The Good Daughter: A Mafia Story

by Diana Layne

  “What’s wrong with you?” his companion asked.

  “Shh,” Nicola warned. “I think something’s up.” He stared harder. He saw nothing, yet an uneasy feeling had settled in his chest. “Start the car, we’re getting out of here.”

  “Luigi’s gonna be pissed if we let Marisa get away--”

  “Fuck, Luigi. Something’s not right.”

  The man started the car. At the sound of the engine, two men came from between the parked cars, running toward Nicola.

  “Freeze, FBI.”

  “Shit,” Nicola swore then dived into the car. “Get out of here now.” Nicola nearly tumbled out of the car as the tires spun on the concrete garage floor. He managed to pull the door shut as the car sped away. He looked behind them. The two FBI men were chasing on foot. One fired his gun. Nicola ducked.

  “Wait, man, there’s an old lady, don’t shoot again,” Gregg told his partner.

  “Oh, hell, they’re gonna run her down.” At the last minute, the car swerved and missed the old woman.

  Gregg and his partner Bobby, still the newbies on the team, ran over to check on her. “You all right, lady?”

  “Get those damned hoodlums.” The old woman wielded her walking stick like a weapon.

  “Yes, ma’am, we’re after them.”

  “You cops?” she asked.

  “Something like that.” Gregg and Bobby ran for their car. The engine barely started before Gregg was spinning out after the two mobsters who got away.

  Chapter 29

  When Marisa came out of her room with a duffel bag and a wooden box ten minutes later, Dave was standing at the kitchen counter, examining the glass she’d used for Luigi. A quick glance told her Luigi was out cold.

  “Dave?”

  He turned. He held the vial in his hand. “You drugged him?”

  “Sleeping drops. I thought it would be more convenient if he were unconscious.”

  “Your own special concoction, I presume?”

  She dropped her gaze and shrugged.

  “My God, the man most likely has a major concussion and you’re giving him sleeping drops.”

  She looked at Luigi with alarm. “You think it’ll kill him?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.” Dave sighed. “But if he survived that damned knock upside the head you gave him, he’ll probably survive this.”

  “I’m sorry, Dave. He made me mad when he threatened to press charges.”

  “Remind me not to make you mad.”

  The intercom by the door buzzed. Marisa walked over to press the button.

  “Ms. Peruzzo,” the doorman said, “there’s two men down here who want to come up. A Gregg and Bobby--they wouldn’t tell me their last names, said you knew--”

  She glanced at Dave who nodded. “Yes, yes, I’m expecting them. Please send them up, Murray. Thank you.” She turned to Dave. “You better start untying Luigi.”

  “I’m right on it.”

  She pulled on her jacket and gathered her stuff. An overnight duffel and a wooden box she’d kept hidden in a secret hollowed out place in her bathroom.

  “What’s in the box?” Dave asked.

  “It’s what I needed to come back here for.”

  “You’re not going to tell me.”

  She shook her head, knowing he’d be stunned. “When it’s important for you to know, then I’ll tell you.”

  There was a knock on the door. She hurried to open it. “Come on in.”

  “Shit, what happened to him?” Bobby asked, referring to the unconscious Luigi.

  “I thought he needed a nap,” Marisa said, deadpan.

  The two men eyed her warily.

  “Come on, get over here and help,” Dave snapped. “He’s dead weight.”

  “Are you sure he’s not just dead?” Gregg asked.

  “He’s still alive. Come on.”

  Between the three men, they managed to carry Luigi into the hall. Marisa locked the apartment door behind them, then hurried to press the button on the elevator.

  It was an uneventful ride down. At the bottom, Dave pushed the “hold” button. “Bobby, give me your handcuffs, mine are on Luigi.”

  Without question, Bobby turned them over.

  Before Marisa could figure out the strange request, Dave ordered her, “Hold out your hands.”

  She couldn’t believe it. “What?” Anger blossomed, heating her face. “You’re going to cuff me?”

  His gaze, filled with regret, pleaded for understanding. “If anybody sees us, I want them to think you’re a prisoner. Trust me, Princess.”

