Sanctuary Buried WITSEC Town Series Book 2

by Lisa Phillips

  Sanctuary Buried

  WITSEC Town Series Book 2

  Lisa Phillips

  Copyright 2014 Lisa Phillips

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental. Any references to real people, historical events, or locales, are used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the author, except for review purposes.

  Cover art by Blue Azalea Designs

  Photo from Shutterstock

  Prologue

  “You need to go.”

  Sixteen-year-old Francesca Canetti shook her head. “Mama—”

  “We’re relying on you, baby.” Mama clutched little Isabella to her movie star bosom, both of them shaking. “I need you to be strong for me so I can take care of Bella.”

  Fourteen-year-old Bella had tears running down her cheeks. Mama pushed the closet door open. “Be strong for me.”

  Uncle Benny had shown up ten minutes ago. The look on his face made Francesca pull Isabella from the upstairs landing into Mama and Papa’s closet. Mama had been in there already.

  “Go, Francesca.”

  Frannie’s nightgown floated to her knees as she stood. Her legs wobbled. Her spindly teenage knees knocked together, but she’d made it to the open double-doors of her parents’ bedroom.

  The shouting grew louder. Uncle Benny’s voice was brittle, and Frannie could picture his big cheeks jiggling as he yelled.

  “Benito—”

  “No, capo. Do not do this.”

  “We have no choice.” Her father’s voice was subdued but still full of an authority which demanded respect and obedience, despite the fact his reputation alone commanded it. “The decision has been made, figlio.”

  Frannie stopped at the top of the stairs. Her feet sank into satiny carpet, and she gripped the mahogany rail. She should go back and tell Mama and Isabella everything was fine.

  “Then I’m out,” Uncle Benny said.

  “No one leaves the family but the coward who turns his back on us.”

  Ever since one of Papa’s lieutenants testified against her grandfather, Frannie’s father had made it his personal mission to destroy any signs of dissent among his men. Frannie was only sixteen, but she saw enough and heard enough to understand at least part of her father’s operation. And the problems he was having.

  It was why they hadn’t been to Florida this year—although the way her mom carried on about losing their family vacation, someone could well have been in a horrific accident which scarred them for life. When Mama was unhappy, everyone in the whole neighborhood knew about it.

  Frannie turned to go tell Mama everything was fine—well, that this was fine at least. Life was still life, and Frannie still had to tell Papa she thought she might want to go to culinary school. He was pushing for her to start taking college classes so she could get a law degree and pass the bar as fast as possible. Because La Cosa Nostra in Baltimore needed a lawyer who would always put the family first.

  Too bad Frannie would rather make cupcakes. But if she told Papa that, she’d end up the trophy housewife of one of his business associates.

  She was never going to escape.

  La Cosa Nostra might be his family, but it was going to absorb her whether she wanted it or not. Mama had chosen this life, back when she fell in love with Papa, but what about Isabella? Frannie’s sister was barely fourteen and already Papa’s men were starting to eye her in a way that said the girl was too quickly becoming a young woman.

  The gunshot cracked like a firework. Frannie jerked as though she was the one who’d been shot. But was it Papa…or Uncle Benny?

  Frannie sprinted down the stairs. She slid across the marble tile of the entryway on her socks, through the archway to the living room where her father stood, the smoking gun still in his hand. Uncle Benny lay in a quickly spreading pool of blood.

  Frannie gasped and covered her mouth with her trembling hand.

  Papa looked at her. The mobster had struck again.

  It was past midnight, but he still wore his black slacks and pale blue silk shirt. He stowed the gun in the back of his belt and motioned with his hand. “Help me move the coffee table, angela mia.”

  Frannie didn’t move.

  Uncle Benny shifted and gasped. Her eyes darted to where he lay—eyes open and fixed on her. “Francesca—” He coughed.

  Papa said, “Help me move the coffee table.”

  She looked at him.

  Her father’s eyes were full of impatience. “We must take care of the body, cara. You will help me.”

  He wanted her to…what?

  Frannie looked aside, and promptly threw up on the back of the couch.

  “I do not have time for this.”

  Papa was mad. Was he going to shoot her, too?

  Would he do so if Frannie wasn’t useful to him anymore?

  She took a step back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Francesca!”

  She took another step back and ran. Pumping her arms and legs like she was running the one hundred meters, Frannie raced through the hall into the kitchen. But there was nowhere to go.

  “Francesca, stop!”

  The click of his shoes pursued her, and Frannie circled through the dining room. His gun fired. A bullet slammed into her shoulder and she stumbled, ice cold fire burning down her arm. If she kept running she was going to end up back in the living room with Uncle Benny. Where else could she go? The only other way out was the front.

  Frannie ducked out the side door from the dining room and cut left, down the hall to the front door.

  It exploded inward.

  Men in black fatigues, wearing helmets and carrying huge rifles, poured through the front door in a haze of smoke.

  Francesca Canetti skidded to a halt and slapped her hands over her ears to quell the shouting. The sound of her own screams tore through the haze in her mind.

