every bit of emotion, she continued, “My father wasn’t the only one to sell my favors. My brother Massi learned of my new talents and sold me to his friends. When I was twelve, I stole a stiletto, and no one ever touched me without my permission after that. No one. The first boy who tried, I stabbed.”

  Yes, it was there, the look of shock. Horror. She expected revulsion next. But she should have known better. No, Dave the good Boy Scout, the pristine FBI man, had anger in his eyes, not revulsion.

  “I--”

  “Poppa sent me off to school, then. And paid off the boy’s family. No, I didn’t kill him,” she answered the question she saw in his eyes. “But he did spend time in the hospital.”

  Dave visibly reined in his anger. “Your mom, did she know then?”

  Marisa shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I do think she found out. She had the . . . surgery while I was off at school.”

  “But you thought it was a drug overdose?

  “Yes. Poppa told me it was my fault that she overdosed. That she found out what a whore I was, and that I’d stabbed that boy, and she was overcome with embarrassment.” Knowing how fiery and passionate her mother used to be Marisa couldn’t believe she’d fallen for her father’s lies. “She hadn’t wanted me to go off to school. So, I think she pushed and found out what was going on, and then planned to leave my father.” That’s what Marisa chose to believe anyway.

  “Your father wouldn’t let her divorce?”

  “Bosses don’t get divorced. And my father always wanted to be boss.”

  Dave swallowed, his face now smooth and hard to read. “And you came back . . . to the family?”

  “I thought I needed to be here. But momma is no more than a child most days. Most time she doesn’t recognize me.” That was most painful of all.

  “I’m sorry,” Dave whispered.

  “Before I could decide what to do with my life, I met Paolo, who suggested I make myself invaluable to my father with my computer skills.

  “I did as he asked, although at the time I thought there little need. My plans were to turn peniti. Witness. And after I testified, Paolo was going to leave the police. And marry me. We were going to live in the protection program together. We were going to take momma, too.”

  “How did Paolo die?” Dave asked, although it looked as if he already knew the answer.

  She told him anyway. “He was murdered.”

  “Your father?”

  Her lips flattened. “My father ordered the hit, but my brother carried it out.”

  “Had they found out you were helping Paolo?”

  “At first I thought so. But then--that morning--I learned differently. Giuseppe had witnessed a crime outside his restaurant committed by one of poppa’s Mafiosi. I don’t know why Paolo never told me. Maybe he was trying to protect me somehow.

  “But that morning, I overheard my father talking to my brother. I figured out what was happening. As soon as I could, I rushed to Giuseppe’s house. But the traffic. I couldn’t get through. I was too late. The bomb--”

  Dave flinched as if he’d been hit. “Your brother set a bomb?”

  Marisa nodded. “Paolo was there to pick up Giuseppe and take him to court. Beppe was just reaching for the car door when it exploded. Paolo was already inside.”

  She felt herself on the edge of tremors. She sat up, gathered her robe tightly around her.

  “And you know it was your brother who set the bomb?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s very talented in explosives. He taught me how to make a couple of different bombs. Even if I hadn’t heard my father talking to him, I would have recognized Massimo’s work.”

  “He taught you how to wire a car. He taught you how to build a bomb.” Dave’s eyes asked the question while his lips held silent.

  “Si, la mia famiglia is the definition of dysfunction, no?”

  �
��Remind me not to make you angry,” Dave joked.

  His words brought a faint smile to her face.

  Dave continued, “But . . . Giuseppe’s still alive . . .”

  “It was a remote control device--Massimo likes that kind, he likes to watch--it wasn’t meant to kill Giuseppe, just give him a message. Still, the blast injured him. He was in protective custody at the hospital until he recovered from his injuries.”

  “And then he fled to the States,” Dave concluded. “And didn’t testify, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t testify. I don’t blame him.” She sighed. “He lived in Dallas coaching soccer until Sandro asked him to join in the restaurant business. Sandro knew Luciana always wanted her own restaurant again after they were forced to leave Italy.”

  “And after Paolo died, you were still stuck with the family, and . . . all that entailed.”

