The Good Daughter: A Mafia Story

by Diana Layne

  “Nothing will happen to Marisa,” Dave promised.

  Sandro hoped Dave was right. Enough wrong had happened. It was time for things to go right.

  “Okay, guys, here’s the plan . . .” After they worked out the details, Dave told them, “You two take Sandro and get set up. Make sure you’re wearing vests, they’ll be shooting live bullets.”

  Dave turned to Marisa. “Got the accounts printed?”

  She handed them the papers. “They all went through without a hitch.”

  Dave looked them over, nodded, and passed them to Sandro.

  “I want Marisa’s phone as well,” Sandro said. “Along with the necklace I have, I hope to convince Carlo I have her.”

  Marisa retrieved her phone from her purse and handed it to Sandro, who pocketed it and headed toward the two men waiting by the door.

  Dave turned to Marisa as the others prepared to leave. “Stay here, I’ll get food and bring it back.”

  “No.”

  Sandro stopped at the door and looked at Marisa, who up to this point had been silent.

  “I have to go to my apartment,” she told Dave.

  “Princess, there’s no reason to go to your--”

  “Yes, there is. There’s something I need that I didn’t have time to get yesterday. And you said I could go back later. Now is later.”

  Dave stared at her questioningly. “Now is a really bad time. Would you care to elaborate on what you need?”

  She hesitated. “Personal . . .things.”

  “We can buy whatever you need. It’s too danger--”

  “I have to go to my apartment. With, or without you.”

  “I can’t allow it,” Dave said, crossing his arms.

  “You can’t hold me here--”

  “Marisa,” Sandro spoke up, intent on putting an end to the argument, “I forbid it. You are my prisoner. You cannot be traipsing all over New York.” He crossed the room and took her shoulders, then loosened his grip when he saw her flinch. But he didn’t release her.

  “If I lose you, then I lose bargaining power.” Sandro earnestly pleaded, knowing that he could restrain her, but not wanting to resort to violence when she had been so willing and helpful.

  “Sandro, caro, I’ll be careful, I swear. But I have to go back to my apartment.”

  Something in her gaze appealed to him. “Will you not tell me what it is that you need?”

  She shook her head. “It is best you do not know,” she answered quietly, regret in her soft brown eyes.

  “I can get what you need,” Dave said.

  “No.” She shook her head. “You’d never find it.

  With reluctance, but trusting his instinct, Sandro relented. “Then Dave must go with you. Be quick.”

  “I will.”

  Sandro pulled her into his embrace, kissed her forehead. “Be careful.”

  “I will.” She hugged him back.

  Looking at Dave over the top of Marisa’s head, Sandro said, “You will keep her safe.”

  “I will.”

  * * *

  Luigi’s driver pulled the car in front of Marisa’s apartment building. Luigi got out, pulling his coat tighter against his neck as a burst of cold wind hit him.

  “Hello, Mr. Conte. How are you today, sir?”

  “Freezing,” Luigi snapped, his temper short from lack of sleep.

  “Well, yes, sir, it is unseasonably cold this year. Makes me look forward to summer again.”

  Luigi turned off the doorman’s idle chatter. “Have you seen Ms. Peruzzo this morning?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t.” He looked at the wall clock. “Funny. By now, she’s usually left for work.”

  The doorman’s comment snagged Luigi’s attention, gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. On top of everything else, Roberto had dropped out of sight yesterday morning. Very unlike him. It flashed through Luigi’s mind that maybe Marisa ran off with the accountant.

  “I’ll go up and check on her,” Luigi said, more anxious than ever to figure out what the hell was happening.

  “Sure, go right up, sir.”

  As manager, Luigi was a well-known figure at the apartment building. He didn’t visit Marisa often, she was quite protective of her privacy, but he was at the building often enough to make sure things were running smoothly. Every employee, unless they had been hired yesterday, knew this.

  Luigi got onto the elevator and pushed the button for her floor. At her door, he paused, straightened his coat, then knocked.

  No answer.

  He knocked again. Still no answer.

