The Good Daughter: A Mafia Story

by Diana Layne

  She nodded and Sandro took a breath. His heart leapt up to his throat. He knew if he managed to kill Carlo, that a very long and high-profile trial awaited him. Yet it would be worth it because his wife and son would be safe.

  They started forward. Step after step after step drawing closer to life. Or death. Sandro kept his eyes on Nia, his heart thundering in his ears. The snow fell harder. The cold wind bit through his thick coat. Time crawled by one agonizing step at a time.

  Suddenly, another pair of headlights swung onto the gravel road. Everyone stopped and watched. Sandro squinted through the increasingly heavy snowfall.

  The car slammed to a stop, throwing up gravel from beneath the wheels. Four men jumped out of the car, armed with semi-automatics.

  Luigi popped out of the driver’s side and shouted. “Stop! The bitch’s a traitor. It’s a set up.”

  “Merda,” Marisa swore.

  “Back to Dave,” Sandro commanded and dropped to his knees, his Browning hi-powered pistol already drawn. Before he could fire, he watched in amazement as Luigi crumpled by the car. Quickly, he scanned the area and saw Angie with a gun in his hand. Angie had killed Luigi. Why? Was he on their side?

  Sandro didn’t have time to ponder longer as gunshots exploded through the early morning. Angie whirled and shoved at Nia, urging her to run. He was running after her. Sandro automatically squeezed off rounds for cover. At such a distance, it was hard for his shots to be accurate with only a handgun. He needed his rifle.

  “Sandro.” He turned and Dave tossed him the rifle. “Move, men, move,” Dave screamed into his walkie-talkie, his own gun drawn.

  Sandro whirled back and aimed his rifle. Too late. A shot hit Angie in the back and he fell to his knees. Sandro watched in horror as Nia stopped to help the fallen mobster.

  “Nia!” he yelled. “Get down.”

  The noise was horrific. She obviously couldn’t hear him. She tugged at Angie trying to help him to his feet, but it was obvious the man was telling her to run and save herself. She kept tugging, but Angie took another hit and fell forward out of her grasp.

  She screamed and stared in horror. Sandro aimed and killed the man who had shot Angie. “Get down,” he shouted again at his wife. Still, she stood staring at Angie’s fallen body.

  She must be in shock, Sandro thought, springing to his feet, running toward her. He stopped long enough to squeeze off another round from his rifle, and another mobster fell to the ground.

  He was almost to her when she finally started running.

  She was running. Running as if demons from hell were nipping at her feet. She knew 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.

  Oh, God, it was the nightmare. It was really happening. Had her dream been predicting her own death all these years? But she had a child to raise, another baby on the way. She had to live!

  She ran faster . . . she had to outrun the danger.

  Round after round, Sandro fired at the mobsters. It was hard to see in snow-darkened sky. Sometimes his shots hit, sometimes they missed. But slowly the good guys seemed as if they were gaining on the bad guys.

  Then through his scope Sandro eyes caught Massimo armed with his own high-powered rifle. Massimo aimed at Nia. Sandro adjusted his aim, but Massimo squeezed off his round before Sandro.

  He pulled the trigger a split second later and watched Massimo crumple.

  Sandro’s gaze swung to his wife. In slow motion, he watched as she flew through the air then fell face down.

  “No!” Sandro dropped his rifle, running to her. Blood seeped onto the ground, turning the white snow into a red slushy liquid. He knelt beside her, and Dave was there, too.

  “We need a medic,” Dave yelled into his walkie-talkie. “Get me a goddamned medic now!” He probed Nia’s back. “I think it’s just a shoulder wound,” he said. “I saw her take the hit. I think it was in the shoulder.”

  Sandro touched Nia, searching for the wound through the layers of clothes and blood. She moaned, and he felt her pain as his own.

  Someone touched his arm. Tears blurring his gaze, he looked up.

