The Good Daughter: A Mafia Story

by Diana Layne

  * * *

  As Sandro sped to the hospital, he asked himself how things could have gone so terribly wrong. But he knew the answer. It was his fault. Had he been a stronger man, he would have taken a stand against Carlo from the beginning. Found some way to not get under the Mafia’s control.

  Yet to this day, he didn’t know what he could have done differently. Except perhaps abandon Nia, leave her behind in America. Instead of making her his wife.

  But no, impossible. She had been the most precious thing to enter his life. He had been too selfish to give her up.

  And then she had given him a son.

  How could it be wrong for him to have the woman he loved, a son he adored? Every man had that right. And he had done what he thought necessary to preserve his family. Preserve his happiness.

  In so doing, he had risked everything and everyone.

  It was up to him, and him alone, to right his wrongs.

  First, he would check on his aunt and uncle. Promise to get Danny back. Give his uncle a reason to live.

  Afterward, he and Dave and Marisa needed to talk, to plan.

  No, to take action.

  The time for planning had past. Now, it was time to rescue his family. And right the old wrongs.

  Darkness had fallen by the time he pulled into the hospital parking lot. White snow reflected the parking lot lights. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and tugged on a beanie cap he’d bought for the bad weather. He hoped no one recognized him. Scanning his surroundings for possible threats, he kept one hand inside his jacket, firmly gripping the Browning 9 mm he’d taken off that mobster. There’d been no need to buy another.

  Still, the three men came from nowhere. He pulled the gun out of the shoulder holster he’d bought and aimed.

  “Hold it, Sandro. We’re FBI.” With their hands raised in the air, they appeared to have no weapons. Sandro leveled his gun at one. “You. Prove it. Toss me your ID. Carefully.”

  “My name’s Frankie,” the man said as he removed his ID and slid it across the ground.

  Sandro bent to pick it up, holding it under the parking lot light to read it. “I have a friend named Francesco. We call him Frankie sometimes.”

  “Yes, I know. Francesco Berti. He plays goalkeeper for Italy, as well as Internazionale Milano.”

  “You watch Italian calcio?” Sandro looked over the ID. It looked authentic. Still, it could be fake. What did he know?

  “Of course. I’m Italian. I watch soccer every chance I get.”

  “Let me see your driver’s license.”

  “Huh?”

  “How do I know if this is real? Let me see more.”

  Frankie took his wallet out of his pocket and slid it across.

  “What is your birthdate? Your address.”

  Frankie answered the questions. Sandro tossed him back the wallet. “Okay, now the others.”

  “Sandro, you saw I’m for real--”

  “Yes, you are FBI. But they could be Mafia. There has been at least one leak and now my wife and son are in danger.”

  “We’re wasting time here, Sandro. You’re out in the open, putting yourself at risk. Already your aunt and uncle were injured, and two of our men lost their lives trying to protect your family.”

  Shock stabbed him. Marisa had mentioned no deaths. “Then your men better hurry and show me their IDs.” He swung the gun to the next man who slid his ID and driver’s license across the snowy parking lot.

  Then Sandro checked the third man’s information.

  “Satisfied now?” Frankie asked.

  Sandro stuck his gun into his shoulder holster. “Why were you waiting for me?”

  “Dave sent us to keep you safe.”

  “I’m going to see mio zio y zia.”

  “We’ll escort you.”

  “I need no escort.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re taking a big risk coming here. You know it.”

  Sandro didn’t want protection, didn’t trust anybody other than himself. Trying to depend on others, to do things the proper way had only made matters much worse.

  “They’ll be watching the hospital,” Frankie reminded him. “They could be watching now.”

  Sandro knew Frankie was right on that point at least. “You cannot take me into protective custody.”

  “I won’t try,” Frankie promised. “We’ll just walk with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “You need to give me your weapon.”

  Sandro stiffened. “Why would I do that?”

  “There’s a metal detector and guard at every door. I can get your weapon inside for you.”