  She sighed, trying to keep her nerves steady at the way things were progressing. “No one carries my box but me,” she warned, needing to hang onto some measure of control.

  “Since it has a handle, you can still carry it. I’ll come back for your bag after we get Luigi into the car.”

  She set her load down and held out her hands. “All right.”

  The cold metal snapped around her wrists. She swallowed, took a breath, then picked up her box.

  It didn’t take long for them to stuff Luigi in the back seat of Gregg and Bobby’s car.

  “Listen, I don’t want you to take him in yet. He’ll be squawking too loud when he wakes up. I want him quiet until we get this all pulled together.”

  “You think we oughta take him to a hospital?” Bobby asked. “He looks like he’s in pretty bad shape. That’s a big knot on his head.”

  “That bump on his head’s nothing. He already woke up from that. Marisa gave him some sleeping drops to shut him up so we didn’t have to listen to him,” Dave explained. “Just take him to a hotel room and watch him until I call you,” Dave instructed.

  “He’s gonna be royally pissed when he wakes up again,” Gregg predicted. “Maybe we should take those drops with us.”

  “Just keep a close watch on him,” Dave ordered. “He’ll probably be out a good while yet.”

  With a nod, Gregg put the car in gear and drove off.

  “I’m taking Marisa to the hotel to wait with Sandro,” Dave told Tony and Steve, who’d been in the parking garage watching for any more of Luigi’s men. “We’ll set the rest of the plan in action soon. You two be ready for my call.” The men gave their okays, then left for their car.

  Dave went back for her duffel bag. “Come on, Princess.”

  He hurried her to his car and helped her in. She tried to ignore how much she felt like a prisoner.

  “I’ll take those cuffs off as soon as we are down the road a bit.” He reached for the box.

  “I’ll hold it,” she said, tightening her grip on the handle.

  From the look on his face, it was obvious he was very curious about what she had in her box, but he shut the door without a word and hurried to the driver’s side. As he started the car, he pulled out his phone. “I’m calling Sandro and telling him we’re on the way.”

  They drove up the ramp out of the underground garage; her heart rate speeded. This was it, not too much longer before it was all over. After so many years . . . .

  At street level, there was some sort of commotion causing a traffic jam. “Hold on, Sandro,” Dave said, then turned to her. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I’m going to see what’s going on.”

  “Dave.” Marisa grabbed for him with her bound hands, a surge of worry that he was worried making her nervous. “Be careful.”

  He nodded, stepped out and walked to the front of the car to scan the road. Quickly, he hurried back and opened his car door to tell her, “There’s a big wreck ahead. We’ll go another way.”

  The man ran out from behind a concrete post so fast she barely had time to call, “Dave, look out!”

  Her warning came too late. The man running up hit Dave on the back of the head with the butt of his gun. Dave stumbled and fell against the car.

  At the same moment, Marisa’s door flew open and another man grabbed her. She screamed and fought.

  “Calm down, Marisa, we’re trying to
rescue you.”

  Oh, Dio. She shut up. Luigi’s men were trying to save her from Dave. She had no doubt they’d engineered the snarled traffic jam to allow them to get to her. Merda, what was she going to do? If she fought, then they’d suspect she wasn’t a prisoner. But if she went with them, it would blow Sandro’s plans wide open.

  Dave grabbed his head, obviously stunned, but not unconscious. She saw him reach for his gun. She needed to distract the man beside her. “Just a minute, I’ll get out,” she told him. She scooted to the edge of her seat, then prepared to climb out.

  In that instant, Dave whirled and fired his gun at the man behind him. Once. Then in a quick move, Dave spun and fired a second shot. Blood splattered on Marisa as the man beside her fell to the ground.

  Adrenaline spurted through her but caught in her throat. She wanted to scream but all her fear was balled up, trapped, unable to escape. She tried to swallow. She tried to breathe.

  “Shut the door,” Dave ordered, his voice coming from a long distance.

  Her head spun.