  “Carlo is getting away,” Marisa said. She held out his rifle. “Do you want this or do you want me--”

  Sandro snatched the rifle from her.

  “The car is not bullet proof,” she said.

  “Sandro,” Dave warned, then frowned at Marisa.

  “That man is responsible for this,” Sandro told Dave. “Killing him is justified.” He raised the rifle to his shoulder and took aim. Carlo was just making a u-turn. A minute longer and he would be out of range.

  Sandro took a breath. Aimed. Squeezed off the shot. Carlo’s body jerked.

  The car careened crazily out of control and smashed into a large tree. Sandro released his breath, shuddering.

  It was over.

  He handed the rifle to Marisa and went back to Nia. Two medics with a stretcher between them rushed up and jostled him out of the way.

  Efficiently, they stripped off her jacket and shirt and checked the gunshot. They bound the wound and turned her carefully onto the stretcher, covering her with a thermal blanket.

  Sandro hovered over them, his throat tight with emotion. Her face was swollen and bruised but the gunshot worried him more.“How bad is it?”

  “It’s a shoulder wound. If we stop the blood loss, she should be fine. Is she a free bleeder?”

  “No.”

  “Any allergies to medicine we should know about?”

  Nia moaned then.

  Sandro moved to her side, trying not to gasp at her bruised and swollen face. A murderous rage filled him. He would kill Carlo and Massimo again if he could. “Carissima,” he said softly, belying his churning emotions.

  She opened her eyes. “Sandro?”

  “Si, amore mia. It is Sandro.” His heart swelled and warmed, thankful she was alive.

  “What happened?”

  “You were shot, ma’am.” A medic spoke up. “We’re taking you to the hospital.”

  “Daniele?” she asked.

  “He is safe, amore.”

  She smiled.

  “Ma’am are there any drug allergies we should know about?”

  She frowned. “No, but--” she hesitated and looked at Sandro. He knew what she wanted to say.

  “She is pregnant,” he said for her.

  Surprise registered in her eyes. “You knew?”

  “Carlo told me.”

  That brought another frown. “Carlo? Where is he?”

  “Dead.”

  She nodded. “Massimo?”

  “Dead, too.”

  “Good.”

  At her firm approval, Sandro realized Massimo had harmed her somehow. His wife was not a vindictive person. He was fiercely glad he had killed them for her. In some small way perhaps he had atoned for all he put her through.

  “Sandro, what about . . . Angie?”

  “I don’t know, carissima.”

  Dave heard her. “I’ll check on him.” He walked off, and the medics continued to work on Nia.

  Dave knelt by Angie, felt for a pulse, then stood and shook his head.

  With sad eyes, Sandro looked to his wife. “I’m sorry.”

  Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. “He was nice to me. He tried to take care of me and Daniele.”

  “We’re going to take her to the ambulance now, sir,” a medic told Sandro, carrying her away.

  “Momma, momma.”

  Frankie carried Daniele toward them.

  Sandro took his son from Frankie’s arms. “Momma’s got an owie. Like Frankie’s.” Sandro pointed to the man he considered a new friend.

  Daniele touched Frank
ie’s arm. “Frankie’s hurt.”

  “That’s right,” Sandro said. “And momma’s hurt, too. She has to go to the doctor and get it fixed. Let’s tell her goodbye.”

  Sandro walked to the ambulance where they had transferred Nia to a raised gurney. They were preparing to lift her into the back of the ambulance.

  “Momma, momma,” Daniele said again. “Ti amo, Momma.”

  “I love you, too,” she said, “Both of you.” Then she turned her attention to Sandro. “Are you excited about the baby?”

  He smiled in spite of the grim circumstances. “You know I am.” He gave her a kiss.

  “I had a special meal planned to tell you, then you . . .” she frowned as her voice faded away.

  “I’m sorry, carissima. I was trying to keep you safe. If I’d thought for a moment this would--”

  “Shh,” she interrupted. “I understand what happened. You did what you had to.”

