The Good Daughter: A Mafia Story

by Diana Layne

  Life was indeed ironic.

  “Doesn’t she take the kid to the park most mornings?” Gregg asked.

  The park. The knot in Dave’s stomach eased enough so he could breathe again. “You’re right, she does. Maybe she’s there.” Even though it was unlikely since a cold front was fast moving in. But he didn’t want to think something had happened to Nia, there was some innocuous reason she wasn’t answering the phone.

  “Yeah, nothing to worry about, I’m sure,” Gregg added. “Frankie said Carlo didn’t want Sandro picked up at home anyway. Wasn’t any mention of bothering Nia, was there?”

  “Yeah, right. It only sounded like he’s after Sandro. At least for now.”

  Dave scanned the room. Somebody had betrayed them. No other explanation. He stiffened with the realization, clenched his teeth so hard he could feel his neck muscles tighten, ready to snap.

  Who? One of his men? It had happened before to other teams. Dave looked again at each man, judging, questioning, until at last he mentally gave himself a shake, drew in a breath. No, it couldn’t be. He trusted these men with his life. And they each knew the life and death importance of keeping information tightly guarded.

  But someone had talked. Who? Marisa? Why would she talk? Had someone known she liked to show up at midnight for meetings and figured out her code name?

  For Marisa to betray them would make no sense. They might joke about her, but Dave knew the woman was not only highly intelligent, she had street smarts. And she had seemed sincere in wanting to rat on her father, wanting out of a life of crime. Though she had never admitted to her main motivation, Dave suspected she had her own score to settle.

  Had he been wrong about her?

  Had it really been a set-up from the beginning?

  He wouldn’t get any answers here. “I’m going to the soccer field to look for Sandro. Steve, you and Tony follow as back-up. Frankie, you learn anything else from that tape, you call me yesterday.”

  Dave hoped to God he wasn’t too late.

  Chapter 5

  One moment. Your whole life could change in one moment.

  At the defining moment, Sandro Crocetti thought he’d made the right decision. But it had been wrong. It had forced this latest, more drastic decision.

  “Did she believe you?” Marisa asked as she steered the BMW sedan away from the house.

  “Si.” He leaned against the cool glass window, sick inside at what he’d done. Forgive me, Nia, amore mia. “Si, she believed me.” He shook his head. “Porca miseria.”

  “You did what you had to do. It is for the best.”

  “This does not make it easier.” He turned to Marisa, a picture of confidence in her black designer suit, not a long dark hair out of place, the scent of designer perfume softly surrounding her. She was a beautiful woman, but she seemed so much harder now than when he’d known her in Italy. “I hope this isn’t another mistake.”

  “There was no other choice.”

  Sandro knew Marisa never second-guessed her decisions, and normally he wouldn’t either. But the stakes had never been this high.

  Marisa glanced at him. “Will she leave?”

  “I don’t know. I believe so. I hope so.” Fear and doubt sucked at his soul, made him feel as if he were directionless in a deep, dark fog.

  “If she doesn’t leave, I don’t think she will be in danger.” Her words offered no more than a hollow hope.

  “I hope you are right.”

  Marisa’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “My father doesn’t make a habit of harming women or children.”

  She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “But he has,” Sandro argued. “I know this. You know this. Carlo could easily decide they need to die.”

  The ring tones Lost Without Your Love played out loudly. Marisa checked the caller ID. “It’s Agent Armstrong. Do you want me to answer?”

  “Dave.” Sandro spat out the name and followed with a long string of obscenities in Italian.

  “I’ll take that as a no.” She shut off the phone and laid it down. “I think we can trust this Agent Armstrong. You sent me to him in the first place.”

  “Bah! A mistake! It is because of him and his stupid FBI that I have a contract now on my head. If not for you, I could be dead. What I’d like to do to his man who sold me out--”

  She took a hand away the steering wheel and patted his arm. Her display of kindness stopped his outburst.

  “You are sure you want to continue?” she asked.

  “As you said, there is no other choice.” No other choice if he wanted to live. No other choice if he wanted to keep his family safe. For too many years Carlo had controlled Sandro’s life. Giving in hadn’t helped. Running hadn’t helped. It was time to stand and fight.

  If only he could have kissed Nia once more. If only he could have held his son.

  His heart stung with a mixture of anger and emptiness.

  He turned to stare out the window at the houses they passed as Marisa, a skillful driver, pressed the stolen black BMW as fast as she could, expertly navigating the crowded, early-morning streets. He knew the New York suburban commuter traffic was no challenge compared to her native Napoli where the roads were as wide as a sidewalk, and all Italian drivers imagined they were a Formula One race car driver.

  She’d almost gotten them to the city.

  After minutes of sullen silence, he drew a deep breath, stiffened his spine, and turned back to Marisa. “I will kill your father, you know.”

  “Si.” Her lips pinched together, her eyes narrowed. “It is for the best.”

  Chapter 6

  Hugging herself against the chill in the air, feeling an even deeper chill seeping through her veins, Nia Crocetti watched the black BMW drive away. When she could no longer see it, she still stared, the image of her husband with another woman seared into her brain.