  “Marisa!” he snapped in an authoritative voice. “Shut the door.”

  Somehow she made herself obey, then he jerked the car into gear. He barreled out into the traffic.

  Finally, Dave looked at her. “Damn, you’ve got blood all over you. Were you hit?”

  She looked down at her clothes. Her stomach rolled with queasiness. “You shot that man,” she said, her voice breaking in funny ways since her breathing was jagged, uneven. “He was. Right. By me. Shot him.” She turned to face him. “You could have hit me.”

  “Did I?” Dave demanded. “Did I hit you?”

  She shook her head, and swallowed, struggled to get more air into her lungs than the jagged, gaspy breathing was allowing.

  “I’m sorry. I had to. You know that.” Concern etched his face.

  She nodded once.

  Seeming satisfied, Dave turned his attention to driving then, ramming into cars stuck in the traffic, forcing an opening where there was none. Soon, though it seemed an eternity to Marisa, they burst free on a side street.

  Then Marisa heard it. A faint, far off yelling sound. She looked around, puzzled. “What . . .is. . .that. . .noise?” Her brain was still functioning at slow speed.

  Dave glanced around then down at the seat between them. He picked up his phone. “It’s Sandro. I never disconnected the call.”

  Putting the phone to his ear, Dave said, “Yeah, they tried to snatch her, I’m sure the whole traffic jam set up was just to grab her. But we’re okay now. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Dave disconnected and immediately started punching in numbers again.

  “What about Luigi?” Marisa asked. “I didn’t see the car he was in.”

  “I’m calling them now,” Dave said.

  “What if Luigi’s soldiers got him? He could ruin everything.”

  “Damn, they’re not answering.” Dave spared her a glance. “If they somehow managed to nab Luigi, then I’m damned glad you gave him those sleeping drops.”

  Chapter 30

  They called him a playmaker. A man who could make something happen out of nothing. Time and again, Carlo had watched Sandro take a game that everyone had given up as lost, and somehow--magically--slip through a tight defense and find the back of the net. Or find the perfect pass for another player on his team to score. Providing a victory where there had been no hope.

  And now Sandro was playing him. Carlo thought he had the game won, his defense tighter than a young virgin, his offense effective and sure as a Romeo intent on deflowering her. When he captured Nia and little Daniele, Carlo thought there was no way Sandro could refuse to cooperate. Yet suddenly, here Carlo sat, at a distinct disadvantage, his game plan scattered.

  He took his cell phone and punched in Luigi’s number. There was no answer. Carlo called the office next. “Is Luigi back? No? He’s not answering his phone. Where the hell is he?”

  Massimo came back then.

  “You lost him?” Carlo asked, already knowing the answer from the look on his son’s face.

  “He has the Feds helping him. They expected us to go after him and had a trap to stop us.”

  “Hmm.” Carlo pondered a moment.

  “That’s not a bad thing, I don’t think,” Massimo went on to explain. “That means that Sandro’s promise to kill us were just threats. The FBI won’t let him go around murdering people, even if we are on their most wanted list.”

  “Sandro wouldn’t murder anyone anyway.” Carlo waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “He’s a crack shot, I know, but he doesn’t have what it takes to harm a person.”

  “He loves his family very much,” Massimo pointed out. “If the Feds weren’t involved, I’m not sure I’d agree with you.”

  “Obviously, if he’s been cooperating with the FBI, they are still planning to trap us somehow. Since he’s accessed our accounts, they may have found a way,” Carlo said thoughtfully.

  “I thought Roberto had all the money well accounted for.”

  “So he says.” It was true Roberto had an elaborate money laundering system set up.

  “Have you talked to our contact at the FBI?” Massimo asked. “Maybe he has some information.”

  “Other than letting us know what happened to Roberto, Mr. Madison has been very quiet lately. I believe the task force is on to him and he’s no use to us now. I can check and see if they’ve taken Luigi into custody.”