  “Si. Once we moved to America, poppa made me help at the company. By that time I was very good with computers. ”

  Dave pulled her into a comfortable hug. “You are amazing.”

  Her eyes widened. She certainly hadn’t expected words of praise.

  “We’ll get you out, Marisa,” he continued. “Trust me.”

  She shook her head and said softly,“I’ve found out the hard way there is no one to trust but myself.” She looked at him. “But sometimes, I get tired. And I need someone to lean on. Thank you.” She touched her lips to his.

  Just a soft, sweet kiss of thanks. They both knew this wasn’t the time for them, that there might never be a time for them. But in this moment, they were two people offering and sharing comfort.

  “We need to get on those accounts. I’ll get dressed. You get my computer booted up.”

  Once dressed, and in front of her computer, she became all business. Dave stood behind her, watching, when his phone rang and Frankie told him the accountant had been picked up.

  “We’re good to go,” Dave said when he disconnected the call. “Roberto’s in custody.”

  Marisa typed in more numbers.

  Dave gave a low whistle. “Princess, your father is loaded.”

  She barely glanced at him. “He likes to save for a rainy day, and all that. His parents were children of the Depression.”

  An hour later, she finished, closed the web browser and took the last bite of her sandwich. “I’m hoping with my names on both accounts that they’ll transfer quickly. The faster this is over with, the better.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.” Dave’s phone rang again. “What now?” he muttered, clearly not expecting another phone call. “Armstrong,” he answered, and then didn’t talk. Immediately, a frown formed on his face. At last, he said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Alarmed, she tried to catch his gaze.

  At last he looked at her and snarled,“Son of a bitch!”

  “What? What is it?”

  He punched the phone off and slammed a fist against the table.

  Heart pounding, she demanded, “Is it Sandro? Have they caught him?”

  “No, but we’ve got a shitload more trouble. Grab your jacket. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Earlier

  Carmine drove down the long street of row houses, each home looking like the other only with a different paint job. He slowed the truck, coming up to a sandy peach house with brown trim.“This better be the right one, we’re at the corner.”

  Joey checked the address. “Yeah, this is it.”

  “We going in now, or we gonna wait until dark?” Ralphie asked.

  Joey would’ve liked to have waited. He’d had a busy damn day. Waiting was not an option though.“Carlo said now. I’ll take the front door. You two stay over there out of sight. Make sure you got on your ski masks.” He pointed over to the side of the front porch by the shrubs. “And remember, don’t hurt the kid. Anyone else sees your face or gets in your way, whack ‘em.”

  The three men exited the stolen four-door city utility truck. Joey adjusted his phony uniform, went to the front door and knocked.

  “Who is it?”

  “City worker. We got to get to that gas line in your back yard that’s leaking. Could be dangerous.”

  The door opened a fraction, the chain obviously still on. “A gas leak--”

  The Fed never finished his sentence. Joey kicked the door, easily busting the flimsy chain. He pulled the trigger on his gun and shot the FBI agent twice before pulling on his ski mask.

  “Freeze.”

  A man with a gun came around the corner. Another suit. Joey shot in reflex. The man went down. Carmine and Ralphie ran inside the open front door.

  “Find the kid,” Joey told them.

  Carmine ran up the stairs, Ralphie went to the left.

  “What’s going on?” The old man came around from the dining room on the right, took in the situation in a glance. “Cara, get the baby. Run!” he shouted before he picked up a fireplace poker and came at Joey.

  Joey shot him.

  “Find the old lady,” he yelled. “She’s got the kid.”

  In less than a minute, Joey heard her screeching. “No, you can’t have him!” Joey found Ralphie and the old lady in the kitchen. She had a death grip on the child. The little boy set up howls of his own as Ralphie struggled to pull him out of her grasp.

  Joey came up behind the elderly woman and tapped her on the head with the butt of his gun. She dropped like a log. Ralphie caught the kid before he fell to the floor.

  “Shut him up, we’ll have the whole fucking neighborhood calling the cops.”