  He’d left her. Sandro, the love of her life. With another woman. The picture replayed itself in her mind. A woman sitting behind the steering wheel, with dark hair and sunglasses, showing no more than her profile. But then Sandro had gotten into the car and the woman had leaned over to kiss him. . . .

  Nia’s stomach spun, threatening to make her sick; her chest squeezed and contracted so hard it hurt to breathe. She hadn’t seen it coming. There had been no hint, no warning. She reached into her memory for signs she might have missed. Barely noticing the cold wind stinging her face, she staggered back inside, shut the door, and collapsed.

  Her marriage was over. Just like that. Nia fought to retain control over her emotions, part of her refusing to believe what she’d seen. Her throat clogged with choked back tears, her eyes ached. She pressed the heel of her hands against her eyes, wiped an escaping tear. She wouldn’t cry. She was a trained athlete. She knew how to control pain. But it was damned hard.

  What about their son, what would she tell him? And the pregnancy test she’d taken earlier this morning . . . Sandro hadn’t known. She hadn’t been able to tell him before he left.

  Her gaze darted about the room. Her home. Their home. She loved every inch.

  Drawn as if by a magnet, she moved to their wedding picture. She and Sandro looked so happy, so in love. Her white dress contrasted with her tanned skin and dark hair. Having done many commercials and photo shoots for the national team’s various soccer sponsors, she knew she was an attractive woman. But on her wedding day, she had felt truly beautiful, like a princess. And her husband was the gorgeous prince with his formal black tuxedo, olive skin dark from the sun, curly brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes. Nia lovingly traced the frame, the metal cool under her fingers.

  She smashed it to the marble floor. The shattering glass echoed in the room, the scattered pieces resembling her broken heart.

  Shaking, she sank to her knees. Hiding her face in her hands, needing to escape reality, if just for a moment, she remembered. How crazy in love she had been, what a wonderful life she and Sandro had planned together, what a wonderful life t
hey had. But he’d found someone else, and had no more use for her. How had it happened?

  “Momma?” The little voice came from the top of the stairs.

  Wiping stray tears and unanswered questions aside, she squared her shoulders and forced herself to her feet. She had decisions to make. But they would have to wait.

  “Momma?”

  “Coming, amore mio. Momma’s coming.”

  She walked up the staircase. Daniele, a little miniature of his father with soft curly hair, stood behind the gate. At two years old, he was still too small to manage all the steps. She opened the gate, picked him up, snuggled against his fuzzy pajamas. He was still warm from sleep.

  “My sweet bambino.”

  The doorbell stopped her soft, mothering sounds. Sandro! was her first thought.

  Stupid. He wouldn’t ring the doorbell. But who would this early in the morning?

  She went down the stairs, carrying Daniele. At the bottom, she stopped before a mirror, briefly fingering her hair straight and wiping away the last traces of tears, though her eyes were still red. No help for it.

  A chilly blast of air hit her when she opened the door. A huge man in an expensive black suit stood on her porch.

  “Buon giorno, signora. I am looking for Sandro.” He had a heavy accent, but he seemed pleasant enough in spite of his intimidating size.

  Still, he was a stranger. Her alert system kicked in. She hugged her son protectively against her chest. “He isn’t here.”

  “He is not at the soccer field either.”

  “Who are you?” Whoever he was, he knew where Sandro was supposed to be.

  “I am only an old family friend.”

  She couldn’t miss the emphasis he placed on the word family, and for some reason her heart skipped a beat. Studying him, she decided he looked familiar. Perhaps she’d seen him at the restaurant? “You’ve come at a bad time. He’s gone.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  At that moment her phone rang in the background. First the door, now the phone. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She adjusted her son on her hip. “Never.”

  “Scusi?”

  She shook her head. Why had she said that to a complete stranger? Shock, possibly. “He’s gone,” she repeated, struggling to collect her thoughts, which were bouncing around more than a soccer ball in a group of five-year-olds.

  “I don’t know when he’ll be back,” she corrected herself.

  “This is most tragic,” he muttered, whispering Italian under his breath.

  Her interest sharpened. “Can I help you?”

  “No, no, signora. It is a. . .private concern.”

  She wanted to question him more, but her instincts suggested it would be wiser if she didn’t. “I’m sorry I can’t help. It’s cold.” She nodded toward her son. “You’ll understand I don’t feel like chatting.” She closed the door and squeezed Daniele closer to her.

  Never still for long, Daniele squirmed to get out of her arms. Reluctantly, she kissed him and set him down. He moved toward the ruined picture on the floor. She had forgotten.

  “It’s broken, Momma.” He bent down.

  She snatched him up before he clutched a shard of glass. “Yes, it’s broken, caro. Momma dropped it.” She pulled out a small box of toys and sat him down to play away from the broken picture. “Be good while I clean up the mess.”

  Mess, was right, she thought, sniffing, still fighting not to give in to a disastrous crying jag. Suddenly her life was one big mess.