  “Yes, do that.” Carlo tapped his fingers on the table, pondering. Then he picked up his cell phone again. “Angie, I need you down here. Si, si, I know you’re watching Nia, but Giovanni can handle it a little while. If not, get Joey to help him. We’ve had something new come up.”

  Carlo turned back to Massimo. “Find Luigi, and if he’s not in custody, get him here.”

  Massimo nodded, then left his father sitting at the table, deep in thought. Massimo went to Carmine, a trusted soldier, but more importantly Massimo’s friend. “Luigi seems to have dropped out of sight. Contact some of his soldiers, see if you can locate him. Carlo wants him down here asap.”

  Not for the first time, Massimo was disregarding his father’s orders. Knowing Angie--Nia’s watchdog--would be out of the way, Massimo had more important things on his mind than locating the missing consigliere. “As for me,” he added to Carmine, “I’ll be out of touch for a while. I’ve got someone else I need to see.”

  * * *

  “Try another bite.”

  “Don’t want another bite.” Daniele slammed his fork down on his plate.

  Sighing, Nia grabbed the green bean Daniele refused to eat and stuck it in her mouth. She wasn’t hungry either, but she knew she had to eat. Not only for the baby growing in her womb, but for the strength it was going to take to escape with Daniele when the chance came. With that in mind, she hadn’t been resisting her urge to sleep either, and took a nap when her son did. It was almost nap time. Remembering how she had been awakened earlier today, though, she was a little leery of going to sleep. Surely Massimo wouldn’t come back. Or if he did, Angie wouldn’t let him in to see her again.

  Daniele clambered off his chair and picked up his scattered blocks and toy car--both presents from Angie. Using the blocks, he constructed a ramp for his car to jump. After fifteen minutes of that, he was bored. “Cartoons, Momma.”

  Angie had also provided a small color television, but unfortunately it didn’t have premium cable channels with cartoons. She could only find game shows and talk shows.

  “There’s no cartoons on yet,” she explained, though he couldn’t grasp the concept. “Let’s sing songs.”

  “Don’t want to sing.”

  “All right, how about a nap?” She knew how well that would go over.

  “I want to watch TV.”

  Since the incident with Massimo this morning, Daniele was fussier than usual. The whole situation had to be incredibly hard for the boy to process.

  “Okay, okay, we’ll watch TV.”
She flipped through the channel and discovered that the television received a PBS channel, too. “The Mob In America” was on. As if she needed lessons. She had up close and personal experience with the mob. Too up close and personal.

  She flipped the channel, but Daniele started crying. “Oh, sweetie, you don’t want to watch that show, do you?”

  “Change it, change it, change it.” He ran to the television, attempting to change the channel himself. Hoping he’d sleep soon, she flipped the channel back to PBS.

  He quieted and she sighed. “All right, we’ll watch this, but come sit and let momma rock you.” The comfortable wooden rocking chair with the padded seat was courtesy of Angie, too. Since her son had been brought to her, Angie had gone out of his way to make things bearable for them. She was beginning to appreciate all his efforts.

  Daniele climbed into her lap, settling comfortably. Nia rocked him, relishing the feel of his warm little body snuggled against hers, yet hoping he’d go to sleep quickly. Then she could turn off the television and take a nap herself.

  It wasn’t long before the show focused on the infamous John Gotti. Back in the 80’s the media had dubbed him the Teflon Don because no matter how many times the FBI brought a case against him, he slipped right through the system without being convicted.

  Physically, John Gotti reminded her of Carlo. Except Carlo’s hair had more gray and he was heavier. Yet their manner and bearing were almost identical. Both assured to the point of arrogance as if they were above laws that governed common men. And both fashionably dressed, their expensive suits tailored to look sharp even on frames that were beyond a youthful physique. And watching both men made chills crawl along her spine.

  Nia remembered when she first saw Carlo. Not at the restaurant. No, years before that. It was the day after the spectacular night with Sandro, after a night on the town to celebrate Italy making the World Cup finals.

  Sandro had gone to see the trainer about his injured leg. It wasn’t long after he left that a knock came upon her hotel room door. It was Francesco, the goalkeeper.