  Ralphie jiggled the boy helplessly. “Shh, bambino. Shh, shh.”

  “Carmine, bring that truck around to the back so we can hustle him in and go.”

  Carmine ran out the front door, while Joey unlocked the back door and the fence gate across the driveway.

  Moments later he directed to Ralphie. “Get in. Hurry. Let’s go.”

  The truck doors slammed shut. The three men drove off with little Danny Crocetti.

  Chapter 22

  “I love you, Sandro.”

  He heard her message too late. Sandro wearily rubbed the back of his neck and disconnected the throw away phone from his voice mail on his cell phone. If he’d had his phone, he would have gotten her call. He had been at the very same store where she had been, only right down the road when she called. They might be together now.

  But his phone had been in his SUV. He’d only just now thought to call and check his messages remotely. Too late.

  Nia was back in Carlo’s hands.

  He slammed his hand against the Honda’s steering wheel. Frustration ate at him. How much longer? In reality he knew they could put the plan into effect within the next twenty-four hours. Not that long.

  A lifetime.

  No. Soon, Carlo would be dead and Sandro would be free. Soon, he would have his wife back. A happy ending.

  Simple.

  Anything but simple.

  Too many things could go wrong.

  Faith.

  Faith would help him survive until his family was reunited.

  He pulled out the addresses again. Checked with his map and put his car in gear. Yes, it was a long shot that he would find her like this. But it was something to do. Something to keep the fears pushed away.

  He’d been driving for hours when the throw away phone rang.

  “Sandro. There’s been some trouble,” Dave said without preliminaries.

  Sandro’s heart stuttered. “What trouble?”

  “Are you driving?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Pull over.”

  “What’s happened? Is it Nia?” Sandro’s erratic heart rate jumped to triple time. He couldn’t bear to ask if they’d found her body dumped on the side of the road somewhere. Of course, that would make no sense for Carlo to kill his bait. Unless he counted on Sandro coming after him to kill him. Yes, Carlo was warped enough to use that reasoning. Because it would be right--

  “No, Sandro, it is
n’t anything about Nia. We need to meet.”

  “What’s wrong, damn it?” Sandro demanded, growing tired of trying to guess what Dave didn’t want to say.

  “Where are you? I need to bring you in.”

  “Tell me now, Dave. Right now,” Sandro growled, his patience gone.

  Dave sighed. “They got Daniele.”

  “Nooooo.” An animal-like shriek of pain ripped through the car. Sandro realized it came from him. He jerked the steering wheel hard toward the curb and slammed on the brakes, barely aware he missed a parked Mercedes by mere inches. “Ah por Dio, no. No,” he said again. “No, no, no.” He demanded answers. Threatened Dave’s life.

  “Damn it, Sandro, speak English. I can’t understand you.”

  Sandro drew a ragged breath. Tried to remember the English words. His mind failed him.

  Marisa came on the phone. “Sandro. Caro, calma, per favore.” Her Italian words sank through the thick fog surrounding his brain.

  “What happened?” he demanded in Italian.

  “Poppa’s men found the safe house. They broke in--Daniele will be all right, Sandro,” she soothed when Sandro broke out in a string of crude Italian. “Poppa will not hurt him, this I promise.”

  “You cannot make those promises, Marisa. He does not play by the same rules now. I do not play by the same rules.”

  “Si, I understand. Sandro, there is more. Your zio y zia. They were injured.”

  “Injured? Dio! Can’t the FBI do anything right? How badly were they hurt?”

  “They are both in the hospital. Giuseppe has been shot. He is in ICU. Luciana was knocked unconscious. She has a concussion but she’s awake now.”

  “Beppe . . . will he live?”

  “They don’t know, caro.”

  “What hospital?”

  “Sandro, you cannot think to see them. It is too dangerous.”

  “I must.”

  “Sandro, no--”

  “Tell me, Marisa.”

  With a sigh, she told him.

  The phone went dead in her ear. She handed it back to Dave. “He’s on his way to the hospital.”

  Dave nodded grimly. He punched some numbers on his phone. “Sandro’s coming in. Get our men in place.”