  The bad feeling in his stomach became persistent. She had said she would be home. If she wasn’t here, and wasn’t at work, then where was she?

  His cell phone rang. Thinking it was Marisa, he answered so quickly the caller ID didn’t have time to come through.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Conte? We learned what happened to Roberto.”

  “What?” Luigi braced himself.

  “The Feds have him.”

  “What?” He blinked. “What do those assholes need with Roberto?” And why would they even be after him? “Have they pressed charges?”

  “They’ve sequestered him and are holding him with no charges right now.”

  “I’ll be right there, we’ll see what we can do.” Luigi headed for the elevators. Talking to Marisa would have to wait. He still wanted to know where she was, but he wouldn’t be able to look for himself. As he exited the building, he punched a number into his cell phone.

  “This is Luigi,” he said after his capo answered. “Marisa has dropped out of sight. Watch her apartment; call me when she gets home. Or if anyone sees her around town, let me know and follow her. Keep me informed.”

  She had better not be with another man. The persistent feeling in his gut told him that was most likely where she was--and where she had been last night.

  He would just have to make her see reason, take measures to curb her independence in the future. A man in his position needed a wife to stay home and take care of wifely duties, not running out on her own with God knows who. True, she wasn’t his wife yet, but with Carlo’s blessing, it was only a technicality as far as Luigi was concerned.

  Chapter 27

  Sandro left Frankie and Tony blending in with the people on the crowded sidewalk and entered Carlo’s private club and retreat. Like old-time American bosses, Carlo had adopted the habit of conducting his mob business there, though he had offices downtown where he ran many legitimate businesses. And some not so legit.

  Although the snow had stopped, the temperatures outside were still chilly and Sandro hadn’t thought to have Marisa buy an overcoat to cover the gray Armani suit he’d worn. The warmth inside the club was welcome.

  Two men stopped Sandro before he had walked three feet inside the door. “You’re in the wrong place,” one said. “This is a private business.”

  Sandro looked him in the eye. “I’m here to see Carlo.”

  The second one, Sandro recognized as Joey, stared hard. “Hey, Carmine, that’s Sandro. He’s cut his hair.”

  Carmine stared, then disbelief covered his face. “Well, I’ll be. I guess Mikey was right.” Carmine grabbed Sandro’s arm. “Carlo will be pleased you’ve decided to pay a visit,” he said, sarcasm clear in his tone of voice.

  “Wait, Carmine, we should probably search him. He might have a piece on him.”

  Carmine looked incredulous. “Him? He’s a soccer player, whatta they know about--”

  “If you was in Sandro’s position, you might start packing, don’tcha think?” Joey explained to Carmine, who obviously wasn’t too bright.

  The light dawned in Carmine’s gaze. “Oh, yeah.” He patted Sandro down, found Marisa’s cell phone in Sandro’s pocket, determined it was okay, then continued his pat down. “He’s clean,” he said smugly.

  Sandro adjusted his suit jacket and followed Carmine and Joey to a back room. Carlo hunched over a table, talking on his cell phone,
surrounded by the remains of a take-out lunch. Sandro recognized the boxes from his restaurant.

  At first, Carlo only gave a passing glance, then his gaze came back, his eyes widening. He quickly ended his call. Stuffing the phone in his jacket pocket, he stood and walked toward Sandro. With a wave, and an “outta here,” Carlo dismissed his two men.

  “Sandro!” Carlo kissed Sandro on each cheek, then wrapped an arm around his shoulder and led him toward the table with all the enthusiasm as if he were a long lost relative. “Nice to see you looking so well.”

  Sandro didn’t buy the friendly act and knew any moment Carlo’s boisterous and fake enthusiasm would turn deadly quiet. Sandro didn’t allow his guard to lower.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Carlo said, taking his seat, expecting Sandro to do the same, though the order had been couched in the most polite tone.

  “I like the new look.” Carlo nodded, referring to Sandro’s short hair. “No wonder my men have had trouble locating you.” He took a sip from his wine at his right hand. “Ah, where are my manners? Would you like a drink?” He held up the glass as an invitation. “Or join me in Georgio’s excellent ravioli?”