  “But the pain I caused.”

  “Not you. Them.”

  “They hurt you.” He touched her bruised face.

  “They’re dead now.”

  “I would kill them again.”

  “Yes, I know, Sandro. But now there’s no need. They’re dead and we’re free from them.”

  “We need to get her to the hospital, sir.”

  “Si, si. I know. We will be at the hospital, amore. I will see you soon.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I expect you there.” The medics pressed the button on the lift and guided the gurney into the ambulance.

  She watched him and saw his frown. “It’s over, Sandro. Don’t think about it anymore. It’s over.”

  “Over, Poppa. It’s over,” Daniele repeated.

  Yes, it was over. It wasn’t his way to reflect on the bad. Instead he chose to focus on the good. His enemies were dead, his son was safe, his wife would be fine and in a few months they would have a new baby to celebrate.

  For Sandro and his family, it was over.

  * * *

  Dave looked around and blew out a breath. It was easy enough to tell what went wrong. He was just thankful none of his people had been killed. Two of the men with Luigi were injured but still alive. It was still uncertain if they’d survive though.

  It could have been so much worse than a bullet wound to Nia’s shoulder. Massimo could have had a better aim. Dave shuddered.

  Marisa stopped beside him.

  Dave felt his heart soften and swell with relief. She hadn’t had to go back to her father, after all. He hoped now they could work on a future together. He turned and pulled her into a hug. Held on tight. He wanted to hold her forever. “How are you?”

  “This is for the best, you know.” Her voice was heavy with tears.

  Dave used his thumbs to wipe away the wetness on her cheeks, only able to guess at the pain and frustration she must be feeling. “I didn’t mean for anybody to die.”

  “Even if you had arrested him, my father would have never stopped until Sandro was dead.”

  Dave nodded, smoothed her hair back from her face. He wanted to go on touching her, feeling as if he could never touch her enough, happy there was no reason for him to stay away. “Maybe you’re right,” he agreed. “Are you going to be okay?”

  She nodded. “I expected this outcome. Prepared myself. Perhaps not this way, and certainly not with Sandro’s wife hurt. But I expected my father to die today.” She breathed deep then pulled away. Her voice sounded stronger when she said, “You have a lot of work to do, I know.”

  “I’ll have someone escort you to your apartment.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead, feeling more calm and hopeful than he had in a long time. “I’ll see you soon.” He knew whatever the future brought, he wanted her in it. He wanted to tell her, but not now. “We’ll talk.”

  “Perhaps,” she said softly.

  Dave felt his mood drop, but then excused her somber mood, knowing it had to be one of the worst days in her life. He’d never lost a family member, didn’t even want to imagine such a tragedy.

  But she had him now. If she wanted him. He hoped she wanted him. He wanted to give her the world, since so much of her world had been stolen from her. She’d never had a childhood.

  Dave could show her a much better place, a different kind of world than she’d grown up in. If she’d let him. And he had to believe she’d let him.

  She reached into her jacket pocket. “As you move my father’s car, your men need to be aware of this.” She handed him a small black remote control device.

  He stared at it; at first, not comprehending. A small black remote control was so far removed from the happy place he’d been imagining. As suspicion took over, his triumphant, hopeful mood tried to evaporate. He clung to the thoughts of happiness desperately, hoping his instincts were wrong.

  He took a deep breath, released it, and asked her, “What’s this?”

  Her face was sober, serious. “Insurance.”

  “Insurance?” he questioned, hoping he misunderstood her meaning. Please let it not be what he thought.

  “It’s under the back axle, by the gas tank,” she told him. “Cut the blue wire.”

  With so few words she’d effectively burst the fantasy world he’d been creating. He felt the blood drain from his face. A sick feeling swirled in his stomach.

  Dave’s gaze slammed into hers. “You wired his car?” His voice came out first as a whisper, then grew stronger. “You wired a fucking bomb to your father’s car?”