  Her father.

  She spun around.

  Armed men raced by, bumped her one way and then the other. With their guns pointed at her father, they yelled over and over until he set his hands on his head and lowered to his knees.

  Frannie didn’t think Nicolai Canetti had ever kneeled before any man in his life, and absolutely not since he’d been accepted into La Cosa Nostra. A gloved hand grabbed her shoulder, pulling her back. Pain whipped through her body, and Frannie collapsed to her knees. She looked up and saw “FBI” on the back of their vests.

  One crouched beside her—a woman. “Everything is fine, Francesca.”

  They knew her name? Frannie looked into the eyes of this stranger and allowed the woman to pull her back to her feet.

  One of the men surrounding her father produced a piece of paper from his breast pocket. “Nicolai Canetti, we have a warrant to search all residences, offices, warehouses and any other parcel of property owned by you or anyone in your immediate family.”

  “For what?” Papa’s voice was ice cold.

  “Any information pertaining to your shipping company and its links to your off-shore accounts in Belize and the transfer of said money to persons employed by the Hanera cartel, particularly in reference to gun running between Baltimore and the Port of Veracruz on the Mexican coast.”

  “Special Agent Turner!”

  The man with the search warrant looked toward where the voice came from. Another agent strode out. He spoke low in Special Agent Turner’s ear, but Frannie heard him say Benito Canetti.

  Sp
ecial Agent Turner turned back to her father. “You killed your own brother?”

  Her father’s expression didn’t change. “He was attacking Francesca. He would have hurt her.”

  Papa was going to use her to save himself. She didn’t know why she was surprised. Of course he was going to use her to save himself. That was all he was ever going to do. It was like a switch flicked inside her.

  The woman agent beside her said, “Why don’t you come with me, hon.” It wasn’t a question.

  Frannie tore her gaze from her father and let the female fed lead her into the kitchen. She perched on a stool for two seconds before bounding to the sink and dry heaving into it. She heard the agent get water from the fridge. The woman handed the glass to Frannie along with a paper towel.

  Acting like she cared. Mostly Frannie figured it was the lesser of two evils. She didn’t want to be in the room with her father and his relentless, twisting lies. These FBI agents weren’t much better. No government person or cop had ever done Francesca Canetti any favors.

  “Want to tell me what happened?”

  The pain in her shoulder registered. It stung like crazy. Her nightshirt was ripped and blood was dripping down to her elbow. Frannie pressed the paper towel to her shoulder and shut her eyes, before doing the very thing her father had always told her not to.

  She told someone else family business.

  When she got to the part where the agents had rushed in the front door, Frannie opened her eyes. The kitchen was brighter than before. The weight that seemed to always lie on her shoulders had receded, allowing her to straighten fully. To stand tall.

  The swinging door wooshed open and the male agent looked beyond Frannie to his colleague.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Frannie saw her nod and then she stepped away. “I’ll get someone to come and look at your shoulder.”

  This agent in charge—the one whose name was Turner—waited until the woman had left, and then said, “Your father is a bad man, Francesca Canetti.”

  His face was serious, but there was warmth in his eyes. Maybe he counseled the daughters of mafia captains on a regular basis. It was more likely he only said what he had to, to get the job done. She’d seen his type before. All this man wanted was to see her father in jail, he didn’t care at all about what would become of Mama and Bella.

  What were they going to do when they found Mama and Bella in the closet? What if they hurt them on accident? Frannie ran for the stairs.

  The agent caught her, his thick arm banding around her waist.

  “Let me go!”

  “You’re not leaving. Stop struggling or you’ll hurt yourself more.”

  “I have to get them! They’re upstairs in the closet.”

  He set her down, but didn’t let her go. “Your mother and sister?”

  “They’d better not get hurt.”

  He didn’t seem impressed by her bravado, but she didn’t care. He said, “If you’re worried about them being hurt, the only thing you can do is help me put your father away.”

  “You mean testify?”

  With his gaze boring into her, he nodded. “I do.”

  “FRANCESCA!” Papa yelled from the hall.

  She jerked as her whole body flooded with dread. Could he hear them talking? The pain in her shoulder was making her want to throw up again.

  “Look at me,” the agent said. “Don’t worry about him. Focus on me.”

  “I—”

  “FRANCESCA, YOU BETRAY ME AND YOU ARE DEAD!”

  She couldn’t move. She shouldn’t have told them what happened. It wouldn’t do any good. She was never going to escape Papa and his reach.

  The agent said, “Frances—”

  “You won’t be able to protect me. He’ll kill all of us.”

  “You have to trust me. This is what we do. We keep people like you safe.”

  Frannie bit down on her back teeth. “Because it serves your purpose.”

  “No, because it keeps guns out of the hands of kids trying to prove themselves by shooting other kids. It’s gets drugs off the streets. And it’s going to keep your father’s lieutenants from destroying any more lives.”