  Sandro only shook his head.

  Carlo set the glass down, then leaned back in his chair with his hands folded over his stomach. He stared at Sandro. “I never would have guessed you’d give up your ponytail. Like that guy in the Bible, Sampson, who got his great strength from his hair--

  “Samson,” Sandro corrected.

  “Si, Si. I suppose I thought you might be suspicious and think your great soccer skills came from your hair.”

  “I no longer need my skills for soccer, so it doesn’t matter if my hair is gone.”

  “A pointed reference, I note. And a sound of blame, perhaps? You think you’ve had to give up soccer for me? If you’d only done what I had suggested, you would still be at the top of Serie A.”

  Suggested? It had been an out-and-out death threats. First in Italy. Then the same here in the United States--this time with nowhere else to run. “There is nothing honorable about following a criminal. I achieve my success on my own.”

  “Sandro! Are you saying I am not an honorable man?” Carlo asked, ignoring Sandro’s reference to calling him a criminal. “Am I not a good husband to my poor invalid wife, a good father to my children? Do I not take good care of my ‘family’?” He spread his arms to indicate all the people around him. “Did I not take care of you? Is your restaurant not prosperous?”

  The so-called good husband, the man responsible for making his wife an invalid, had a new mistress every month. And, because her father deemed it necessary, his children--at least Marisa--had been brought into the life of crime against her wishes. As for Sandro’s restaurant--

  “My restaurant was successful before you ever came here.”

  “Yes, it was,” Carlo conceded. “But I could have ruined it. Any business I want destroyed in this city--all I have to do is say the word. But because we were old friends, and had done business together before, I made you a part of my new family.”

  “I want nothing to do with your ‘family’. Never have, never will. I want nothing to do with you.”

  “You wound my soul, dear boy.” Carlo laid his hands dramatically over his heart. “I, who have loved you like a son, would have done anything for you.”

  “Your price is too high, Carlo.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?” Carlo asked, narrowing his eyes at Sandro. “I’m asking myself a question,” Carlo continued as if he didn’t expect an answer. As if Sandro had no way to defend himself. No weapon to fight with.“‘Why is he here?’ I say to myself. If not to dishonor himself to work with me, then why?” He cocked his head inquiringly. “Do you wish to plead for your life? Plead for your family, your very young son and lovely wife?”

  “I do not come here to beg.”

  “Then why do you show yourself? Ah,” he continued once again not allowing Sandro a chance to answer. “You must think you have something to bargain with. Some deal you want to make.”

  Sandro knew Carlo was shrewd. A quick mind had kept the mobster in business and one step ahead of the legal system all these years. Still it was fascinating to watch Carlo’s brain work.

  For once, Carlo waited expectantly for Sandro to answer.

  Dragging out the moment, Sandro knew just how he wanted to jab the knife into Carlo, an inch at a time. He planned to start with Marisa.

  But Massimo walked into the room before Sandro could speak.

  He stopped behind Sandro. “I heard Sandro’s here.”

  So much the better. Sandro could watch both their faces. He turned to face Carlo’s son. Massimo’s eyes widened. “It’s you! Your hair. It is gone.”

  “Si, Massimo, we have already had this discussion,” Carlo said. “Very smart of Sandro I think, to cut his hair. But we knew he was intelligent.”

  Massimo pulled out a chair at the table. Sitting down, he said, “I can’t believe you came here. You certainly have balls.” He turned to his father. “What’s he have that he thinks will keep him alive?”

  “I don’t know,” Carlo answered. “We were just getting to the bargaining stages I think. Isn’t that right?”

  “Si, I have a proposition for you.”

  “I saw Nia earlier today.” This from Massimo, and obviously designed to throw Sandro off guard. From the look on Carlo’s face, Sandro suspected the news was just as much of a shock to him. But Carlo quickly recovered.

  Sandro struggled to resist the urge to rip off Massimo’s head, while Carlo nodded as if the news were expected.

  “And how is she feeling?” Carlo asked.