  Sandro didn’t want to be without his guns in the hospital, even with supposedly honest FBI men protecting him. There was no choice but to turn over his guns. He pulled the Browning 9mm back out, released the clip, then handed the unloaded weapon to Frankie. Sandro handed the clip to another agent.

  Frankie’s lips tipped in a small smile as he pocketed the gun.

  “Wait,” Sandro said. He pulled up the leg on his jeans and took out his back-up weapon, Marisa’s derringer. He unloaded it, too, before he handed it to Frankie and the bullets to the last agent, making his weapons and ammo spread out among them. Perhaps overly cautious. Better that than dead, though.

  “A back-up.” Frankie nodded his approval. “Good precaution.”

  Sandro entered the hospital with the three men, waiting while they got clearance to enter with their weapons. Down the hallway toward the elevator and out of sight of the guard, Frankie stopped Sandro and handed him back his guns. The other two agents gave him his ammunition. Sandro breathed a sigh of relief.

  “It is almost ICU visiting time. You wanna see your uncle first? There aren’t restricted hours on your aunt.” Frankie punched the button on the elevator.

  “Yes, my uncle first. How is he?”

  Elevator doors opened and the men stepped on.

  “He’s holding his own. He took the bullet in his chest, but it missed his heart by an inch or so. He regained consciousness pretty quick after surgery, and the docs say that’s a good sign.” Frankie led the way off the elevator.

  Sandro followed him down the hallway. The other two men stuck close, forming a protective barrier around him.

  Frankie pushed open the door that said ICU waiting room. “We wait in here and then they’ll announce when it’s visiting time.”

  “Is there someone watching him?”

  “Yes, we have a guard posted. But we really don’t think Giuseppe’s in any more danger. He told us he was trying to protect your son. The men were wearing masks so I think their only intent was to take Danny. They only shot those who got in the way. Except for your aunt. She told us she was trying to run with Danny when one of the men stopped her and tried to get Danny. She fought with him until someone tapped her on the head. After that, she doesn’t remember anything.”

  The thought that men in masks snatched his son and the terror Danny must have felt being ripped from Zia’s arms, nearly sent Sandro crashing to the floor. He clenched his muscles and forced himself to remain standing.

  Frankie stared at him. “I’m sorry about your son, Sandro. I don’t think Carlo’s going to hurt him. What I think is he snatched Danny because Nia was so close to escaping. He’s just trying to keep her in line until he can get to you. That’s why Dave wants you guarded now.”

  “I don’t need--”

  “Sandro, caro, you are safe.” Marisa hurried to embrace him when he entered the waiting room. “I have been so fearful for you snooping around the warehouses. Afraid someone would recognize you.”

  He accepted Marisa’s condolences, but put her aside and squared off with Dave as he approached.

  “Sandro, I’m sor--”

  Sandro slammed his fist into Dave’s face. Dave stumbled back into the wall. Sandro advanced, all his anger and frustration of the past two days targeted at Dave. He grabbed Dave’s shirt. Oblivious to his throbbing hand, he reared back to hit Dave again.
/>   Two strangers in the waiting room gasped at the scene unfolding before them.

  “Sandro, no!” Marisa cried.

  Frankie and the other two agents rushed him, pulling at him. “Let him go, Sandro,” Frankie ordered.

  Sandro had no choice but to release Dave. “You told me my son would be safe,” he growled.

  Marisa hurried to Dave and helped him as he pushed away from the wall. Blood dripped from his nose.

  “My aunt and uncle were injured; my uncle might die because of your incompetence.” Anger was still pounding through Sandro.

  “I lost two men today,” Dave said, holding a tissue that Marisa had given him to his bleeding nose.

  Sandro felt little sympathy. “I lost my son. My wife.” Everything was getting worse, spiraling out of control.

  “We’ll get them back.”

  “No, I’ll get them back.”

  “You can’t go against them alone.”

  “I won’t be alone. You will help. And if you make one more mistake to risk my family, I will kill you.”

  “Calm down, Sandro,” Frankie ordered.

  “Let me go,” Sandro demanded.

  The men holding him waited until Dave nodded before releasing Sandro’s arms.