  “Maybe I’m not that honorable.” She tried to be a good Catholic, but she was never going to be good. Frannie would always be stained by who she was.

  The kitchen door whooshed again, and Mama and Bella were ushered in by two agents. Special Agent Turner looked star-struck, even if he’d known who Mama was. That happened a lot when Mama entered a room. Frannie knew why. She’d seen the movies Mama starred in during the sixties and seventies. Mama had been all about bringing back the golden days of Hollywood, and she still dressed like a starlet.

  Mama froze. “Oh, no.”

  “Mama—”

  “You take him down and we’ll go with you, Francesca Canetti. You’ll ruin all of us.”

  Frannie honestly didn’t know what she was going to do. Mama was probably just worried about her big house and the credit card Papa gave her. All she did was troll high-end boutiques and take trips up to New York to buy even more stuff.

  Special Agent Turner said, “All you’ve gotta do is trust me. I’ll keep you all safe.” He really looked like he believed it. “Your testimony could mean the difference between being free of this life and living forever under his thumb.”

  “Maybe I want this life.” Frannie lifted her chin. “You don’t know me.”

  “We’ve been watching you all for weeks, Francesca. A girl who gives her lunch to the sixth grader that lives in a trailer with her druggie mom and who volunteers in a rescue shelter and bakes cupcakes for the residents of a senior center does not belong here.”

  Her mom opened her mouth to say something, but Papa’s shout cut her off.

  “FRANCESCA!”

  She lifted her chin. “Okay. I’ll testify.”

  **

  Days later, Frannie sat at a huge table in a conference room at the federal courthouse...somewhere. She had no clue where they’d flown her. It felt like she’d been talking all day while the gray-haired woman typed everything on her little typewriter. The US attorney made pages and pages of notes, nodding and smiling when Frannie gave him something juicy.

  The stitches on her shoulder had been removed, and she was getting better at using her arm, but it was still in a sling.

  Francesca glanced at the marshal across the table and returned the woman’s small smile. Homely looking, the female marshal didn’t fit the part of a tough-edged fed, but maybe that was the point. It would draw more attention to Frannie if it was obvious she was surrounded by cops. Cops who had become good friends in the last few weeks.

  Deputy Marshal Sarah Harness looked aside at the US attorney. “We should wrap up for the day. Frannie’s tired.”

  The US attorney didn’t look impressed, but he still acquiesced. “Any word on the mom?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Miranda still refuses to believe her only option for safety is an Alaskan tundra, or plastic surgery. She wants to be placed somewhere warm. Miami was top of her list.”

  Frannie’s stomach clenched, and not just because she hated the idea of moving to Miami. Although that would be bad enough. She knew Mama didn’t like the idea of her testifying. She just hadn’t thought Mama would dig her heels in to this extent. As the marshals had explained, it was like trying to put Shirley Temple in witness protection. Plastic surgery really was the only option.

  And yet her mom was refusing.

  Sarah said, “I put in a call to my boss to see what we can do, but I’m still waiting to hear back.”

  The door opened. The two deputy marshals on guard in the hall parted, and a man strode into the room. Sarah shot to her feet. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Marshal Harness.” He glanced around the room. “If you could all please give me a minute with the witness.”

  It wasn’t a request. Even the US attorney jumped up, scooping his things into his arms before shuffling out. Sarah shot Frannie a smirk and point
ed at the back of the man who had demanded everyone leave. She mouthed, “That’s my boss. He’s cool.”

  Frannie smiled and nodded.

  The man cleared his throat. Sarah shut the door behind her, and the blond-haired man in a charcoal suit sat and smoothed down his red tie. “My name is Grant Mason. I’m the director of the Marshals.”

  Frannie felt her eyes widen.

  “I heard about your mother’s refusal to alter her appearance.” He paused. “You understand it puts not only her, but also you and your sister in jeopardy?”

  Frannie nodded.

  “It hinders our ability to protect you when your mother’s face is so recognizable and she refuses to stay inside.”

  Frannie didn’t say anything. What could she say?

  “There are a couple of options. One involves separating you from your mother and sister. We can protect them so far as we are able, but since you’re the primary target of your father and his men—”

  “No.”

  “I understand. My family is also very close.”

  “I know the risks,” Frannie said. “I know we’ll be in danger, but Mama—”

  “I also understand that. Still, there is another way to keep you safe if you’re interested. The risk your father or any of his lieutenants will find you is going to be reduced significantly.”

  She straightened, feeling safety wash over her for probably the first time in her life. “Whatever it is, we’ll do it.” What other choice did they have?

  “It won’t be easy, Francesca. But you will be safe.” He smiled. “I know it feels like you’re being forced into a corner, but this really is the best option.”

  The director opened the briefcase he’d carried in and pulled out an inch thick stack of papers. “This is an addendum to the Memorandum of Understanding you already signed when you were enrolled into the witness protection program. It details everything you need to know about Sanctuary.”

  “Sanctuary? What’s that?”

  “A state secret known only to myself and the president, Ms. Peters.”