  It hit her as she swept up the last of the glass. She had seen that man before at the restaurant. He was in the company of known crime boss, Carlo Peruzzo. It was a repugnant thing, the mob frequenting their family-owned restaurant, but what could they do? The restaurant was in Little Italy, and mob guys were known to be Italian. They paid for their food with money like--

  Wait! The woman with Sandro! Nia only saw her profile, but the woman did resemble Carlo’s daughter . . . Marisa, was her name.

  Was that why the big Italian came to her door? Because her husband was having an affair with Carlo’s daughter? Would Carlo be trying to hunt Sandro down over something like that? Or was she getting hysterical?

  Dumping the idea away the same as she dumped the broken glass in the garbage, Nia put the broom and dustpan back in the closet and sat down to play blocks with Daniele. She knew she should be making plans, perhaps call her mother and ask advice, but the thought of admitting to someone else what had happened made her nauseous.

  As much as Nia didn’t want to think about it, the images tangled in her brain, twisted her insides. The fairy tale marriage of the soccer princess and soccer prince…was over. There had never been a clue he’d been unhappy. Surely there would have been at least a hint?

  Somehow, she couldn’t process that Sandro had left, even after watching him go. Or that he left Daniele behind without a goodbye.

  She paused. “Wait a minute!”

  Daniele looked up from his toys. “Momma?”

  She realized she’d spoken out loud. “Momma’s talking to herself, sweetie. Play with your toys.”

  When Daniele picked up a toy car, Nia’s thoughts turned back to her husband. Sandro wouldn’t leave Daniele behind without a goodbye. She knew it with every fiber of her being.

  The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became he wouldn’t leave her either. Family was Sandro’s number one priority, coming even before his soccer career. He would never let lust for another woman overtake his obligation to his family.

  Even if he had fallen out of love with his wife.

  Nia frowned. Sandro’s actions were too out of character. No way would he change so drastically in such a short time. He only wanted her to think he was leaving her for another woman. Why? And was the woman really Marisa Peruzzo?

  Then there was the large, rather intimidating man who came to her door. Strangers didn’t just show up on her doorstep. Not many people outside of close friends and family even knew where they lived.

  Her heart pounded anew. She was onto something. She trusted her instincts. Something was definitely wrong. Sandro was trying to keep her from finding out about...something. What?

  Determined to find the truth, she left Daniele playing happily with his blocks and toy cars while she searched for the number of her childhood friend turned New York FBI agent, Dave Armstrong. Though she didn’t live in the city, having a ready-made friend living in the same state had been a reason she hadn’t objected moving to New York instead of her home state of Texas when they had returned from Italy.

  Now her friend could be useful as well. She had memorized the plates of the BMW Sandro left in, and if Dave could tell her who owned it, perhaps she could begin to piece together the puzzle. If Sandro were in trouble, she would find a way to help.

  When she picked up the phone, she remembered the earlier missed call and checked the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number. They left no message, either. With a mental shrug, she called Dave. But of course with the sort of day she was having already, he didn’t answer, and she had to leave a voice mail.

  “Damn,” she murmured. Now what?

  “Momma, watch!” Daniele crashed his small cars into a block tower he’d built, clapping his hands when the blocks scattered.

  She squatted down beside him, love for the tiny boy swelling in her battered heart. “Awesome crash, sweetie.”

  He giggled with delight and began to restack the blocks.

  Perhaps Brad would know what was going on, she thought as she handed Daniele a red triangle block to put on top of his new tower. Sandro and the team’s goalkeeper were almost as close as brothers. If anyone knew anything, he would.

  Brad would still be out on the soccer pitch practicing and wouldn’t have his cell phone. She could track him down but she’d need someone to watch Daniele. Since he was recovering from a recent ear infection, she didn’t want to drag him out in the ever-increasing cold winds. Not wanting to disturb Sandro’s aunt an
d uncle this early if she didn’t have to, Nia called the neighbor’s daughter hoping she would get lucky and the college girl would have no classes this morning.

  Luck. Nia snorted. It would be nice to have a little good luck. It had certainly started out as a bad day.

  Chapter 7

  Nia pulled her cream-colored Mercedes sedan to the end of the long driveway and stopped. A black Lincoln Navigator blocked the end of her driveway. She couldn’t go anywhere until it moved.

  To her surprise, the passenger door on the SUV opened, and the big Italian who had been at her door earlier looking for Sandro stepped out.

  Confused as to why he was still at her home, blocking her driveway, Nia became all too conscious of the chill crawling up her spine as she pressed the button to roll down her car window. A bad feeling hovered in the air.

  She took a deep calming breath before saying, “I told you Sandro isn’t home, and I don’t know where he is. Would you move out of the way? I’m in a hurry.”

  “Scusate, Bella, but you must come with us.”

  “What?” Was he kidding?

  “Please. Vieni qua. Come.” His words were polite, but his look was deadly serious.

  Her heart rate spiked, but she forced confidence into her voice. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Really, I must insist.” He reached for the door handle.

  She hit the automatic locks and hurried to roll up her window, but the large man was sticking his arm inside--

  Car tires screeched around the corner. The Italian turned toward the sound. A dark blue sedan squealed to a halt. Nia recognized the car and started to breathe easier.

  Dave opened the door, gun drawn. “Freeze! FBI. Nia, get out of here! Go!” he shouted at her.