  He walked to Marisa, who turned her attention from Dave to face Sandro. Her wide-eyed gaze locked with his. With sure movements, Sandro lifted her Florentine cross necklace and jerked. The chain broke off in his hand.

  She barely twitched.

  Sanity returning, more mindful of the people who were watching the drama unfold, he spoke to her in Italian. “You are my prisoner now, Principessa.” He smoothed her hair, pleaded with his eyes to soften the blow. “I know you want away from your father, but your freedom may have to be sacrificed.”

  “I understand.” She didn’t blink.

  “No,” Dave said, after Frankie quietly translated what Sandro had said. “That’s not acceptable.”

  Sandro approached Dave, not stopping until he was face-to-face with the taller man. “Then you better make sure everything works just right, Dave. Because I will sacrifice whoever is necessary to rescue my family.”

  A disembodied female voice came over the loud speakers in the waiting room then. “It is now visiting time in ICU. Please limit your visits to no more than two people at a time. Visits will be limited to fifteen minutes. Thank you.”

  Sandro stepped away from Dave. “Which room?” he asked Frankie.

  “Come on, I’ll take you.”

  “When I return, we will talk more,” Sandro told Dave and Marisa.

  Frankie and Sandro walked out together, the other two people who had been in the waiting room following at a safe distance, off to see their own friends or family members after having witnessed the unfolding drama.

  Marisa wondered about the tragedies in those people’s families. Wondered if humankind was destined to suffer together forever. She shuddered.

  Dave took her hand. “You okay?”

  “Si, I am fine. But you look like shit. Sit down and wait here.” She went to the small waiting room restroom and wet some paper towels.

  She wiped at the dried blood on his face, trying not to grimace. “Looks like it hurts.”

  “Hurts like hell,” Dave agreed, talking like he had a bad cold. He gingerly touched his swollen nose. “Feels like it’s three times bigger than normal. I can imagine what it must look like.”

  She tilted her head, then chose not to comment. “I can go to the cafeteria, get some ice,” she offered.

  “No, stay with me. I don’t want you out of my sight.”

  Marisa nodded and dabbed at the blood that had dripped onto his shirt. “I don’t think there is much we can do for this shirt while you are still wearing it.”

  “I’ve got a change of clothes in my car. It’ll be fine until then.”

  “I am sorry.” She laid her fingers against his face, his cheek warm beneath her touch.

  “I can’t blame him,” Dave admitted. “Now, if he hurts you--”

  “I understand. He has no choice.”

  “Yes, there must be a choice. I won’t let you be sacrificed.”

  “I will pray that everything will work out right.” She reached for her necklace, then remembered Sandro had it. She let her hand drop as tears welled in her eyes. “I never take it off,” she whispered uselessly.

  “I know.” Dave pulled her into his arms. “I’ll get it back for you,” he promised. “I’ll get it back.”

  * * *

  Tubes and wires ran out of every part of Giuseppe’s body. Sandro’s uncle looked pale and frail and a little out-of-this-world against the stark white sheets and steel-and-tile room. The whole experience reminded Sandro eerily of death and he wanted his uncle out of this place. He wanted him back healthy and laughing and arguing with the head chef. Sandro vowed to make it happen.

  He bent close, ignoring the antiseptic smell. “Beppe, it’s Sandro. Wake up, Zio.”

  At Sandro’s command, Giuseppe slowly opened his eyes. His normally sparkling green eyes looked dull and lifeless. “Sandro--” He clenched his eyes shut as if a spasm of pain hit him.

  Sandro was alarmed. “Do you need a dottore?”

  “Daniele. They took our little Daniele.”

  Sandro gently squeezed his uncle’s hand. “I will get him back, Zio. I promise you. I will get him back.”

  Chapter 23

  “Wake up, Bella.”

  “Hm?” Nia fought against the voice urging her from the sweet escape of sleep.

  “You see, I told you she is so tired.”

  “You are very generous, Angie, since she tried to take you out with a flower vase.”