  “I owed him. And my brother. I wanted justice.” She held his gaze, her chin tilted up, as if daring him to say something.

  “You wanted vengeance,” he said, still working hard to process what she’d done. Find a reason to deny it. Or find a reason to justify it. Because God help him, he’d wanted her, wanted her in his life, wanted to believe they could overcome all the obstacles in their way. Had convinced himself it could happen.

  And now.

  She shrugged, her actions belying the emotion suddenly swimming in her eyes. “Do you respect me now?” She swallowed thickly, then whispered, “Do you want me now?”

  She’d tried to warn him once. Dave remembered. She’d tried to tell him their worlds were too different. The cynical, jaded FBI man had dared to hope, to believe. . .

  Without giving him a chance to answer, she turned and walked off, back straight, head high.

  The remote was still in his hand. Dave looked at it, and then looked back at Marisa.

  Dave watched her walk away.

  Dear Reader:

  Thank you so much for purchasing The Good Daughter. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it for you. If you liked getting to know Dave and Marisa, you’ll be happy to know that they will be making appearances in my upcoming Vista Security suspense series novels. Dave will be making a cameo in my next suspense novel, Trust No One (excerpt included here), the first book to introduce Vista Security, a private security company which is a front for an agency that handles jobs off limits to U.S. Intelligence agencies, and its team members.

  I would be appreciative if you took a few minutes to leave a review of The Good Daughter. Reviews are a helpful way to help authors gain new fans, and are always welcome.

  If you want to keep up with news on my writing, please visit my website and sign up for my newsletter. www.dianalayne.com

  I always love hearing from readers. dianalayne@yahoo.com

  Sincerely,

  Diana Layne

  Acknowledgements:

  To my six children: thanks for putting up with the craziness of a writer and all that entails (including, but not limited to, irregular mealtimes with a lot of frozen pizza).

  Additional thanks to these wonderful, supportive people who helped make this book possible.

  To Terry Zumwalt: Editor extraordinaire

  To Shanel Anderson: Brilliant cover artist

  To Detective Sergeant Hank Bailey: I would have been lost without the research help! (mistakes are all my own)

  To De
bbie Weierman, FBI Office of Public Affairs (again, mistakes are my own)

  To Beverly, Barb and Karen, best friends a woman could have.

  And last, but most important: thanks to you, dear reader, for taking the chance on my book. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it.

  For more information about me, to connect on a social network, and to sign up for my newsletter, please go to: www.dianalayne.com

  (Turn the page for a preview of another Diana Layne book, Trust No One.)

  Coming Soon: Trust No One

  2009 Golden Heart ® finalist by Diana Layne

  Excerpt:

  “Who you working for, Keith?”

  “No need for you to know,” the man behind her said. He poked his revolver into her back. “You’re gonna be dead.”

  She ignored him and focused on Keith. “How much money? Who’s the target?”

  “Stalling, MJ? Afraid to die?”

  “I knew the risks going in. So did you. But what about the innocent people who’ll die if you sell that information?”

  “Sorry, baby, but I don’t have time to debate philosophy.” The sound of a distant engine made Keith pause and tilt his head to listen. “That would be the extraction team,” he said.

  MJ tightened every muscle, ready to spring. It well could be his team, but it could as easily be hers. Even if she wasn’t in position for the original pick-up, she’d sewed a small tracking device in that backpack.

  “No time for long good-byes.” He raised the gun.

  Now or never.

  She dropped her left arm down, aiming the hoof knife for the man behind her. She caught the curved point in his crotch and jerked upward. The man’s scream distracted the others long enough for her to snatch his falling .45 revolver. She aimed, squeezed the trigger, firing first at Keith, then the other man beside him. Boom. Boom. Two quick shots. Both men fell. The top of one man’s head appeared to be blown off. Keith was lying on the ground. Blood quickly pooled beneath both men.