  “She is feeling just fine.” This was said in a lewd tone to match Massimo’s wolfish grin.

  With the deliberate emphasis on “feeling” and the self-satisfied grin, Sandro knew without a doubt Massimo had been touching Nia.

  Sandro saw red. The whole world in front of him went fuzzy then burst into the brilliant bright color. He clenched his jaws and cautioned himself to patience. Self-control lay at the heart of a good soccer player. All his plans would do no good if they were forced to kill him now.

  “I am glad to hear she is feeling well,” Carlo said to Massimo, then turned to Sandro. “I understand that congratulations are in order.”

  Having no idea what Carlo meant, Sandro tried to keep his face blank and waited expectantly for Carlo to continue with his revelation. A revelation, no doubt calculated for the most emotional response. Carlo didn’t disappoint.

  “It is always joyous to learn you are going to be a poppa again, don’t you agree?”

  A poppa . . .again? Dio, was Nia pregnant? The idea slammed into Sandro’s gut. He searched his brain for any remembered sign. Had her breasts been fuller? Had she been more tired lately?

  He couldn’t remember; he had been so caught up in his own problems of working with the FBI to rid himself of Carlo, he must have been neglectful. Remorse tore through him.

  “Are you feeding her properly?” he asked, hoping to cover his lack of knowledge.

  Carlo looked offended. “Of course we are feeding her properly. We wouldn’t defy una donna incinta proper nourishment.”

  “Is she eating the food? Has she been sick?”

  “Such concern is wonderful to see. Yes, I believe Angie said she is eating well. And she was rather ill one time, but none since, I don’t believe.”

  Suddenly, Sandro had to know more. “What of my son? Is he safe?”

  Carlo smiled at the desperation Sandro had unintentionally allowed to slip into his voice. It was like a cold stab of reality. Sandro forced himself back under control.

  “Daniele is safe and happy with his momma. As long as she behaves herself, he will stay with her.”

  Sandro allowed an inward smile that Nia had so obviously caused them trouble. Though he regretted the trouble that led to his son’s abduction and zio y zia’s injuries, and deaths of Dave’s men, in no way did Sandro blame her
. Carlo was the one to blame. This whole disaster would not have happened without Carlo’s orders.

  And even though so much tragedy had come as a result of his son’s abduction, perhaps Daniele was safer with his mother. Sandro knew she would die before she allowed harm to come to their child.

  “Of course, how long they are safe is up to you,” Carlo pointed out. “And whether you decide to cooperate.”

  “I rather hope he doesn’t cooperate,” Massimo said to his father, then turned to Sandro. “Nia is a beautiful woman. I have offered to take care of her--and your children, of course--once you are dead. With her fiery temper, I bet she is magnifico in bed.”

  Sandro came up out of his chair and went after Massimo without a conscious thought other than to stomp the last breath out of the little bastard’s body.

  Massimo jumped out of his chair, but Carlo moved quickly to intercept Sandro, shoving against his chest. Almost in his face, Carlo said in his deadly quiet voice, “Perhaps you see how much risk your family is in now. My son . . . well, he’s my son and I love him very much, of course, but sometimes he is rather . . . rough with his women. You understand?”

  Brilliant stars burst in Sandro’s head, blurring his vision. Nose to nose with Carlo, Sandro’s breath came heavily as if he’d just run the length of a soccer field, flowing hard through his widened nostrils. He gritted his teeth, and forced control back into his body. As his vision cleared, he noticed at a glance that Massimo had wisely backed away from him.

  Sandro turned to Carlo. And said deliberately. “I have your daughter.”

  Carlo backed away. “Is this a threat?”

  “If you love her, it is. Earlier you said you were a good father, no? A good father loves his children.” He pulled out Marisa’s necklace and dangled it in front of Carlo. “Recognize this?”

  Color faded from Carlo’s face. “Si.”

  “I want my family back. If you want your daughter back, you will be willing to make a trade.”

  “Do you honestly think I believe you will hurt her?” Carlo quickly recovered from his initial shock.