  The new voice snapped her eyes open. How could she have slept in that damned chair--hands and feet bound, even if her feet were propped up on the desk?

  “I would have done no less in her position.”

  “More likely, you’d have killed the person. Ah, now she’s awake.”

  Nia eyed Carlo warily. He was dressed in an Italian designer suit, same as Angie. Instead of a tie, Carlo wore his pale blue shirt with the top button open to expose a gold cross necklace resting in his dark chest hairs. Trimmer than Angie, Carlo had a hard-edge, air-of-vanity around him.

  “Good evening, Signora Crocetti.” His voice was heavily accented.

  Her voice held contempt. “So, you’ve decided to show your--”

  “Bella.”

  She shot Angie a look. Caught the pleading in his eyes. Carlo must truly be powerful to make a big man like Angie so nervous. She bit back her insults.

  “She looks worse than you, Angie.”

  “I told you Mikey roughed her up good.”

  “Dear cousin Mikey. I told him she was a guest. But no manners. That side of the family always was a rude bunch.”

  “Rude?” Nia burst out angrily, drawing Carlo’s attention back to her. She couldn’t hold her tongue as Angie cautioned. Too much had happened. “You call what Mikey did to me rude? Untie me for five minutes, and I’ll show you rude.”

  “Bella!”

  Carlo waved Angie off. “I’ve already seen some of your handiwork,” he said to her nodding toward Angelo. “And I was told you broke Mikey’s wrist. I believe I will pass on a sample for myself.”

  “I’m glad his wrist is broken,” she said. “If I see him again, I’ll break his head.”

  “She is very good at breaking heads,” Angie commented rubbing his, obviously trying to dispel the palpable tension.

  Carlo smiled. “Too late for you to have the pleasure, I’m afraid.”

  He could mean one of two things. One, that she wouldn’t have a chance to get at Mikey again because she was going to die, or two . . . it was too late because Mikey was already--

  “Yes, I see you understand,” Carlo said. “Mikey met with an unfortunate accident. A gun to his head.” He made a gun image with his forefinger and thumb.

  That he seemed to read her mind gave her chills. “You had him
killed because he beat me up?”

  “I had him killed because he didn’t follow my orders.”

  The cold grew within her. Just like that, Mikey displeased Carlo, and he was dead. Just like that, a man was an unlucky witness, and he was dead. How many others had been murdered? Would be murdered?

  “Man, if you kill all your employees who screw up, your turnover rate must be sky high.” She was really too tired to think of minding her mouth.

  Angie made a funny noise, and at a glance, Nia saw him frantically shaking his head at her. But her attention quickly refocused on Carlo who was approaching her. He pulled up a chair before her, diamond and gold rings glittering on his well-manicured fingers. She wondered how much blood was on those fingers.

  “Si, Signora Crocetti,” he said softly, his flat eyes blinking like a shark. Cold, dead eyes. “Sometimes my turnover rate is sky high as you say. But it’s a peculiar thing, there is always someone waiting to take their place. Ready to follow my every command. And is it for the money? No. It is for the power, the prestige, they get from being a part of the Peruzzo family.”

  Nia realized she was dealing with something way outside her realm of existence. Something sinister and evil. These people didn’t have any sense of right and wrong other than what they deemed fell within that realm. How did Sandro, someone so honorable and upstanding, ever get involved with these people?

  Worse, would she and Sandro die because of these warped men?

  No!

  That was defeatist thinking, and she wouldn’t be defeated.

  “My mistake,” she said. “I didn’t realize there were so many sleazebuckets in the world.”

  Carlo laughed as he stood back up. “Angie, I don’t think she likes us.”

  “You can’t blame me, can you? You haven’t exactly rolled out the red carpet for me here.” She tried to lift her tied hands and feet to make her point.

  “Ah, you don’t like the bindings? Or is it the surroundings?” He indicated the sparsely furnished office with its bare wood and glass walls and cold concrete floor. “You started out in a nice country house. Who wouldn’t have loved it? But you kept running off, determined not to accept our hospitality. So, Signora Crocetti, you can say you brought your circumstances upon yourself.”